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Henry IV Part 2.act 3.sce

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 3 scene 1 with the given context.

The King enters in his nightgown, with a page. He gives the page letters to deliver to the Earls of Surrey and Warwick. . After the page exits, Henry gives expression to his troubled state of mind. Weighed down by the cares of state, he is unable to sleep. . Warwick and Surrey enter. Warwick is optimistic about the military situation, and expects Northumberland soon to be defeated. The King, however, is in a more reflective mood. He looks back over the history of the past ten years, noting how former friends became deadly rivals. He recalls how Richard II, the king Henry IV overthrew, predicted that Northumberland, who had helped Henry IV gain the throne, would eventually rebel against him. . But then the King gets down to business. He has heard that Northumberland and York have a force of fifty thousand men. Warwick discounts this, saying there are only half that number. He thinks victory will be easy. He also announces that the leader of the Welsh rebels, Glendower, is dead-news that is sure to please the King. . The King resolves that once these civil wars are over, he will journey to the Holy Land. .

----------ACT 3, SCENE 1--------- Actus Tertius. Scene 1. Enter Hero and two Gentlemen, Margaret, and Vrsula. Hero. Good Margaret runne thee to the parlour, There shalt thou finde my Cosin Beatrice, Proposing with the Prince and Claudio, Whisper her eare, and tell her I and Vrsula, Walke in the Orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her, say that thou ouer-heardst vs, And bid her steale into the pleached bower, Where hony-suckles ripened by the sunne, Forbid the sunne to enter: like fauourites, Made proud by Princes, that aduance their pride, Against that power that bred it, there will she hide her, To listen our purpose, this is thy office, Beare thee well in it, and leaue vs alone Marg. Ile make her come I warrant you presently Hero. Now Vrsula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley vp and downe, Our talke must onely be of Benedicke, When I doe name him, let it be thy part, To praise him more then euer man did merit, My talke to thee must be how Benedicke Is sicke in loue with Beatrice; of this matter, Is little Cupids crafty arrow made, That onely wounds by heare-say: now begin, Enter Beatrice. For looke where Beatrice like a Lapwing runs Close by the ground, to heare our conference Vrs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden ores the siluer streame, And greedily deuoure the treacherous baite: So angle we for Beatrice, who euen now, Is couched in the wood-bine couerture, Feare you not my part of the Dialogue Her. Then go we neare her that her eare loose nothing, Of the false sweete baite that we lay for it: No truely Vrsula, she is too disdainfull, I know her spirits are as coy and wilde, As Haggerds of the rocke Vrsula. But are you sure, That Benedicke loues Beatrice so intirely? Her. So saies the Prince, and my new trothed Lord Vrs. And did they bid you tell her of it, Madam? Her. They did intreate me to acquaint her of it, But I perswaded them, if they lou'd Benedicke, To wish him wrastle with affection, And neuer to let Beatrice know of it Vrsula. Why did you so, doth not the Gentleman Deserue as full as fortunate a bed, As euer Beatrice shall couch vpon? Hero. O God of loue! I know he doth deserue, As much as may be yeelded to a man: But Nature neuer fram'd a womans heart, Of prowder stuffe then that of Beatrice: Disdaine and Scorne ride sparkling in her eyes, Mis-prizing what they looke on, and her wit Values it selfe so highly, that to her All matter else seemes weake: she cannot loue, Nor take no shape nor proiect of affection, Shee is so selfe indeared Vrsula. Sure I thinke so, And therefore certainely it were not good She knew his loue, lest she make sport at it Hero. Why you speake truth, I neuer yet saw man, How wise, how noble, yong, how rarely featur'd. But she would spell him backward: if faire fac'd, She would sweare the gentleman should be her sister: If blacke, why Nature drawing of an anticke, Made a foule blot: if tall, a launce ill headed: If low, an agot very vildlie cut: If speaking, why a vane blowne with all windes: If silent, why a blocke moued with none. So turnes she euery man the wrong side out, And neuer giues to Truth and Vertue, that Which simplenesse and merit purchaseth Vrsu. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable Hero. No, not to be so odde, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable, But who dare tell her so? if I should speake, She would mocke me into ayre, O she would laugh me Out of my selfe, presse me to death with wit, Therefore let Benedicke like couered fire, Consume away in sighes, waste inwardly: It were a better death, to die with mockes, Which is as bad as die with tickling Vrsu. Yet tell her of it, heare what shee will say Hero. No, rather I will goe to Benedicke, And counsaile him to fight against his passion, And truly Ile deuise some honest slanders, To staine my cosin with, one doth not know, How much an ill word may impoison liking Vrsu. O doe not doe your cosin such a wrong, She cannot be so much without true iudgement, Hauing so swift and excellent a wit As she is prisde to haue, as to refuse So rare a Gentleman as signior Benedicke Hero. He is the onely man of Italy, Alwaies excepted, my deare Claudio Vrsu. I pray you be not angry with me, Madame, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedicke, For shape, for bearing argument and valour, Goes formost in report through Italy Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent good name Vrsu. His excellence did earne it ere he had it: When are you married Madame? Hero. Why euerie day to morrow, come goe in, Ile shew thee some attires, and haue thy counsell, Which is the best to furnish me to morrow Vrsu. Shee's tane I warrant you, We haue caught her Madame? Hero. If it proue so, then louing goes by haps, Some Cupid kills with arrowes, some with traps. Enter. Beat. What fire is in mine eares? can this be true? Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorne so much? Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adew, No glory liues behinde the backe of such. And Benedicke, loue on, I will requite thee, Taming my wilde heart to thy louing hand: If thou dost loue, my kindnesse shall incite thee To binde our loues vp in a holy band. For others say thou dost deserue, and I Beleeue it better then reportingly. Enter. ----------ACT 3, SCENE 2--------- Scene 2. Enter Prince, Claudio, Benedicke, and Leonato. Prince. I doe but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon Clau. Ile bring you thither my Lord, if you'l vouchsafe me Prin. Nay, that would be as great a soyle in the new glosse of your marriage, as to shew a childe his new coat and forbid him to weare it, I will onely bee bold with Benedicke for his companie, for from the crowne of his head, to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth, he hath twice or thrice cut Cupids bow-string, and the little hang-man dare not shoot at him, he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinkes, his tongue speakes Bene. Gallants, I am not as I haue bin Leo. So say I, methinkes you are sadder Claud. I hope he be in loue Prin. Hang him truant, there's no true drop of bloud in him to be truly toucht with loue, if he be sad, he wants money Bene. I haue the tooth-ach Prin. Draw it Bene. Hang it Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards Prin. What? sigh for the tooth-ach Leon. Where is but a humour or a worme Bene. Well, euery one cannot master a griefe, but hee that has it Clau. Yet say I, he is in loue Prin. There is no appearance of fancie in him, vnlesse it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to bee a Dutchman to day, a Frenchman to morrow: vnlesse hee haue a fancy to this foolery, as it appeares hee hath, hee is no foole for fancy, as you would haue it to appeare he is Clau. If he be not in loue with some woman, there is no beleeuing old signes, a brushes his hat a mornings, What should that bode? Prin. Hath any man seene him at the Barbers? Clau. No, but the Barbers man hath beene seen with him, and the olde ornament of his cheeke hath alreadie stuft tennis balls Leon. Indeed he lookes yonger than hee did, by the losse of a beard Prin. Nay a rubs himselfe with Ciuit, can you smell him out by that? Clau. That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in loue Prin. The greatest note of it is his melancholy Clau. And when was he wont to wash his face? Prin. Yea, or to paint himselfe? for the which I heare what they say of him Clau. Nay, but his iesting spirit, which is now crept into a lute-string, and now gouern'd by stops Prin. Indeed that tels a heauy tale for him: conclude, he is in loue Clau. Nay, but I know who loues him Prince. That would I know too, I warrant one that knowes him not Cla. Yes, and his ill conditions, and in despight of all, dies for him Prin. Shee shall be buried with her face vpwards Bene. Yet is this no charme for the tooth-ake, old signior, walke aside with mee, I haue studied eight or nine wise words to speake to you, which these hobby-horses must not heare Prin. For my life to breake with him about Beatrice Clau. 'Tis euen so, Hero and Margaret haue by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two Beares will not bite one another when they meete. Enter Iohn the Bastard. Bast. My Lord and brother, God saue you Prin. Good den brother Bast. If your leisure seru'd, I would speake with you Prince. In priuate? Bast. If it please you, yet Count Claudio may heare, for what I would speake of, concernes him Prin. What's the matter? Basta. Meanes your Lordship to be married to morrow? Prin. You know he does Bast. I know not that when he knowes what I know Clau. If there be any impediment, I pray you discouer it Bast. You may thinke I loue you not, let that appeare hereafter, and ayme better at me by that I now will manifest, for my brother (I thinke, he holds you well, and in dearenesse of heart) hath holpe to effect your ensuing marriage: surely sute ill spent, and labour ill bestowed Prin. Why, what's the matter? Bastard. I came hither to tell you, and circumstances shortned, (for she hath beene too long a talking of) the Lady is disloyall Clau. Who Hero? Bast. Euen shee, Leonatoes Hero, your Hero, euery mans Hero Clau. Disloyall? Bast. The word is too good to paint out her wickednesse, I could say she were worse, thinke you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it: wonder not till further warrant: goe but with mee to night, you shal see her chamber window entred, euen the night before her wedding day, if you loue her, then to morrow wed her: But it would better fit your honour to change your minde Claud. May this be so? Princ. I will not thinke it Bast. If you dare not trust that you see, confesse not that you know: if you will follow mee, I will shew you enough, and when you haue seene more, & heard more, proceed accordingly Clau. If I see any thing to night, why I should not marry her to morrow in the congregation, where I shold wedde, there will I shame her Prin. And as I wooed for thee to obtaine her, I will ioyne with thee to disgrace her Bast. I will disparage her no farther, till you are my witnesses, beare it coldly but till night, and let the issue shew it selfe Prin. O day vntowardly turned! Claud. O mischiefe strangelie thwarting! Bastard. O plague right well preuented! so will you say, when you haue seene the sequele. Enter. ----------ACT 3 SCENE 1--------- Actus Tertius. Scene 1. Enter Hero and two Gentlemen, Margaret, and Vrsula. Hero. Good Margaret runne thee to the parlour, There shalt thou finde my Cosin Beatrice, Proposing with the Prince and Claudio, Whisper her eare, and tell her I and Vrsula, Walke in the Orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her, say that thou ouer-heardst vs, And bid her steale into the pleached bower, Where hony-suckles ripened by the sunne, Forbid the sunne to enter: like fauourites, Made proud by Princes, that aduance their pride, Against that power that bred it, there will she hide her, To listen our purpose, this is thy office, Beare thee well in it, and leaue vs alone Marg. Ile make her come I warrant you presently Hero. Now Vrsula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley vp and downe, Our talke must onely be of Benedicke, When I doe name him, let it be thy part, To praise him more then euer man did merit, My talke to thee must be how Benedicke Is sicke in loue with Beatrice; of this matter, Is little Cupids crafty arrow made, That onely wounds by heare-say: now begin, Enter Beatrice. For looke where Beatrice like a Lapwing runs Close by the ground, to heare our conference Vrs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden ores the siluer streame, And greedily deuoure the treacherous baite: So angle we for Beatrice, who euen now, Is couched in the wood-bine couerture, Feare you not my part of the Dialogue Her. Then go we neare her that her eare loose nothing, Of the false sweete baite that we lay for it: No truely Vrsula, she is too disdainfull, I know her spirits are as coy and wilde, As Haggerds of the rocke Vrsula. But are you sure, That Benedicke loues Beatrice so intirely? Her. So saies the Prince, and my new trothed Lord Vrs. And did they bid you tell her of it, Madam? Her. They did intreate me to acquaint her of it, But I perswaded them, if they lou'd Benedicke, To wish him wrastle with affection, And neuer to let Beatrice know of it Vrsula. Why did you so, doth not the Gentleman Deserue as full as fortunate a bed, As euer Beatrice shall couch vpon? Hero. O God of loue! I know he doth deserue, As much as may be yeelded to a man: But Nature neuer fram'd a womans heart, Of prowder stuffe then that of Beatrice: Disdaine and Scorne ride sparkling in her eyes, Mis-prizing what they looke on, and her wit Values it selfe so highly, that to her All matter else seemes weake: she cannot loue, Nor take no shape nor proiect of affection, Shee is so selfe indeared Vrsula. Sure I thinke so, And therefore certainely it were not good She knew his loue, lest she make sport at it Hero. Why you speake truth, I neuer yet saw man, How wise, how noble, yong, how rarely featur'd. But she would spell him backward: if faire fac'd, She would sweare the gentleman should be her sister: If blacke, why Nature drawing of an anticke, Made a foule blot: if tall, a launce ill headed: If low, an agot very vildlie cut: If speaking, why a vane blowne with all windes: If silent, why a blocke moued with none. So turnes she euery man the wrong side out, And neuer giues to Truth and Vertue, that Which simplenesse and merit purchaseth Vrsu. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable Hero. No, not to be so odde, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable, But who dare tell her so? if I should speake, She would mocke me into ayre, O she would laugh me Out of my selfe, presse me to death with wit, Therefore let Benedicke like couered fire, Consume away in sighes, waste inwardly: It were a better death, to die with mockes, Which is as bad as die with tickling Vrsu. Yet tell her of it, heare what shee will say Hero. No, rather I will goe to Benedicke, And counsaile him to fight against his passion, And truly Ile deuise some honest slanders, To staine my cosin with, one doth not know, How much an ill word may impoison liking Vrsu. O doe not doe your cosin such a wrong, She cannot be so much without true iudgement, Hauing so swift and excellent a wit As she is prisde to haue, as to refuse So rare a Gentleman as signior Benedicke Hero. He is the onely man of Italy, Alwaies excepted, my deare Claudio Vrsu. I pray you be not angry with me, Madame, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedicke, For shape, for bearing argument and valour, Goes formost in report through Italy Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent good name Vrsu. His excellence did earne it ere he had it: When are you married Madame? Hero. Why euerie day to morrow, come goe in, Ile shew thee some attires, and haue thy counsell, Which is the best to furnish me to morrow Vrsu. Shee's tane I warrant you, We haue caught her Madame? Hero. If it proue so, then louing goes by haps, Some Cupid kills with arrowes, some with traps. Enter. Beat. What fire is in mine eares? can this be true? Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorne so much? Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adew, No glory liues behinde the backe of such. And Benedicke, loue on, I will requite thee, Taming my wilde heart to thy louing hand: If thou dost loue, my kindnesse shall incite thee To binde our loues vp in a holy band. For others say thou dost deserue, and I Beleeue it better then reportingly. Enter. ----------ACT 3 SCENE 2--------- Scene 2. Enter Prince, Claudio, Benedicke, and Leonato. Prince. I doe but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon Clau. Ile bring you thither my Lord, if you'l vouchsafe me Prin. Nay, that would be as great a soyle in the new glosse of your marriage, as to shew a childe his new coat and forbid him to weare it, I will onely bee bold with Benedicke for his companie, for from the crowne of his head, to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth, he hath twice or thrice cut Cupids bow-string, and the little hang-man dare not shoot at him, he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinkes, his tongue speakes Bene. Gallants, I am not as I haue bin Leo. So say I, methinkes you are sadder Claud. I hope he be in loue Prin. Hang him truant, there's no true drop of bloud in him to be truly toucht with loue, if he be sad, he wants money Bene. I haue the tooth-ach Prin. Draw it Bene. Hang it Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards Prin. What? sigh for the tooth-ach Leon. Where is but a humour or a worme Bene. Well, euery one cannot master a griefe, but hee that has it Clau. Yet say I, he is in loue Prin. There is no appearance of fancie in him, vnlesse it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to bee a Dutchman to day, a Frenchman to morrow: vnlesse hee haue a fancy to this foolery, as it appeares hee hath, hee is no foole for fancy, as you would haue it to appeare he is Clau. If he be not in loue with some woman, there is no beleeuing old signes, a brushes his hat a mornings, What should that bode? Prin. Hath any man seene him at the Barbers? Clau. No, but the Barbers man hath beene seen with him, and the olde ornament of his cheeke hath alreadie stuft tennis balls Leon. Indeed he lookes yonger than hee did, by the losse of a beard Prin. Nay a rubs himselfe with Ciuit, can you smell him out by that? Clau. That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in loue Prin. The greatest note of it is his melancholy Clau. And when was he wont to wash his face? Prin. Yea, or to paint himselfe? for the which I heare what they say of him Clau. Nay, but his iesting spirit, which is now crept into a lute-string, and now gouern'd by stops Prin. Indeed that tels a heauy tale for him: conclude, he is in loue Clau. Nay, but I know who loues him Prince. That would I know too, I warrant one that knowes him not Cla. Yes, and his ill conditions, and in despight of all, dies for him Prin. Shee shall be buried with her face vpwards Bene. Yet is this no charme for the tooth-ake, old signior, walke aside with mee, I haue studied eight or nine wise words to speake to you, which these hobby-horses must not heare Prin. For my life to breake with him about Beatrice Clau. 'Tis euen so, Hero and Margaret haue by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two Beares will not bite one another when they meete. Enter Iohn the Bastard. Bast. My Lord and brother, God saue you Prin. Good den brother Bast. If your leisure seru'd, I would speake with you Prince. In priuate? Bast. If it please you, yet Count Claudio may heare, for what I would speake of, concernes him Prin. What's the matter? Basta. Meanes your Lordship to be married to morrow? Prin. You know he does Bast. I know not that when he knowes what I know Clau. If there be any impediment, I pray you discouer it Bast. You may thinke I loue you not, let that appeare hereafter, and ayme better at me by that I now will manifest, for my brother (I thinke, he holds you well, and in dearenesse of heart) hath holpe to effect your ensuing marriage: surely sute ill spent, and labour ill bestowed Prin. Why, what's the matter? Bastard. I came hither to tell you, and circumstances shortned, (for she hath beene too long a talking of) the Lady is disloyall Clau. Who Hero? Bast. Euen shee, Leonatoes Hero, your Hero, euery mans Hero Clau. Disloyall? Bast. The word is too good to paint out her wickednesse, I could say she were worse, thinke you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it: wonder not till further warrant: goe but with mee to night, you shal see her chamber window entred, euen the night before her wedding day, if you loue her, then to morrow wed her: But it would better fit your honour to change your minde Claud. May this be so? Princ. I will not thinke it Bast. If you dare not trust that you see, confesse not that you know: if you will follow mee, I will shew you enough, and when you haue seene more, & heard more, proceed accordingly Clau. If I see any thing to night, why I should not marry her to morrow in the congregation, where I shold wedde, there will I shame her Prin. And as I wooed for thee to obtaine her, I will ioyne with thee to disgrace her Bast. I will disparage her no farther, till you are my witnesses, beare it coldly but till night, and let the issue shew it selfe Prin. O day vntowardly turned! Claud. O mischiefe strangelie thwarting! Bastard. O plague right well preuented! so will you say, when you haue seene the sequele. Enter.

Henry IV Part 2.act 4.sce

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 4, scene 2 with the given context.

act 4, scene 1|act 4, scene 2

The scene continues. The rebel leaders meet up with Prince John, who lectures the Archbishop about taking up arms against the king when he should be back at home with his bible, preaching about peace and obedience. Prince John says that the Archbishop is seriously abusing his religious authority by using his power to get the people all riled up against the king. The Archbishop, he says, should know better than anyone that the king is God's "substitute." History Snack: Prince John is referring to a political theory known as the doctrine of "divine right," which says that kings are appointed by God to be his representatives on earth. Rebelling against the king is tantamount to sinning against God. Queen Elizabeth, who ruled England at the time the play was written, even made the churches in England read a sermon called "Homily Against Disobedience and Willful Rebellion." Rebellion, according to the Elizabethan worldview, was a "great a sin against God." York responds that he has no choice because King Henry has refused to address the rebels' grievances. Mowbray and Hastings chime in that they're prepared to fight. Prince John says he's had a chance to look over the rebel's list of grievances and he's prepared to put things to rights. If the rebels send their troops home, Prince John will do the same and they can all sit down and have a drink together, toasting their love for one another. York accepts and Prince John raises his glass in a toast and assures the rebels that they have his word on it - their grievances will be addressed. Hastings gives orders to Coleville to send the rebel troops home and the rebel leaders drink a toast to peace. Mowbray says that he's suddenly feeling sick and the others tell him to cheer up. The rebel troops can be heard in the distance, shouting in celebration of the peace compact. The Archbishop of York says it's great that both sides have come out winners today. Prince John sends Westmoreland to send the king's troops home and makes small talk with the rebel leaders, even suggesting that they all lodge together that night. Westmoreland returns with news that the king's forces refuse to disband until Prince John delivers a speech. Just then, Hastings announces that the rebel army has disbanded - the troops have run home like schoolboys on the last day of classes. Then Westmoreland turns to Hastings, York, and Mowbray and says, "Surprise! You're all under arrest for treason." Mowbray says something like "No fair! You promised to redress our grievances and now you've betrayed our trust." Prince John replies that he's going to address their grievances but first he's also going to sentence the rebels to death.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- Actus Quartus. Scene 1. Enter Prince, Bastard, Leonato, Frier, Claudio, Benedicke, Hero, and Beatrice. Leonato. Come Frier Francis, be briefe, onely to the plaine forme of marriage, and you shal recount their particular duties afterwards Fran. You come hither, my Lord, to marry this Lady Clau. No Leo. To be married to her: Frier, you come to marrie her Frier. Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count Hero. I doe Frier. If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conioyned, I charge you on your soules to vtter it Claud. Know you anie, Hero? Hero. None my Lord Frier. Know you anie, Count? Leon. I dare make his answer, None Clau. O what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do! Bene. How now! interiections? why then, some be of laughing, as ha, ha, he Clau. Stand thee by Frier, father, by your leaue, Will you with free and vnconstrained soule Giue me this maid your daughter? Leon. As freely sonne as God did giue her me Cla. And what haue I to giue you back, whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift? Prin. Nothing, vnlesse you render her againe Clau. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulnes: There Leonato, take her backe againe, Giue not this rotten Orenge to your friend, Shee's but the signe and semblance of her honour: Behold how like a maid she blushes heere! O what authoritie and shew of truth Can cunning sinne couer it selfe withall! Comes not that bloud, as modest euidence, To witnesse simple Vertue? would you not sweare All you that see her, that she were a maide, By these exterior shewes? But she is none: She knowes the heat of a luxurious bed: Her blush is guiltinesse, not modestie Leonato. What doe you meane, my Lord? Clau. Not to be married, Not to knit my soule to an approued wanton Leon. Deere my Lord, if you in your owne proofe, Haue vanquisht the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginitie Clau. I know what you would say: if I haue knowne (her, You will say, she did imbrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the forehand sinne: No Leonato, I neuer tempted her with word too large, But as a brother to his sister, shewed Bashfull sinceritie and comely loue Hero. And seem'd I euer otherwise to you? Clau. Out on thee seeming, I will write against it, You seeme to me as Diane in her Orbe, As chaste as is the budde ere it be blowne: But you are more intemperate in your blood, Than Venus, or those pampred animalls, That rage in sauage sensualitie Hero. Is my Lord well, that he doth speake so wide? Leon. Sweete Prince, why speake not you? Prin. What should I speake? I stand dishonour'd that haue gone about, To linke my deare friend to a common stale Leon. Are these things spoken, or doe I but dreame? Bast. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true Bene. This lookes not like a nuptiall Hero. True, O God! Clau. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince? is this the Princes brother? Is this face Heroes? are our eies our owne? Leon. All this is so, but what of this my Lord? Clau. Let me but moue one question to your daughter, And by that fatherly and kindly power, That you haue in her, bid her answer truly Leo. I charge thee doe, as thou art my childe Hero. O God defend me how am I beset, What kinde of catechizing call you this? Clau. To make you answer truly to your name Hero. Is it not Hero? who can blot that name With any iust reproach? Claud. Marry that can Hero, Hero it selfe can blot out Heroes vertue. What man was he, talkt with you yesternight, Out at your window betwixt twelue and one? Now if you are a maid, answer to this Hero. I talkt with no man at that howre my Lord Prince. Why then you are no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must heare: vpon mine honor, My selfe, my brother, and this grieued Count Did see her, heare her, at that howre last night, Talke with a ruffian at her chamber window, Who hath indeed most like a liberall villaine, Confest the vile encounters they haue had A thousand times in secret Iohn. Fie, fie, they are not to be named my Lord, Not to be spoken of, There is not chastitie enough in language, Without offence to vtter them: thus pretty Lady I am sorry for thy much misgouernment Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou beene If halfe thy outward graces had beene placed About thy thoughts and counsailes of thy heart? But fare thee well, most foule, most faire, farewell Thou pure impiety, and impious puritie, For thee Ile locke vp all the gates of Loue, And on my eie-lids shall Coniecture hang, To turne all beauty into thoughts of harme, And neuer shall it more be gracious Leon. Hath no mans dagger here a point for me? Beat. Why how now cosin, wherfore sink you down? Bast. Come, let vs go: these things come thus to light, Smother her spirits vp Bene. How doth the Lady? Beat. Dead I thinke, helpe vncle, Hero, why Hero, Vncle, Signor Benedicke, Frier Leonato. O Fate! take not away thy heauy hand, Death is the fairest couer for her shame That may be wisht for Beatr. How now cosin Hero? Fri. Haue comfort Ladie Leon. Dost thou looke vp? Frier. Yea, wherefore should she not? Leon. Wherfore? Why doth not euery earthly thing Cry shame vpon her? Could she heere denie The storie that is printed in her blood? Do not liue Hero, do not ope thine eyes: For did I thinke thou wouldst not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger then thy shames, My selfe would on the reward of reproaches Strike at thy life. Grieu'd I, I had but one? Chid I, for that at frugal Natures frame? O one too much by thee: why had I one? Why euer was't thou louelie in my eies? Why had I not with charitable hand Tooke vp a beggars issue at my gates, Who smeered thus, and mir'd with infamie, I might haue said, no part of it is mine: This shame deriues it selfe from vnknowne loines, But mine, and mine I lou'd, and mine I prais'd, And mine that I was proud on mine so much, That I my selfe, was to my selfe not mine: Valewing of her, why she, O she is falne Into a pit of Inke, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her cleane againe, And salt too little, which may season giue To her foule tainted flesh Ben. Sir, sir, be patient: for my part, I am so attired in wonder, I know not what to say Bea. O on my soule my cosin is belied Ben. Ladie, were you her bedfellow last night? Bea. No, truly: not although vntill last night, I haue this tweluemonth bin her bedfellow Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd, O that is stronger made Which was before barr'd vp with ribs of iron. Would the Princes lie, and Claudio lie, Who lou'd her so, that speaking of her foulnesse, Wash'd it with teares? Hence from her, let her die Fri. Heare me a little, for I haue onely bene silent so long, and giuen way vnto this course of fortune, by noting of the Ladie, I haue markt. A thousand blushing apparitions, To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames, In Angel whitenesse beare away those blushes, And in her eie there hath appear'd a fire To burne the errors that these Princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a foole, Trust not my reading, nor my obseruations, Which with experimental seale doth warrant The tenure of my booke: trust not my age, My reuerence, calling, nor diuinitie, If this sweet Ladie lye not guiltlesse heere, Vnder some biting error Leo. Friar, it cannot be: Thou seest that all the Grace that she hath left, Is, that she wil not adde to her damnation, A sinne of periury, she not denies it: Why seek'st thou then to couer with excuse, That which appeares in proper nakednesse? Fri. Ladie, what man is he you are accus'd of? Hero. They know that do accuse me, I know none: If I know more of any man aliue Then that which maiden modestie doth warrant, Let all my sinnes lacke mercy. O my Father, Proue you that any man with me conuerst, At houres vnmeete, or that I yesternight Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death Fri. There is some strange misprision in the Princes Ben. Two of them haue the verie bent of honor, And if their wisedomes be misled in this: The practise of it liues in Iohn the bastard, Whose spirits toile in frame of villanies Leo. I know not: if they speake but truth of her, These hands shall teare her: If they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall wel heare of it. Time hath not yet so dried this bloud of mine, Nor age so eate vp my inuention, Nor Fortune made such hauocke of my meanes, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall finde, awak'd in such a kinde, Both strength of limbe, and policie of minde, Ability in meanes, and choise of friends, To quit me of them throughly Fri. Pause awhile: And let my counsell sway you in this case, Your daughter heere the Princesse (left for dead) Let her awhile be secretly kept in, And publish it, that she is dead indeed: Maintaine a mourning ostentation, And on your Families old monument, Hang mournfull Epitaphes, and do all rites, That appertaine vnto a buriall Leon. What shall become of this? What wil this do? Fri. Marry this wel carried, shall on her behalfe, Change slander to remorse, that is some good, But not for that dreame I on this strange course, But on this trauaile looke for greater birth: She dying, as it must be so maintain'd, Vpon the instant that she was accus'd, Shal be lamented, pittied, and excus'd Of euery hearer: for it so fals out, That what we haue, we prize not to the worth, Whiles we enioy it; but being lack'd and lost, Why then we racke the value, then we finde The vertue that possession would not shew vs Whiles it was ours, so will it fare with Claudio: When he shal heare she dyed vpon his words, Th' Idea of her life shal sweetly creepe Into his study of imagination. And euery louely Organ of her life, Shall come apparel'd in more precious habite: More mouing delicate, and ful of life, Into the eye and prospect of his soule Then when she liu'd indeed: then shal he mourne, If euer Loue had interest in his Liuer, And wish he had not so accused her: No, though he thought his accusation true: Let this be so, and doubt not but successe Wil fashion the euent in better shape, Then I can lay it downe in likelihood. But if all ayme but this be leuelld false, The supposition of the Ladies death, Will quench the wonder of her infamie. And if it sort not well, you may conceale her As best befits her wounded reputation, In some reclusiue and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, mindes and iniuries Bene. Signior Leonato, let the Frier aduise you, And though you know my inwardnesse and loue Is very much vnto the Prince and Claudio. Yet, by mine honor, I will deale in this, As secretly and iustlie, as your soule Should with your bodie Leon. Being that I flow in greefe, The smallest twine may lead me Frier. 'Tis well consented, presently away, For to strange sores, strangely they straine the cure, Come Lady, die to liue, this wedding day Perhaps is but prolong'd, haue patience & endure. Enter. Bene. Lady Beatrice, haue you wept all this while? Beat. Yea, and I will weepe a while longer Bene. I will not desire that Beat. You haue no reason, I doe it freely Bene. Surelie I do beleeue your fair cosin is wrong'd Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserue of mee that would right her! Bene. Is there any way to shew such friendship? Beat. A verie euen way, but no such friend Bene. May a man doe it? Beat. It is a mans office, but not yours Bene. I doe loue nothing in the world so well as you, is not that strange? Beat. As strange as the thing I know not, it were as possible for me to say, I loued nothing so well as you, but beleeue me not, and yet I lie not, I confesse nothing, nor I deny nothing, I am sorry for my cousin Bene. By my sword Beatrice thou lou'st me Beat. Doe not sweare by it and eat it Bene. I will sweare by it that you loue mee, and I will make him eat it that sayes I loue not you Beat. Will you not eat your word? Bene. With no sawce that can be deuised to it, I protest I loue thee Beat. Why then God forgiue me Bene. What offence sweet Beatrice? Beat. You haue stayed me in a happy howre, I was about to protest I loued you Bene. And doe it with all thy heart Beat. I loue you with so much of my heart, that none is left to protest Bened. Come, bid me doe any thing for thee Beat. Kill Claudio Bene. Ha, not for the wide world Beat. You kill me to denie, farewell Bene. Tarrie sweet Beatrice Beat. I am gone, though I am heere, there is no loue in you, nay I pray you let me goe Bene. Beatrice Beat. Infaith I will goe Bene. Wee'll be friends first Beat. You dare easier be friends with mee, than fight with mine enemy Bene. Is Claudio thine enemie? Beat. Is a not approued in the height a villaine, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a man! what, beare her in hand vntill they come to take hands, and then with publike accusation vncouered slander, vnmittigated rancour? O God that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place Bene. Heare me Beatrice Beat. Talke with a man out at a window, a proper saying Bene. Nay but Beatrice Beat. Sweet Hero, she is wrong'd, shee is slandered, she is vndone Bene. Beat? Beat. Princes and Counties! surelie a Princely testimonie, a goodly Count, Comfect, a sweet Gallant surelie, O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into cursies, valour into complement, and men are onelie turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie, and sweares it: I cannot be a man with wishing, therfore I will die a woman with grieuing Bene. Tarry good Beatrice, by this hand I loue thee Beat. Vse it for my loue some other way then swearing by it Bened. Thinke you in your soule the Count Claudio hath wrong'd Hero? Beat. Yea, as sure as I haue a thought, or a soule Bene. Enough, I am engagde, I will challenge him, I will kisse your hand, and so leaue you: by this hand Claudio shall render me a deere account: as you heare of me, so thinke of me: goe comfort your coosin, I must say she is dead, and so farewell. ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- Scene 2. Enter the Constables, Borachio, and the Towne Clerke in gownes. Keeper. Is our whole dissembly appeard? Cowley. O a stoole and a cushion for the Sexton Sexton. Which be the malefactors? Andrew. Marry that am I, and my partner Cowley. Nay that's certaine, wee haue the exhibition to examine Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined, let them come before master Constable Kemp. Yea marry, let them come before mee, what is your name, friend? Bor. Borachio Kem. Pray write downe Borachio. Yours sirra Con. I am a Gentleman sir, and my name is Conrade Kee. Write downe Master gentleman Conrade: maisters, doe you serue God: maisters, it is proued alreadie that you are little better than false knaues, and it will goe neere to be thought so shortly, how answer you for your selues? Con. Marry sir, we say we are none Kemp. A maruellous witty fellow I assure you, but I will goe about with him: come you hither sirra, a word in your eare sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaues Bor. Sir, I say to you, we are none Kemp. Well, stand aside, 'fore God they are both in a tale: haue you writ downe that they are none? Sext. Master Constable, you goe not the way to examine, you must call forth the watch that are their accusers Kemp. Yea marry, that's the eftest way, let the watch come forth: masters, I charge you in the Princes name, accuse these men Watch 1. This man said sir, that Don Iohn the Princes brother was a villaine Kemp. Write down, Prince Iohn a villaine: why this is flat periurie, to call a Princes brother villaine Bora. Master Constable Kemp. Pray thee fellow peace, I do not like thy looke I promise thee Sexton. What heard you him say else? Watch 2. Mary that he had receiued a thousand Dukates of Don Iohn, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully Kemp. Flat Burglarie as euer was committed Const. Yea by th' masse that it is Sexton. What else fellow? Watch 1. And that Count Claudio did meane vpon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her Kemp. O villaine! thou wilt be condemn'd into euerlasting redemption for this Sexton. What else? Watch. This is all Sexton. And this is more masters then you can deny, Prince Iohn is this morning secretly stolne away: Hero was in this manner accus'd, in this very manner refus'd, and vpon the griefe of this sodainely died: Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato, I will goe before, and shew him their examination Const. Come, let them be opinion'd Sex. Let them be in the hands of Coxcombe Kem. Gods my life, where's the Sexton? let him write downe the Princes Officer Coxcombe: come, binde them thou naughty varlet Couley. Away, you are an asse, you are an asse Kemp. Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not suspect my yeeres? O that hee were heere to write mee downe an asse! but masters, remember that I am an asse: though it be not written down, yet forget not y I am an asse: No thou villaine, y art full of piety as shall be prou'd vpon thee by good witnesse, I am a wise fellow, and which is more, an officer, and which is more, a houshoulder, and which is more, as pretty a peece of flesh as any in Messina, and one that knowes the Law, goe to, & a rich fellow enough, goe to, and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gownes, and euery thing handsome about him: bring him away: O that I had been writ downe an asse! Enter.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4 scene 2 using the context provided.

Prince John greets the rebels. He has harsh words for the Archbishop, telling him he should be engaged in preaching sermons rather than political rebellion. The Prince accuses him of abusing his religious office. In reply, the Archbishop again emphasizes that the list of their grievances submitted to the Prince was ignored, and that is the cause of the war. He reiterates that peace can be attained if the Prince accedes to their demands. . Mowbray adds that if this is not done, they are ready for war. Hastings seconds him, saying that even if they lose the first battle, they have the resources to continue to fight. . Prince John promises to redress all the rebels' grievances. He asks them to disband their army immediately, and he promises to do the same with his own army. He promises he will keep his word. . Hastings gives a captain instructions to go to his army, pay them, and tell them they are free to go. Prince John gives instructions for his army to be discharged also. . Hastings, having left to supervise the disbanding of the army, returns and confirms that his men have all scattered and are on their way home. . As soon as he hears this, Westmoreland arrests Hastings, the Archbishop and Mowbray for treason. . The arrested men protest that the Prince has broken his word, but Prince John denies it. He says he promised to redress their grievances, and this he will do. But he still has the right to execute them because they rebelled against the Crown. He also gives instructions for his army to pursue the rebel stragglers. .

----------ACT 4 SCENE 1--------- Actus Quartus. Scene 1. Enter Prince, Bastard, Leonato, Frier, Claudio, Benedicke, Hero, and Beatrice. Leonato. Come Frier Francis, be briefe, onely to the plaine forme of marriage, and you shal recount their particular duties afterwards Fran. You come hither, my Lord, to marry this Lady Clau. No Leo. To be married to her: Frier, you come to marrie her Frier. Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count Hero. I doe Frier. If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conioyned, I charge you on your soules to vtter it Claud. Know you anie, Hero? Hero. None my Lord Frier. Know you anie, Count? Leon. I dare make his answer, None Clau. O what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do! Bene. How now! interiections? why then, some be of laughing, as ha, ha, he Clau. Stand thee by Frier, father, by your leaue, Will you with free and vnconstrained soule Giue me this maid your daughter? Leon. As freely sonne as God did giue her me Cla. And what haue I to giue you back, whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift? Prin. Nothing, vnlesse you render her againe Clau. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulnes: There Leonato, take her backe againe, Giue not this rotten Orenge to your friend, Shee's but the signe and semblance of her honour: Behold how like a maid she blushes heere! O what authoritie and shew of truth Can cunning sinne couer it selfe withall! Comes not that bloud, as modest euidence, To witnesse simple Vertue? would you not sweare All you that see her, that she were a maide, By these exterior shewes? But she is none: She knowes the heat of a luxurious bed: Her blush is guiltinesse, not modestie Leonato. What doe you meane, my Lord? Clau. Not to be married, Not to knit my soule to an approued wanton Leon. Deere my Lord, if you in your owne proofe, Haue vanquisht the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginitie Clau. I know what you would say: if I haue knowne (her, You will say, she did imbrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the forehand sinne: No Leonato, I neuer tempted her with word too large, But as a brother to his sister, shewed Bashfull sinceritie and comely loue Hero. And seem'd I euer otherwise to you? Clau. Out on thee seeming, I will write against it, You seeme to me as Diane in her Orbe, As chaste as is the budde ere it be blowne: But you are more intemperate in your blood, Than Venus, or those pampred animalls, That rage in sauage sensualitie Hero. Is my Lord well, that he doth speake so wide? Leon. Sweete Prince, why speake not you? Prin. What should I speake? I stand dishonour'd that haue gone about, To linke my deare friend to a common stale Leon. Are these things spoken, or doe I but dreame? Bast. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true Bene. This lookes not like a nuptiall Hero. True, O God! Clau. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince? is this the Princes brother? Is this face Heroes? are our eies our owne? Leon. All this is so, but what of this my Lord? Clau. Let me but moue one question to your daughter, And by that fatherly and kindly power, That you haue in her, bid her answer truly Leo. I charge thee doe, as thou art my childe Hero. O God defend me how am I beset, What kinde of catechizing call you this? Clau. To make you answer truly to your name Hero. Is it not Hero? who can blot that name With any iust reproach? Claud. Marry that can Hero, Hero it selfe can blot out Heroes vertue. What man was he, talkt with you yesternight, Out at your window betwixt twelue and one? Now if you are a maid, answer to this Hero. I talkt with no man at that howre my Lord Prince. Why then you are no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must heare: vpon mine honor, My selfe, my brother, and this grieued Count Did see her, heare her, at that howre last night, Talke with a ruffian at her chamber window, Who hath indeed most like a liberall villaine, Confest the vile encounters they haue had A thousand times in secret Iohn. Fie, fie, they are not to be named my Lord, Not to be spoken of, There is not chastitie enough in language, Without offence to vtter them: thus pretty Lady I am sorry for thy much misgouernment Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou beene If halfe thy outward graces had beene placed About thy thoughts and counsailes of thy heart? But fare thee well, most foule, most faire, farewell Thou pure impiety, and impious puritie, For thee Ile locke vp all the gates of Loue, And on my eie-lids shall Coniecture hang, To turne all beauty into thoughts of harme, And neuer shall it more be gracious Leon. Hath no mans dagger here a point for me? Beat. Why how now cosin, wherfore sink you down? Bast. Come, let vs go: these things come thus to light, Smother her spirits vp Bene. How doth the Lady? Beat. Dead I thinke, helpe vncle, Hero, why Hero, Vncle, Signor Benedicke, Frier Leonato. O Fate! take not away thy heauy hand, Death is the fairest couer for her shame That may be wisht for Beatr. How now cosin Hero? Fri. Haue comfort Ladie Leon. Dost thou looke vp? Frier. Yea, wherefore should she not? Leon. Wherfore? Why doth not euery earthly thing Cry shame vpon her? Could she heere denie The storie that is printed in her blood? Do not liue Hero, do not ope thine eyes: For did I thinke thou wouldst not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger then thy shames, My selfe would on the reward of reproaches Strike at thy life. Grieu'd I, I had but one? Chid I, for that at frugal Natures frame? O one too much by thee: why had I one? Why euer was't thou louelie in my eies? Why had I not with charitable hand Tooke vp a beggars issue at my gates, Who smeered thus, and mir'd with infamie, I might haue said, no part of it is mine: This shame deriues it selfe from vnknowne loines, But mine, and mine I lou'd, and mine I prais'd, And mine that I was proud on mine so much, That I my selfe, was to my selfe not mine: Valewing of her, why she, O she is falne Into a pit of Inke, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her cleane againe, And salt too little, which may season giue To her foule tainted flesh Ben. Sir, sir, be patient: for my part, I am so attired in wonder, I know not what to say Bea. O on my soule my cosin is belied Ben. Ladie, were you her bedfellow last night? Bea. No, truly: not although vntill last night, I haue this tweluemonth bin her bedfellow Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd, O that is stronger made Which was before barr'd vp with ribs of iron. Would the Princes lie, and Claudio lie, Who lou'd her so, that speaking of her foulnesse, Wash'd it with teares? Hence from her, let her die Fri. Heare me a little, for I haue onely bene silent so long, and giuen way vnto this course of fortune, by noting of the Ladie, I haue markt. A thousand blushing apparitions, To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames, In Angel whitenesse beare away those blushes, And in her eie there hath appear'd a fire To burne the errors that these Princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a foole, Trust not my reading, nor my obseruations, Which with experimental seale doth warrant The tenure of my booke: trust not my age, My reuerence, calling, nor diuinitie, If this sweet Ladie lye not guiltlesse heere, Vnder some biting error Leo. Friar, it cannot be: Thou seest that all the Grace that she hath left, Is, that she wil not adde to her damnation, A sinne of periury, she not denies it: Why seek'st thou then to couer with excuse, That which appeares in proper nakednesse? Fri. Ladie, what man is he you are accus'd of? Hero. They know that do accuse me, I know none: If I know more of any man aliue Then that which maiden modestie doth warrant, Let all my sinnes lacke mercy. O my Father, Proue you that any man with me conuerst, At houres vnmeete, or that I yesternight Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death Fri. There is some strange misprision in the Princes Ben. Two of them haue the verie bent of honor, And if their wisedomes be misled in this: The practise of it liues in Iohn the bastard, Whose spirits toile in frame of villanies Leo. I know not: if they speake but truth of her, These hands shall teare her: If they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall wel heare of it. Time hath not yet so dried this bloud of mine, Nor age so eate vp my inuention, Nor Fortune made such hauocke of my meanes, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall finde, awak'd in such a kinde, Both strength of limbe, and policie of minde, Ability in meanes, and choise of friends, To quit me of them throughly Fri. Pause awhile: And let my counsell sway you in this case, Your daughter heere the Princesse (left for dead) Let her awhile be secretly kept in, And publish it, that she is dead indeed: Maintaine a mourning ostentation, And on your Families old monument, Hang mournfull Epitaphes, and do all rites, That appertaine vnto a buriall Leon. What shall become of this? What wil this do? Fri. Marry this wel carried, shall on her behalfe, Change slander to remorse, that is some good, But not for that dreame I on this strange course, But on this trauaile looke for greater birth: She dying, as it must be so maintain'd, Vpon the instant that she was accus'd, Shal be lamented, pittied, and excus'd Of euery hearer: for it so fals out, That what we haue, we prize not to the worth, Whiles we enioy it; but being lack'd and lost, Why then we racke the value, then we finde The vertue that possession would not shew vs Whiles it was ours, so will it fare with Claudio: When he shal heare she dyed vpon his words, Th' Idea of her life shal sweetly creepe Into his study of imagination. And euery louely Organ of her life, Shall come apparel'd in more precious habite: More mouing delicate, and ful of life, Into the eye and prospect of his soule Then when she liu'd indeed: then shal he mourne, If euer Loue had interest in his Liuer, And wish he had not so accused her: No, though he thought his accusation true: Let this be so, and doubt not but successe Wil fashion the euent in better shape, Then I can lay it downe in likelihood. But if all ayme but this be leuelld false, The supposition of the Ladies death, Will quench the wonder of her infamie. And if it sort not well, you may conceale her As best befits her wounded reputation, In some reclusiue and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, mindes and iniuries Bene. Signior Leonato, let the Frier aduise you, And though you know my inwardnesse and loue Is very much vnto the Prince and Claudio. Yet, by mine honor, I will deale in this, As secretly and iustlie, as your soule Should with your bodie Leon. Being that I flow in greefe, The smallest twine may lead me Frier. 'Tis well consented, presently away, For to strange sores, strangely they straine the cure, Come Lady, die to liue, this wedding day Perhaps is but prolong'd, haue patience & endure. Enter. Bene. Lady Beatrice, haue you wept all this while? Beat. Yea, and I will weepe a while longer Bene. I will not desire that Beat. You haue no reason, I doe it freely Bene. Surelie I do beleeue your fair cosin is wrong'd Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserue of mee that would right her! Bene. Is there any way to shew such friendship? Beat. A verie euen way, but no such friend Bene. May a man doe it? Beat. It is a mans office, but not yours Bene. I doe loue nothing in the world so well as you, is not that strange? Beat. As strange as the thing I know not, it were as possible for me to say, I loued nothing so well as you, but beleeue me not, and yet I lie not, I confesse nothing, nor I deny nothing, I am sorry for my cousin Bene. By my sword Beatrice thou lou'st me Beat. Doe not sweare by it and eat it Bene. I will sweare by it that you loue mee, and I will make him eat it that sayes I loue not you Beat. Will you not eat your word? Bene. With no sawce that can be deuised to it, I protest I loue thee Beat. Why then God forgiue me Bene. What offence sweet Beatrice? Beat. You haue stayed me in a happy howre, I was about to protest I loued you Bene. And doe it with all thy heart Beat. I loue you with so much of my heart, that none is left to protest Bened. Come, bid me doe any thing for thee Beat. Kill Claudio Bene. Ha, not for the wide world Beat. You kill me to denie, farewell Bene. Tarrie sweet Beatrice Beat. I am gone, though I am heere, there is no loue in you, nay I pray you let me goe Bene. Beatrice Beat. Infaith I will goe Bene. Wee'll be friends first Beat. You dare easier be friends with mee, than fight with mine enemy Bene. Is Claudio thine enemie? Beat. Is a not approued in the height a villaine, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a man! what, beare her in hand vntill they come to take hands, and then with publike accusation vncouered slander, vnmittigated rancour? O God that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place Bene. Heare me Beatrice Beat. Talke with a man out at a window, a proper saying Bene. Nay but Beatrice Beat. Sweet Hero, she is wrong'd, shee is slandered, she is vndone Bene. Beat? Beat. Princes and Counties! surelie a Princely testimonie, a goodly Count, Comfect, a sweet Gallant surelie, O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into cursies, valour into complement, and men are onelie turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie, and sweares it: I cannot be a man with wishing, therfore I will die a woman with grieuing Bene. Tarry good Beatrice, by this hand I loue thee Beat. Vse it for my loue some other way then swearing by it Bened. Thinke you in your soule the Count Claudio hath wrong'd Hero? Beat. Yea, as sure as I haue a thought, or a soule Bene. Enough, I am engagde, I will challenge him, I will kisse your hand, and so leaue you: by this hand Claudio shall render me a deere account: as you heare of me, so thinke of me: goe comfort your coosin, I must say she is dead, and so farewell. ----------ACT 4 SCENE 2--------- Scene 2. Enter the Constables, Borachio, and the Towne Clerke in gownes. Keeper. Is our whole dissembly appeard? Cowley. O a stoole and a cushion for the Sexton Sexton. Which be the malefactors? Andrew. Marry that am I, and my partner Cowley. Nay that's certaine, wee haue the exhibition to examine Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined, let them come before master Constable Kemp. Yea marry, let them come before mee, what is your name, friend? Bor. Borachio Kem. Pray write downe Borachio. Yours sirra Con. I am a Gentleman sir, and my name is Conrade Kee. Write downe Master gentleman Conrade: maisters, doe you serue God: maisters, it is proued alreadie that you are little better than false knaues, and it will goe neere to be thought so shortly, how answer you for your selues? Con. Marry sir, we say we are none Kemp. A maruellous witty fellow I assure you, but I will goe about with him: come you hither sirra, a word in your eare sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaues Bor. Sir, I say to you, we are none Kemp. Well, stand aside, 'fore God they are both in a tale: haue you writ downe that they are none? Sext. Master Constable, you goe not the way to examine, you must call forth the watch that are their accusers Kemp. Yea marry, that's the eftest way, let the watch come forth: masters, I charge you in the Princes name, accuse these men Watch 1. This man said sir, that Don Iohn the Princes brother was a villaine Kemp. Write down, Prince Iohn a villaine: why this is flat periurie, to call a Princes brother villaine Bora. Master Constable Kemp. Pray thee fellow peace, I do not like thy looke I promise thee Sexton. What heard you him say else? Watch 2. Mary that he had receiued a thousand Dukates of Don Iohn, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully Kemp. Flat Burglarie as euer was committed Const. Yea by th' masse that it is Sexton. What else fellow? Watch 1. And that Count Claudio did meane vpon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her Kemp. O villaine! thou wilt be condemn'd into euerlasting redemption for this Sexton. What else? Watch. This is all Sexton. And this is more masters then you can deny, Prince Iohn is this morning secretly stolne away: Hero was in this manner accus'd, in this very manner refus'd, and vpon the griefe of this sodainely died: Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato, I will goe before, and shew him their examination Const. Come, let them be opinion'd Sex. Let them be in the hands of Coxcombe Kem. Gods my life, where's the Sexton? let him write downe the Princes Officer Coxcombe: come, binde them thou naughty varlet Couley. Away, you are an asse, you are an asse Kemp. Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not suspect my yeeres? O that hee were heere to write mee downe an asse! but masters, remember that I am an asse: though it be not written down, yet forget not y I am an asse: No thou villaine, y art full of piety as shall be prou'd vpon thee by good witnesse, I am a wise fellow, and which is more, an officer, and which is more, a houshoulder, and which is more, as pretty a peece of flesh as any in Messina, and one that knowes the Law, goe to, & a rich fellow enough, goe to, and a fellow that hath had losses, and one that hath two gownes, and euery thing handsome about him: bring him away: O that I had been writ downe an asse! Enter.

Henry IV Part 2.act 5.sce

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 5, scene 1 based on the provided context.

act 5, scene 1|act 5, scene 2|act 5, scene 3|act 5, scene 4

At Justice Shallow's country estate in Gloucestershire, Bardolph and Falstaff have dropped by to make a house call to Falstaff's old law school chum. When the scene opens, Justice Shallow is being a good host and insists that Falstaff spend the night instead of travelling on to London. Falstaff does the "aw shucks" routine and pretends he doesn't want to impose. When Shallow's servant, Davy, enters with some papers, Shallow does a little multitasking. He attends to some household issues, like giving orders for the preparation of dinner, while Davy pesters him about some local legal issues involving some of his friends. Davy asks Justice Shallow if he would please take it easy on his friend, William Visor, who has gotten into a bit of legal trouble. Shallow reassures his servant that his friend will be okay and sends him on his way. Shallow says that Falstaff, Bardolph, and the Page are all welcome in his home and leads the group inside. Justice Silence, who has been silent this whole time, tags along. Falstaff lingers alone on stage for a moment - just long enough to mock Justice Shallow for being a "foolish justice." Shallow is way too nice to his servants and acts just like them. Falstaff can't wait to tell Prince Hal all about the silly old goat - the stories will keep Hal rolling with laughter for a good long time. Falstaff runs inside when Shallow calls to him.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- Actus Quintus. Scene 1. Enter Leonato and his brother. Brother. If you goe on thus, you will kill your selfe, And 'tis not wisedome thus to second griefe, Against your selfe Leon. I pray thee cease thy counsaile, Which falls into mine eares as profitlesse, As water in a siue: giue not me counsaile, Nor let no comfort delight mine eare, But such a one whose wrongs doth sute with mine. Bring me a father that so lou'd his childe, Whose ioy of her is ouer-whelmed like mine, And bid him speake of patience, Measure his woe the length and bredth of mine, And let it answere euery straine for straine, As thus for thus, and such a griefe for such, In euery lineament, branch, shape, and forme: If such a one will smile and stroke his beard, And sorrow, wagge, crie hem, when he should grone, Patch griefe with prouerbs, make misfortune drunke, With candle-wasters: bring him yet to me, And I of him will gather patience: But there is no such man, for brother, men Can counsaile, and speake comfort to that griefe, Which they themselues not feele, but tasting it, Their counsaile turnes to passion, which before, Would giue preceptiall medicine to rage, Fetter strong madnesse in a silken thred, Charme ache with ayre, and agony with words, No, no, 'tis all mens office, to speake patience To those that wring vnder the load of sorrow: But no mans vertue nor sufficiencie To be so morall, when he shall endure The like himselfe: therefore giue me no counsaile, My griefs cry lowder then aduertisement Broth. Therein do men from children nothing differ Leonato. I pray thee peace, I will be flesh and bloud, For there was neuer yet Philosopher, That could endure the tooth-ake patiently, How euer they haue writ the stile of gods, And made a push at chance and sufferance Brother. Yet bend not all the harme vpon your selfe, Make those that doe offend you, suffer too Leon. There thou speak'st reason, nay I will doe so, My soule doth tell me, Hero is belied, And that shall Claudio know, so shall the Prince, And all of them that thus dishonour her. Enter Prince and Claudio. Brot. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily Prin. Good den, good den Clau. Good day to both of you Leon. Heare you my Lords? Prin. We haue some haste Leonato Leo. Some haste my Lord! wel, fareyouwel my Lord, Are you so hasty now? well, all is one Prin. Nay, do not quarrel with vs, good old man Brot. If he could rite himselfe with quarrelling, Some of vs would lie low Claud. Who wrongs him? Leon. Marry y dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou: Nay, neuer lay thy hand vpon thy sword, I feare thee not Claud. Marry beshrew my hand, If it should giue your age such cause of feare, Infaith my hand meant nothing to my sword Leonato. Tush, tush, man, neuer fleere and iest at me, I speake not like a dotard, nor a foole, As vnder priuiledge of age to bragge, What I haue done being yong, or what would doe, Were I not old, know Claudio to thy head, Thou hast so wrong'd my innocent childe and me, That I am forc'd to lay my reuerence by, And with grey haires and bruise of many daies, Doe challenge thee to triall of a man, I say thou hast belied mine innocent childe. Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, And she lies buried with her ancestors: O in a tombe where neuer scandall slept, Saue this of hers, fram'd by thy villanie Claud. My villany? Leonato. Thine Claudio, thine I say Prin. You say not right old man Leon. My Lord, my Lord, Ile proue it on his body if he dare, Despight his nice fence, and his actiue practise, His Maie of youth, and bloome of lustihood Claud. Away, I will not haue to do with you Leo. Canst thou so daffe me? thou hast kild my child, If thou kilst me, boy, thou shalt kill a man Bro. He shall kill two of vs, and men indeed, But that's no matter, let him kill one first: Win me and weare me, let him answere me, Come follow me boy, come sir boy, come follow me Sir boy, ile whip you from your foyning fence, Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will Leon. Brother Brot. Content your self, God knows I lou'd my neece, And she is dead, slander'd to death by villaines, That dare as well answer a man indeede, As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. Boyes, apes, braggarts, Iackes, milke-sops Leon. Brother Anthony Brot. Hold you content, what man? I know them, yea And what they weigh, euen to the vtmost scruple, Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boyes, That lye, and cog, and flout, depraue, and slander, Goe antiquely, and show outward hidiousnesse, And speake of halfe a dozen dang'rous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst. And this is all Leon. But brother Anthonie Ant. Come, 'tis no matter, Do not you meddle, let me deale in this Pri. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience My heart is sorry for your daughters death: But on my honour she was charg'd with nothing But what was true, and very full of proofe Leon. My Lord, my Lord Prin. I will not heare you. Enter Benedicke. Leo. No come brother, away, I will be heard. Exeunt. ambo. Bro. And shall, or some of vs will smart for it Prin. See, see, here comes the man we went to seeke Clau. Now signior, what newes? Ben. Good day my Lord Prin. Welcome signior, you are almost come to part almost a fray Clau. Wee had likt to haue had our two noses snapt off with two old men without teeth Prin. Leonato and his brother, what think'st thou? had wee fought, I doubt we should haue beene too yong for them Ben. In a false quarrell there is no true valour, I came to seeke you both Clau. We haue beene vp and downe to seeke thee, for we are high proofe melancholly, and would faine haue it beaten away, wilt thou vse thy wit? Ben. It is in my scabberd, shall I draw it? Prin. Doest thou weare thy wit by thy side? Clau. Neuer any did so, though verie many haue been beside their wit, I will bid thee drawe, as we do the minstrels, draw to pleasure vs Prin. As I am an honest man he lookes pale, art thou sicke, or angrie? Clau. What, courage man: what though care kil'd a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care Ben. Sir, I shall meete your wit in the careere, and you charge it against me, I pray you chuse another subiect Clau. Nay then giue him another staffe, this last was broke crosse Prin. By this light, he changes more and more, I thinke he be angrie indeede Clau. If he be, he knowes how to turne his girdle Ben. Shall I speake a word in your eare? Clau. God blesse me from a challenge Ben. You are a villaine, I iest not, I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare: do me right, or I will protest your cowardise: you haue kill'd a sweete Ladie, and her death shall fall heauie on you, let me heare from you Clau. Well, I will meete you, so I may haue good cheare Prin. What, a feast, a feast? Clau. I faith I thanke him, he hath bid me to a calues head and a Capon, the which if I doe not carue most curiously, say my knife's naught, shall I not finde a woodcocke too? Ben. Sir, your wit ambles well, it goes easily Prin. Ile tell thee how Beatrice prais'd thy wit the other day: I said thou hadst a fine wit: true saies she, a fine little one: no said I, a great wit: right saies shee, a great grosse one: nay said I, a good wit: iust said she, it hurts no body: nay said I, the gentleman is wise: certaine said she, a wise gentleman: nay said I, he hath the tongues: that I beleeue said shee, for hee swore a thing to me on munday night, which he forswore on tuesday morning: there's a double tongue, there's two tongues: thus did shee an howre together trans-shape thy particular vertues, yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the proprest man in Italie Claud. For the which she wept heartily, and said shee car'd not Prin. Yea that she did, but yet for all that, and if shee did not hate him deadlie, shee would loue him dearely, the old mans daughter told vs all Clau. All, all, and moreouer, God saw him when he was hid in the garden Prin. But when shall we set the sauage Bulls hornes on the sensible Benedicks head? Clau. Yea and text vnderneath, heere dwells Benedicke the married man Ben. Fare you well, Boy, you know my minde, I will leaue you now to your gossep-like humor, you breake iests as braggards do their blades, which God be thanked hurt not: my Lord, for your manie courtesies I thank you, I must discontinue your companie, your brother the Bastard is fled from Messina: you haue among you, kill'd a sweet and innocent Ladie: for my Lord Lackebeard there, he and I shall meete, and till then peace be with him Prin. He is in earnest Clau. In most profound earnest, and Ile warrant you, for the loue of Beatrice Prin. And hath challeng'd thee Clau. Most sincerely Prin. What a prettie thing man is, when he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaues off his wit. Enter Constable, Conrade, and Borachio. Clau. He is then a Giant to an Ape, but then is an Ape a Doctor to such a man Prin. But soft you, let me be, plucke vp my heart, and be sad, did he not say my brother was fled? Const. Come you sir, if iustice cannot tame you, shee shall nere weigh more reasons in her ballance, nay, and you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be lookt to Prin. How now, two of my brothers men bound? Borachio one Clau. Harken after their offence my Lord Prin. Officers, what offence haue these men done? Const. Marrie sir, they haue committed false report, moreouer they haue spoken vntruths, secondarily they are slanders, sixt and lastly, they haue belyed a Ladie, thirdly, they haue verified vniust things, and to conclude they are lying knaues Prin. First I aske thee what they haue done, thirdlie I aske thee what's their offence, sixt and lastlie why they are committed, and to conclude, what you lay to their charge Clau. Rightlie reasoned, and in his owne diuision, and by my troth there's one meaning well suted Prin. Who haue you offended masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? this learned Constable is too cunning to be vnderstood, what's your offence? Bor. Sweete Prince, let me go no farther to mine answere: do you heare me, and let this Count kill mee: I haue deceiued euen your verie eies: what your wisedomes could not discouer, these shallow fooles haue brought to light, who in the night ouerheard me confessing to this man, how Don Iohn your brother incensed me to slander the Ladie Hero, how you were brought into the Orchard, and saw me court Margaret in Heroes garments, how you disgrac'd her when you should marrie her: my villanie they haue vpon record, which I had rather seale with my death, then repeate ouer to my shame: the Ladie is dead vpon mine and my masters false accusation: and briefelie, I desire nothing but the reward of a villaine Prin. Runs not this speech like yron through your bloud? Clau. I haue drunke poison whiles he vtter'd it Prin. But did my Brother set thee on to this? Bor. Yea, and paid me richly for the practise of it Prin. He is compos'd and fram'd of treacherie, And fled he is vpon this villanie Clau. Sweet Hero, now thy image doth appeare In the rare semblance that I lou'd it first Const. Come, bring away the plaintiffes, by this time our Sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter: and masters, do not forget to specifie when time & place shall serue, that I am an Asse Con.2. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and the Sexton too. Enter Leonato. Leon. Which is the villaine? let me see his eies, That when I note another man like him, I may auoide him: which of these is he? Bor. If you would know your wronger, looke on me Leon. Art thou the slaue that with thy breath hast kild mine innocent childe? Bor. Yea, euen I alone Leo. No, not so villaine, thou beliest thy selfe, Here stand a paire of honourable men, A third is fled that had a hand in it: I thanke you Princes for my daughters death, Record it with your high and worthie deedes, 'Twas brauely done, if you bethinke you of it Clau. I know not how to pray your patience, Yet I must speake, choose your reuenge your selfe, Impose me to what penance your inuention Can lay vpon my sinne, yet sinn'd I not, But in mistaking Prin. By my soule nor I, And yet to satisfie this good old man, I would bend vnder anie heauie waight, That heele enioyne me to Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter liue, That were impossible, but I praie you both, Possesse the people in Messina here, How innocent she died, and if your loue Can labour aught in sad inuention, Hang her an epitaph vpon her toomb, And sing it to her bones, sing it to night: To morrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my sonne in law, Be yet my Nephew: my brother hath a daughter, Almost the copie of my childe that's dead, And she alone is heire to both of vs, Giue her the right you should haue giu'n her cosin, And so dies my reuenge Clau. O noble sir! Your ouerkindnesse doth wring teares from me, I do embrace your offer, and dispose For henceforth of poore Claudio Leon. To morrow then I will expect your comming, To night I take my leaue, this naughtie man Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, Who I beleeue was packt in all this wrong, Hired to it by your brother Bor. No, by my soule she was not, Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me, But alwaies hath bin iust and vertuous, In anie thing that I do know by her Const. Moreouer sir, which indeede is not vnder white and black, this plaintiffe here, the offendour did call mee asse, I beseech you let it be remembred in his punishment, and also the watch heard them talke of one Deformed, they say he weares a key in his eare and a lock hanging by it, and borrowes monie in Gods name, the which he hath vs'd so long, and neuer paied, that now men grow hard-harted and will lend nothing for Gods sake: praie you examine him vpon that point Leon. I thanke thee for thy care and honest paines Const. Your worship speakes like a most thankefull and reuerend youth, and I praise God for you Leon. There's for thy paines Const. God saue the foundation Leon. Goe, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thanke thee Const. I leaue an arrant knaue with your worship, which I beseech your worship to correct your selfe, for the example of others: God keepe your worship, I wish your worship well, God restore you to health, I humblie giue you leaue to depart, and if a merrie meeting may be wisht, God prohibite it: come neighbour Leon. Vntill to morrow morning, Lords, farewell. Exeunt. Brot. Farewell my Lords, we looke for you to morrow Prin. We will not faile Clau. To night ile mourne with Hero Leon. Bring you these fellowes on, weel talke with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. Exeunt. ----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- Scene 2. Enter Benedicke and Margaret. Ben. Praie thee sweete Mistris Margaret, deserue well at my hands, by helping mee to the speech of Beatrice Mar. Will you then write me a Sonnet in praise of my beautie? Bene. In so high a stile Margaret, that no man liuing shall come ouer it, for in most comely truth thou deseruest it Mar. To haue no man come ouer me, why, shall I alwaies keepe below staires? Bene. Thy wit is as quicke as the grey-hounds mouth, it catches Mar. And yours, as blunt as the Fencers foiles, which hit, but hurt not Bene. A most manly wit Margaret, it will not hurt a woman: and so I pray thee call Beatrice, I giue thee the bucklers Mar. Giue vs the swords, wee haue bucklers of our owne Bene. If you vse them Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for Maides Mar. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I thinke hath legges. Exit Margarite. Ben. And therefore will come. The God of loue that sits aboue, and knowes me, and knowes me, how pittifull I deserue. I meane in singing, but in louing, Leander the good swimmer, Troilous the first imploier of pandars, and a whole booke full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose name yet runne smoothly in the euen rode of a blanke verse, why they were neuer so truely turned ouer and ouer as my poore selfe in loue: marrie I cannot shew it rime, I haue tried, I can finde out no rime to Ladie but babie, an innocent rime: for scorne, horne, a hard rime: for schoole foole, a babling rime: verie ominous endings, no, I was not borne vnder a riming Plannet, for I cannot wooe in festiuall tearmes: Enter Beatrice. sweete Beatrice would'st thou come when I cal'd thee? Beat. Yea Signior, and depart when you bid me Bene. O stay but till then Beat. Then, is spoken: fare you well now, and yet ere I goe, let me goe with that I came, which is, with knowing what hath past betweene you and Claudio Bene. Onely foule words, and thereupon I will kisse thee Beat. Foule words is but foule wind, and foule wind is but foule breath, and foule breath is noisome, therefore I will depart vnkist Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sence, so forcible is thy wit, but I must tell thee plainely, Claudio vndergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly heare from him, or I will subscribe him a coward, and I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in loue with me? Beat. For them all together, which maintain'd so politique a state of euill, that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them: but for which of my good parts did you first suffer loue for me? Bene. Suffer loue! a good epithite, I do suffer loue indeede, for I loue thee against my will, Beat. In spight of your heart I think, alas poore heart, if you spight it for my sake, I will spight it for yours, for I will neuer loue that which my friend hates Bened. Thou and I are too wise to wooe peaceablie Bea. It appeares not in this confession, there's not one wise man among twentie that will praise himselfe Bene. An old, an old instance Beatrice, that liu'd in the time of good neighbours, if a man doe not erect in this age his owne tombe ere he dies, hee shall liue no longer in monuments, then the Bels ring, & the Widdow weepes Beat. And how long is that thinke you? Ben. Question, why an hower in clamour and a quarter in rhewme, therfore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don worme (his conscience) finde no impediment to the contrarie, to be the trumpet of his owne vertues, as I am to my selfe so much for praising my selfe, who I my selfe will beare witnesse is praise worthie, and now tell me, how doth your cosin? Beat. Verie ill Bene. And how doe you? Beat. Verie ill too. Enter Vrsula. Bene. Serue God, loue me, and mend, there will I leaue you too, for here comes one in haste Vrs. Madam, you must come to your Vncle, yonders old coile at home, it is prooued my Ladie Hero hath bin falselie accusde, the Prince and Claudio mightilie abusde, and Don Iohn is the author of all, who is fled and gone: will you come presentlie? Beat. Will you go heare this newes Signior? Bene. I will liue in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eies: and moreouer, I will goe with thee to thy Vncles. Exeunt. ----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- Scene 3. Enter Claudio, Prince, and three or foure with Tapers. Clau. Is this the monument of Leonato? Lord. It is my Lord. Epitaph. Done to death by slanderous tongues, Was the Hero that here lies: Death in guerdon of her wrongs, Giues her fame which neuer dies: So the life that dyed with shame, Liues in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there vpon the tombe, Praising her when I am dombe Clau. Now musick sound & sing your solemn hymne Song. Pardon goddesse of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight, For the which with songs of woe, Round about her tombe they goe: Midnight assist our mone, helpe vs to sigh and grone. Heauily, heauily. Graues yawne and yeelde your dead, Till death be vttered, Heauenly, heauenly Lo. Now vnto thy bones good night, yeerely will I do this right Prin. Good morrow masters, put your Torches out, The wolues haue preied, and looke, the gentle day Before the wheeles of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsie East with spots of grey: Thanks to you all, and leaue vs, fare you well Clau. Good morrow masters, each his seuerall way Prin. Come let vs hence, and put on other weedes, And then to Leonatoes we will goe Clau. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds, Then this for whom we rendred vp this woe. Exeunt. ----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- Scene 4. Enter Leonato, Bene. Marg. Vrsula, old man, Frier, Hero. Frier. Did I not tell you she was innocent? Leo. So are the Prince and Claudio who accus'd her, Vpon the errour that you heard debated: But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will as it appeares, In the true course of all the question Old. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it Leo. Well daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by your selues, And when I send for you, come hither mask'd: The Prince and Claudio promis'd by this howre To visit me, you know your office Brother, You must be father to your brothers daughter, And giue her to young Claudio. Exeunt. Ladies. Old. Which I will doe with confirm'd countenance Bene. Frier, I must intreat your paines, I thinke Frier. To doe what Signior? Bene. To binde me, or vndoe me, one of them: Signior Leonato, truth it is good Signior, Your neece regards me with an eye of fauour Leo. That eye my daughter lent her, 'tis most true Bene. And I doe with an eye of loue requite her Leo. The sight whereof I thinke you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince, but what's your will? Bened. Your answer sir is Enigmaticall, But for my will, my will is, your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conioyn'd, In the state of honourable marriage, In which (good Frier) I shall desire your helpe Leon. My heart is with your liking Frier. And my helpe. Enter Prince and Claudio, with attendants. Prin. Good morrow to this faire assembly Leo. Good morrow Prince, good morrow Claudio: We heere attend you, are you yet determin'd, To day to marry with my brothers daughter? Claud. Ile hold my minde were she an Ethiope Leo. Call her forth brother, heres the Frier ready Prin. Good morrow Benedicke, why what's the matter? That you haue such a Februarie face, So full of frost, of storme, and clowdinesse Claud. I thinke he thinkes vpon the sauage bull: Tush, feare not man, wee'll tip thy hornes with gold, And all Europa shall reioyce at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Ioue, When he would play the noble beast in loue Ben. Bull Ioue sir, had an amiable low, And some such strange bull leapt your fathers Cow, A got a Calfe in that same noble feat, Much like to you, for you haue iust his bleat. Enter brother, Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, Vrsula. Cla. For this I owe you: here comes other recknings. Which is the Lady I must seize vpon? Leo. This same is she, and I doe giue you her Cla. Why then she's mine, sweet let me see your face Leon. No that you shal not, till you take her hand, Before this Frier, and sweare to marry her Clau. Giue me your hand before this holy Frier, I am your husband if you like of me Hero. And when I liu'd I was your other wife, And when you lou'd, you were my other husband Clau. Another Hero? Hero. Nothing certainer. One Hero died, but I doe liue, And surely as I liue, I am a maid Prin. The former Hero, Hero that is dead Leon. Shee died my Lord, but whiles her slander liu'd Frier. All this amazement can I qualifie, When after that the holy rites are ended, Ile tell you largely of faire Heroes death: Meane time let wonder seeme familiar, And to the chappell let vs presently Ben. Soft and faire Frier, which is Beatrice? Beat. I answer to that name, what is your will? Bene. Doe not you loue me? Beat. Why no, no more then reason Bene. Why then your Vncle, and the Prince, & Claudio, haue beene deceiued, they swore you did Beat. Doe not you loue mee? Bene. Troth no, no more then reason Beat. Why then my Cosin Margaret and Vrsula Are much deceiu'd, for they did sweare you did Bene. They swore you were almost sicke for me Beat. They swore you were wel-nye dead for me Bene. 'Tis no matter, then you doe not loue me? Beat. No truly, but in friendly recompence Leon. Come Cosin, I am sure you loue the gentlema[n] Clau. And Ile be sworne vpon't, that he loues her, For heres a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his owne pure braine, Fashioned to Beatrice Hero. And heeres another, Writ in my cosins hand, stolne from her pocket, Containing her affection vnto Benedicke Bene. A miracle, here's our owne hands against our hearts: come I will haue thee, but by this light I take thee for pittie Beat. I would not denie you, but by this good day, I yeeld vpon great perswasion, & partly to saue your life, for I was told, you were in a consumption Leon. Peace I will stop your mouth Prin. How dost thou Benedicke the married man? Bene. Ile tell thee what Prince: a Colledge of witte-crackers cannot flout mee out of my humour, dost thou think I care for a Satyre or an Epigram? no, if a man will be beaten with braines, a shall weare nothing handsome about him: in briefe, since I do purpose to marry, I will thinke nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it, and therefore neuer flout at me, for I haue said against it: for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion: for thy part Claudio, I did thinke to haue beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, liue vnbruis'd, and loue my cousin Cla. I had well hop'd y wouldst haue denied Beatrice, y I might haue cudgel'd thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double dealer, which out of questio[n] thou wilt be, if my Cousin do not looke exceeding narrowly to thee Bene. Come, come, we are friends, let's haue a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts, and our wiues heeles Leon. Wee'll haue dancing afterward Bene. First, of my word, therfore play musick. Prince, thou art sad, get thee a wife, get thee a wife, there is no staff more reuerend then one tipt with horn. Enter. Mes. Messen. My Lord, your brother Iohn is tane in flight, And brought with armed men backe to Messina Bene. Thinke not on him till to morrow, ile deuise thee braue punishments for him: strike vp Pipers. Dance. FINIS. Much adoe about Nothing.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 5 scene 2 using the context provided.

act 5, scenes 3-4|act 5 scene 1|act 5 scene 2|act 5 scene 3

At the Palace of Westminster in London, Warwick meets the Lord Chief Justice and informs him that the King has died. The Chief Justice fears what may happen in the reign of Henry V. He is also concerned about his own position, since he once imprisoned Prince Henry for striking him . . Prince John, Clarence, and Gloucester, the three other sons of Henry IV, enter. Warwick and the Chief Justice continue discussing their fears that the new Henry V is not fit to rule. Prince John and Clarence speak to the Chief Justice, reminding him of the difficult situation he is in. They tell him that he is going to have to treat Falstaff well, since Falstaff is known as a companion of the new King. . Henry V enters. He promises his brothers that he will be their father as well as their brother. He asks for their love, and says he will bear their cares. The brothers respond affirmatively, but the King thinks he sees in their facial expressions that they have no love for him. . He turns to the Chief Justice, who says that the King has no cause to hate him. The King appears to dispute this, reminding the Chief Justice of how the Justice imprisoned him, and suggesting that this is not something that can easily be forgotten. The Chief Justice defends himself by saying that he acted in the name of the King, to uphold law and justice. Henry V accepts this argument, praises the Chief Justice, and allows him to continue in his position. He asks him to uphold the law with the same impartial spirit that he used when he committed, him, the then-Prince, to prison. He promises to consult him and follow his advice. . Henry V then turns to his brothers and promises that he will not be the kind of king the world is expecting. He will put his youthful vanity aside and become worthy of the office he holds, selecting his counselors wisely. .

----------ACT 5, SCENES 3-4--------- Scene 3. Enter Claudio, Prince, and three or foure with Tapers. Clau. Is this the monument of Leonato? Lord. It is my Lord. Epitaph. Done to death by slanderous tongues, Was the Hero that here lies: Death in guerdon of her wrongs, Giues her fame which neuer dies: So the life that dyed with shame, Liues in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there vpon the tombe, Praising her when I am dombe Clau. Now musick sound & sing your solemn hymne Song. Pardon goddesse of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight, For the which with songs of woe, Round about her tombe they goe: Midnight assist our mone, helpe vs to sigh and grone. Heauily, heauily. Graues yawne and yeelde your dead, Till death be vttered, Heauenly, heauenly Lo. Now vnto thy bones good night, yeerely will I do this right Prin. Good morrow masters, put your Torches out, The wolues haue preied, and looke, the gentle day Before the wheeles of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsie East with spots of grey: Thanks to you all, and leaue vs, fare you well Clau. Good morrow masters, each his seuerall way Prin. Come let vs hence, and put on other weedes, And then to Leonatoes we will goe Clau. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds, Then this for whom we rendred vp this woe. Exeunt. Scene 4. Enter Leonato, Bene. Marg. Vrsula, old man, Frier, Hero. Frier. Did I not tell you she was innocent? Leo. So are the Prince and Claudio who accus'd her, Vpon the errour that you heard debated: But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will as it appeares, In the true course of all the question Old. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it Leo. Well daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by your selues, And when I send for you, come hither mask'd: The Prince and Claudio promis'd by this howre To visit me, you know your office Brother, You must be father to your brothers daughter, And giue her to young Claudio. Exeunt. Ladies. Old. Which I will doe with confirm'd countenance Bene. Frier, I must intreat your paines, I thinke Frier. To doe what Signior? Bene. To binde me, or vndoe me, one of them: Signior Leonato, truth it is good Signior, Your neece regards me with an eye of fauour Leo. That eye my daughter lent her, 'tis most true Bene. And I doe with an eye of loue requite her Leo. The sight whereof I thinke you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince, but what's your will? Bened. Your answer sir is Enigmaticall, But for my will, my will is, your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conioyn'd, In the state of honourable marriage, In which (good Frier) I shall desire your helpe Leon. My heart is with your liking Frier. And my helpe. Enter Prince and Claudio, with attendants. Prin. Good morrow to this faire assembly Leo. Good morrow Prince, good morrow Claudio: We heere attend you, are you yet determin'd, To day to marry with my brothers daughter? Claud. Ile hold my minde were she an Ethiope Leo. Call her forth brother, heres the Frier ready Prin. Good morrow Benedicke, why what's the matter? That you haue such a Februarie face, So full of frost, of storme, and clowdinesse Claud. I thinke he thinkes vpon the sauage bull: Tush, feare not man, wee'll tip thy hornes with gold, And all Europa shall reioyce at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Ioue, When he would play the noble beast in loue Ben. Bull Ioue sir, had an amiable low, And some such strange bull leapt your fathers Cow, A got a Calfe in that same noble feat, Much like to you, for you haue iust his bleat. Enter brother, Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, Vrsula. Cla. For this I owe you: here comes other recknings. Which is the Lady I must seize vpon? Leo. This same is she, and I doe giue you her Cla. Why then she's mine, sweet let me see your face Leon. No that you shal not, till you take her hand, Before this Frier, and sweare to marry her Clau. Giue me your hand before this holy Frier, I am your husband if you like of me Hero. And when I liu'd I was your other wife, And when you lou'd, you were my other husband Clau. Another Hero? Hero. Nothing certainer. One Hero died, but I doe liue, And surely as I liue, I am a maid Prin. The former Hero, Hero that is dead Leon. Shee died my Lord, but whiles her slander liu'd Frier. All this amazement can I qualifie, When after that the holy rites are ended, Ile tell you largely of faire Heroes death: Meane time let wonder seeme familiar, And to the chappell let vs presently Ben. Soft and faire Frier, which is Beatrice? Beat. I answer to that name, what is your will? Bene. Doe not you loue me? Beat. Why no, no more then reason Bene. Why then your Vncle, and the Prince, & Claudio, haue beene deceiued, they swore you did Beat. Doe not you loue mee? Bene. Troth no, no more then reason Beat. Why then my Cosin Margaret and Vrsula Are much deceiu'd, for they did sweare you did Bene. They swore you were almost sicke for me Beat. They swore you were wel-nye dead for me Bene. 'Tis no matter, then you doe not loue me? Beat. No truly, but in friendly recompence Leon. Come Cosin, I am sure you loue the gentlema[n] Clau. And Ile be sworne vpon't, that he loues her, For heres a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his owne pure braine, Fashioned to Beatrice Hero. And heeres another, Writ in my cosins hand, stolne from her pocket, Containing her affection vnto Benedicke Bene. A miracle, here's our owne hands against our hearts: come I will haue thee, but by this light I take thee for pittie Beat. I would not denie you, but by this good day, I yeeld vpon great perswasion, & partly to saue your life, for I was told, you were in a consumption Leon. Peace I will stop your mouth Prin. How dost thou Benedicke the married man? Bene. Ile tell thee what Prince: a Colledge of witte-crackers cannot flout mee out of my humour, dost thou think I care for a Satyre or an Epigram? no, if a man will be beaten with braines, a shall weare nothing handsome about him: in briefe, since I do purpose to marry, I will thinke nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it, and therefore neuer flout at me, for I haue said against it: for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion: for thy part Claudio, I did thinke to haue beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, liue vnbruis'd, and loue my cousin Cla. I had well hop'd y wouldst haue denied Beatrice, y I might haue cudgel'd thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double dealer, which out of questio[n] thou wilt be, if my Cousin do not looke exceeding narrowly to thee Bene. Come, come, we are friends, let's haue a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts, and our wiues heeles Leon. Wee'll haue dancing afterward Bene. First, of my word, therfore play musick. Prince, thou art sad, get thee a wife, get thee a wife, there is no staff more reuerend then one tipt with horn. Enter. Mes. Messen. My Lord, your brother Iohn is tane in flight, And brought with armed men backe to Messina Bene. Thinke not on him till to morrow, ile deuise thee braue punishments for him: strike vp Pipers. Dance. FINIS. Much adoe about Nothing. ----------ACT 5 SCENE 1--------- Actus Quintus. Scene 1. Enter Leonato and his brother. Brother. If you goe on thus, you will kill your selfe, And 'tis not wisedome thus to second griefe, Against your selfe Leon. I pray thee cease thy counsaile, Which falls into mine eares as profitlesse, As water in a siue: giue not me counsaile, Nor let no comfort delight mine eare, But such a one whose wrongs doth sute with mine. Bring me a father that so lou'd his childe, Whose ioy of her is ouer-whelmed like mine, And bid him speake of patience, Measure his woe the length and bredth of mine, And let it answere euery straine for straine, As thus for thus, and such a griefe for such, In euery lineament, branch, shape, and forme: If such a one will smile and stroke his beard, And sorrow, wagge, crie hem, when he should grone, Patch griefe with prouerbs, make misfortune drunke, With candle-wasters: bring him yet to me, And I of him will gather patience: But there is no such man, for brother, men Can counsaile, and speake comfort to that griefe, Which they themselues not feele, but tasting it, Their counsaile turnes to passion, which before, Would giue preceptiall medicine to rage, Fetter strong madnesse in a silken thred, Charme ache with ayre, and agony with words, No, no, 'tis all mens office, to speake patience To those that wring vnder the load of sorrow: But no mans vertue nor sufficiencie To be so morall, when he shall endure The like himselfe: therefore giue me no counsaile, My griefs cry lowder then aduertisement Broth. Therein do men from children nothing differ Leonato. I pray thee peace, I will be flesh and bloud, For there was neuer yet Philosopher, That could endure the tooth-ake patiently, How euer they haue writ the stile of gods, And made a push at chance and sufferance Brother. Yet bend not all the harme vpon your selfe, Make those that doe offend you, suffer too Leon. There thou speak'st reason, nay I will doe so, My soule doth tell me, Hero is belied, And that shall Claudio know, so shall the Prince, And all of them that thus dishonour her. Enter Prince and Claudio. Brot. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily Prin. Good den, good den Clau. Good day to both of you Leon. Heare you my Lords? Prin. We haue some haste Leonato Leo. Some haste my Lord! wel, fareyouwel my Lord, Are you so hasty now? well, all is one Prin. Nay, do not quarrel with vs, good old man Brot. If he could rite himselfe with quarrelling, Some of vs would lie low Claud. Who wrongs him? Leon. Marry y dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou: Nay, neuer lay thy hand vpon thy sword, I feare thee not Claud. Marry beshrew my hand, If it should giue your age such cause of feare, Infaith my hand meant nothing to my sword Leonato. Tush, tush, man, neuer fleere and iest at me, I speake not like a dotard, nor a foole, As vnder priuiledge of age to bragge, What I haue done being yong, or what would doe, Were I not old, know Claudio to thy head, Thou hast so wrong'd my innocent childe and me, That I am forc'd to lay my reuerence by, And with grey haires and bruise of many daies, Doe challenge thee to triall of a man, I say thou hast belied mine innocent childe. Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, And she lies buried with her ancestors: O in a tombe where neuer scandall slept, Saue this of hers, fram'd by thy villanie Claud. My villany? Leonato. Thine Claudio, thine I say Prin. You say not right old man Leon. My Lord, my Lord, Ile proue it on his body if he dare, Despight his nice fence, and his actiue practise, His Maie of youth, and bloome of lustihood Claud. Away, I will not haue to do with you Leo. Canst thou so daffe me? thou hast kild my child, If thou kilst me, boy, thou shalt kill a man Bro. He shall kill two of vs, and men indeed, But that's no matter, let him kill one first: Win me and weare me, let him answere me, Come follow me boy, come sir boy, come follow me Sir boy, ile whip you from your foyning fence, Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will Leon. Brother Brot. Content your self, God knows I lou'd my neece, And she is dead, slander'd to death by villaines, That dare as well answer a man indeede, As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. Boyes, apes, braggarts, Iackes, milke-sops Leon. Brother Anthony Brot. Hold you content, what man? I know them, yea And what they weigh, euen to the vtmost scruple, Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boyes, That lye, and cog, and flout, depraue, and slander, Goe antiquely, and show outward hidiousnesse, And speake of halfe a dozen dang'rous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst. And this is all Leon. But brother Anthonie Ant. Come, 'tis no matter, Do not you meddle, let me deale in this Pri. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience My heart is sorry for your daughters death: But on my honour she was charg'd with nothing But what was true, and very full of proofe Leon. My Lord, my Lord Prin. I will not heare you. Enter Benedicke. Leo. No come brother, away, I will be heard. Exeunt. ambo. Bro. And shall, or some of vs will smart for it Prin. See, see, here comes the man we went to seeke Clau. Now signior, what newes? Ben. Good day my Lord Prin. Welcome signior, you are almost come to part almost a fray Clau. Wee had likt to haue had our two noses snapt off with two old men without teeth Prin. Leonato and his brother, what think'st thou? had wee fought, I doubt we should haue beene too yong for them Ben. In a false quarrell there is no true valour, I came to seeke you both Clau. We haue beene vp and downe to seeke thee, for we are high proofe melancholly, and would faine haue it beaten away, wilt thou vse thy wit? Ben. It is in my scabberd, shall I draw it? Prin. Doest thou weare thy wit by thy side? Clau. Neuer any did so, though verie many haue been beside their wit, I will bid thee drawe, as we do the minstrels, draw to pleasure vs Prin. As I am an honest man he lookes pale, art thou sicke, or angrie? Clau. What, courage man: what though care kil'd a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care Ben. Sir, I shall meete your wit in the careere, and you charge it against me, I pray you chuse another subiect Clau. Nay then giue him another staffe, this last was broke crosse Prin. By this light, he changes more and more, I thinke he be angrie indeede Clau. If he be, he knowes how to turne his girdle Ben. Shall I speake a word in your eare? Clau. God blesse me from a challenge Ben. You are a villaine, I iest not, I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare: do me right, or I will protest your cowardise: you haue kill'd a sweete Ladie, and her death shall fall heauie on you, let me heare from you Clau. Well, I will meete you, so I may haue good cheare Prin. What, a feast, a feast? Clau. I faith I thanke him, he hath bid me to a calues head and a Capon, the which if I doe not carue most curiously, say my knife's naught, shall I not finde a woodcocke too? Ben. Sir, your wit ambles well, it goes easily Prin. Ile tell thee how Beatrice prais'd thy wit the other day: I said thou hadst a fine wit: true saies she, a fine little one: no said I, a great wit: right saies shee, a great grosse one: nay said I, a good wit: iust said she, it hurts no body: nay said I, the gentleman is wise: certaine said she, a wise gentleman: nay said I, he hath the tongues: that I beleeue said shee, for hee swore a thing to me on munday night, which he forswore on tuesday morning: there's a double tongue, there's two tongues: thus did shee an howre together trans-shape thy particular vertues, yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the proprest man in Italie Claud. For the which she wept heartily, and said shee car'd not Prin. Yea that she did, but yet for all that, and if shee did not hate him deadlie, shee would loue him dearely, the old mans daughter told vs all Clau. All, all, and moreouer, God saw him when he was hid in the garden Prin. But when shall we set the sauage Bulls hornes on the sensible Benedicks head? Clau. Yea and text vnderneath, heere dwells Benedicke the married man Ben. Fare you well, Boy, you know my minde, I will leaue you now to your gossep-like humor, you breake iests as braggards do their blades, which God be thanked hurt not: my Lord, for your manie courtesies I thank you, I must discontinue your companie, your brother the Bastard is fled from Messina: you haue among you, kill'd a sweet and innocent Ladie: for my Lord Lackebeard there, he and I shall meete, and till then peace be with him Prin. He is in earnest Clau. In most profound earnest, and Ile warrant you, for the loue of Beatrice Prin. And hath challeng'd thee Clau. Most sincerely Prin. What a prettie thing man is, when he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaues off his wit. Enter Constable, Conrade, and Borachio. Clau. He is then a Giant to an Ape, but then is an Ape a Doctor to such a man Prin. But soft you, let me be, plucke vp my heart, and be sad, did he not say my brother was fled? Const. Come you sir, if iustice cannot tame you, shee shall nere weigh more reasons in her ballance, nay, and you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be lookt to Prin. How now, two of my brothers men bound? Borachio one Clau. Harken after their offence my Lord Prin. Officers, what offence haue these men done? Const. Marrie sir, they haue committed false report, moreouer they haue spoken vntruths, secondarily they are slanders, sixt and lastly, they haue belyed a Ladie, thirdly, they haue verified vniust things, and to conclude they are lying knaues Prin. First I aske thee what they haue done, thirdlie I aske thee what's their offence, sixt and lastlie why they are committed, and to conclude, what you lay to their charge Clau. Rightlie reasoned, and in his owne diuision, and by my troth there's one meaning well suted Prin. Who haue you offended masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? this learned Constable is too cunning to be vnderstood, what's your offence? Bor. Sweete Prince, let me go no farther to mine answere: do you heare me, and let this Count kill mee: I haue deceiued euen your verie eies: what your wisedomes could not discouer, these shallow fooles haue brought to light, who in the night ouerheard me confessing to this man, how Don Iohn your brother incensed me to slander the Ladie Hero, how you were brought into the Orchard, and saw me court Margaret in Heroes garments, how you disgrac'd her when you should marrie her: my villanie they haue vpon record, which I had rather seale with my death, then repeate ouer to my shame: the Ladie is dead vpon mine and my masters false accusation: and briefelie, I desire nothing but the reward of a villaine Prin. Runs not this speech like yron through your bloud? Clau. I haue drunke poison whiles he vtter'd it Prin. But did my Brother set thee on to this? Bor. Yea, and paid me richly for the practise of it Prin. He is compos'd and fram'd of treacherie, And fled he is vpon this villanie Clau. Sweet Hero, now thy image doth appeare In the rare semblance that I lou'd it first Const. Come, bring away the plaintiffes, by this time our Sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter: and masters, do not forget to specifie when time & place shall serue, that I am an Asse Con.2. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and the Sexton too. Enter Leonato. Leon. Which is the villaine? let me see his eies, That when I note another man like him, I may auoide him: which of these is he? Bor. If you would know your wronger, looke on me Leon. Art thou the slaue that with thy breath hast kild mine innocent childe? Bor. Yea, euen I alone Leo. No, not so villaine, thou beliest thy selfe, Here stand a paire of honourable men, A third is fled that had a hand in it: I thanke you Princes for my daughters death, Record it with your high and worthie deedes, 'Twas brauely done, if you bethinke you of it Clau. I know not how to pray your patience, Yet I must speake, choose your reuenge your selfe, Impose me to what penance your inuention Can lay vpon my sinne, yet sinn'd I not, But in mistaking Prin. By my soule nor I, And yet to satisfie this good old man, I would bend vnder anie heauie waight, That heele enioyne me to Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter liue, That were impossible, but I praie you both, Possesse the people in Messina here, How innocent she died, and if your loue Can labour aught in sad inuention, Hang her an epitaph vpon her toomb, And sing it to her bones, sing it to night: To morrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my sonne in law, Be yet my Nephew: my brother hath a daughter, Almost the copie of my childe that's dead, And she alone is heire to both of vs, Giue her the right you should haue giu'n her cosin, And so dies my reuenge Clau. O noble sir! Your ouerkindnesse doth wring teares from me, I do embrace your offer, and dispose For henceforth of poore Claudio Leon. To morrow then I will expect your comming, To night I take my leaue, this naughtie man Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, Who I beleeue was packt in all this wrong, Hired to it by your brother Bor. No, by my soule she was not, Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me, But alwaies hath bin iust and vertuous, In anie thing that I do know by her Const. Moreouer sir, which indeede is not vnder white and black, this plaintiffe here, the offendour did call mee asse, I beseech you let it be remembred in his punishment, and also the watch heard them talke of one Deformed, they say he weares a key in his eare and a lock hanging by it, and borrowes monie in Gods name, the which he hath vs'd so long, and neuer paied, that now men grow hard-harted and will lend nothing for Gods sake: praie you examine him vpon that point Leon. I thanke thee for thy care and honest paines Const. Your worship speakes like a most thankefull and reuerend youth, and I praise God for you Leon. There's for thy paines Const. God saue the foundation Leon. Goe, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thanke thee Const. I leaue an arrant knaue with your worship, which I beseech your worship to correct your selfe, for the example of others: God keepe your worship, I wish your worship well, God restore you to health, I humblie giue you leaue to depart, and if a merrie meeting may be wisht, God prohibite it: come neighbour Leon. Vntill to morrow morning, Lords, farewell. Exeunt. Brot. Farewell my Lords, we looke for you to morrow Prin. We will not faile Clau. To night ile mourne with Hero Leon. Bring you these fellowes on, weel talke with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. Exeunt. ----------ACT 5 SCENE 2--------- Scene 2. Enter Benedicke and Margaret. Ben. Praie thee sweete Mistris Margaret, deserue well at my hands, by helping mee to the speech of Beatrice Mar. Will you then write me a Sonnet in praise of my beautie? Bene. In so high a stile Margaret, that no man liuing shall come ouer it, for in most comely truth thou deseruest it Mar. To haue no man come ouer me, why, shall I alwaies keepe below staires? Bene. Thy wit is as quicke as the grey-hounds mouth, it catches Mar. And yours, as blunt as the Fencers foiles, which hit, but hurt not Bene. A most manly wit Margaret, it will not hurt a woman: and so I pray thee call Beatrice, I giue thee the bucklers Mar. Giue vs the swords, wee haue bucklers of our owne Bene. If you vse them Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for Maides Mar. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I thinke hath legges. Exit Margarite. Ben. And therefore will come. The God of loue that sits aboue, and knowes me, and knowes me, how pittifull I deserue. I meane in singing, but in louing, Leander the good swimmer, Troilous the first imploier of pandars, and a whole booke full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose name yet runne smoothly in the euen rode of a blanke verse, why they were neuer so truely turned ouer and ouer as my poore selfe in loue: marrie I cannot shew it rime, I haue tried, I can finde out no rime to Ladie but babie, an innocent rime: for scorne, horne, a hard rime: for schoole foole, a babling rime: verie ominous endings, no, I was not borne vnder a riming Plannet, for I cannot wooe in festiuall tearmes: Enter Beatrice. sweete Beatrice would'st thou come when I cal'd thee? Beat. Yea Signior, and depart when you bid me Bene. O stay but till then Beat. Then, is spoken: fare you well now, and yet ere I goe, let me goe with that I came, which is, with knowing what hath past betweene you and Claudio Bene. Onely foule words, and thereupon I will kisse thee Beat. Foule words is but foule wind, and foule wind is but foule breath, and foule breath is noisome, therefore I will depart vnkist Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sence, so forcible is thy wit, but I must tell thee plainely, Claudio vndergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly heare from him, or I will subscribe him a coward, and I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in loue with me? Beat. For them all together, which maintain'd so politique a state of euill, that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them: but for which of my good parts did you first suffer loue for me? Bene. Suffer loue! a good epithite, I do suffer loue indeede, for I loue thee against my will, Beat. In spight of your heart I think, alas poore heart, if you spight it for my sake, I will spight it for yours, for I will neuer loue that which my friend hates Bened. Thou and I are too wise to wooe peaceablie Bea. It appeares not in this confession, there's not one wise man among twentie that will praise himselfe Bene. An old, an old instance Beatrice, that liu'd in the time of good neighbours, if a man doe not erect in this age his owne tombe ere he dies, hee shall liue no longer in monuments, then the Bels ring, & the Widdow weepes Beat. And how long is that thinke you? Ben. Question, why an hower in clamour and a quarter in rhewme, therfore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don worme (his conscience) finde no impediment to the contrarie, to be the trumpet of his owne vertues, as I am to my selfe so much for praising my selfe, who I my selfe will beare witnesse is praise worthie, and now tell me, how doth your cosin? Beat. Verie ill Bene. And how doe you? Beat. Verie ill too. Enter Vrsula. Bene. Serue God, loue me, and mend, there will I leaue you too, for here comes one in haste Vrs. Madam, you must come to your Vncle, yonders old coile at home, it is prooued my Ladie Hero hath bin falselie accusde, the Prince and Claudio mightilie abusde, and Don Iohn is the author of all, who is fled and gone: will you come presentlie? Beat. Will you go heare this newes Signior? Bene. I will liue in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eies: and moreouer, I will goe with thee to thy Vncles. Exeunt. ----------ACT 5 SCENE 3--------- Scene 3. Enter Claudio, Prince, and three or foure with Tapers. Clau. Is this the monument of Leonato? Lord. It is my Lord. Epitaph. Done to death by slanderous tongues, Was the Hero that here lies: Death in guerdon of her wrongs, Giues her fame which neuer dies: So the life that dyed with shame, Liues in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there vpon the tombe, Praising her when I am dombe Clau. Now musick sound & sing your solemn hymne Song. Pardon goddesse of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight, For the which with songs of woe, Round about her tombe they goe: Midnight assist our mone, helpe vs to sigh and grone. Heauily, heauily. Graues yawne and yeelde your dead, Till death be vttered, Heauenly, heauenly Lo. Now vnto thy bones good night, yeerely will I do this right Prin. Good morrow masters, put your Torches out, The wolues haue preied, and looke, the gentle day Before the wheeles of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsie East with spots of grey: Thanks to you all, and leaue vs, fare you well Clau. Good morrow masters, each his seuerall way Prin. Come let vs hence, and put on other weedes, And then to Leonatoes we will goe Clau. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds, Then this for whom we rendred vp this woe. Exeunt.

Henry IV Part 2.act iii.s

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act iii, scene i based on the provided context.

In this scene, King Henry IV is in his palace at Westminster. It is the middle of the night and he is in his nightgown, but he is still awake and working on the paperwork of the war. When he is left alone, King Henry begins to talk to himself and the audience. He says that he has extremely bad insomnia and that these days he cannot sleep at all. Bitterly, he realizes that even the poorest of his subjects can sleep at night in their tattered beds, but he, the wealthy king, is too weighed down by worry, remorse, and anxiety to be able to do so. He concludes that people in positions of power are usually less happy and carefree than the poor and simple. The Earl of Warwick and the Earl of Surrey, to whom the King sent messages at the beginning of the scene, enter and interrupt him in his reverie . The three discuss the nation's current state of affairs: they know that the Earl of Northumberland is considering waging war against them. The king muses about how swiftly time flows, the years turn, and people change. Less than ten years ago, Northumberland was a good friend of King Richard II, the king who reigned before Henry IV. Eight years ago, Northumberland turned against Richard and helped Henry take the throne from him. And now, Northumberland has turned against Henry himself. King Richard had prophesied that this would happen, and King Henry is now disturbed at the realization that Richard had been right. Warwick, however, points out to the king that Richard had simply guessed that Northumberland would prove a traitor because he had already betrayed Richard. King Henry agrees, and the conversation turns to the course of the war. There is a rumor that the rebels have fifty thousand men, but Warwick is sure that these are merely rumors and that the rebels have no more than half that number. Moreover, he has good news from the west: Owen Glendower, the leader of the rebellious Welsh guerrilla fighters, is dead, so the king will be able to focus his efforts on the English rebels. Since the king has been growing sicker lately, the lords urge him to go to bed. King Henry, regretting once again that this war has prevented him from joining the Crusades in Jerusalem, agrees.

----------ACT III, SCENE I--------- Actus Tertius. Scene 1. Enter Hero and two Gentlemen, Margaret, and Vrsula. Hero. Good Margaret runne thee to the parlour, There shalt thou finde my Cosin Beatrice, Proposing with the Prince and Claudio, Whisper her eare, and tell her I and Vrsula, Walke in the Orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her, say that thou ouer-heardst vs, And bid her steale into the pleached bower, Where hony-suckles ripened by the sunne, Forbid the sunne to enter: like fauourites, Made proud by Princes, that aduance their pride, Against that power that bred it, there will she hide her, To listen our purpose, this is thy office, Beare thee well in it, and leaue vs alone Marg. Ile make her come I warrant you presently Hero. Now Vrsula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley vp and downe, Our talke must onely be of Benedicke, When I doe name him, let it be thy part, To praise him more then euer man did merit, My talke to thee must be how Benedicke Is sicke in loue with Beatrice; of this matter, Is little Cupids crafty arrow made, That onely wounds by heare-say: now begin, Enter Beatrice. For looke where Beatrice like a Lapwing runs Close by the ground, to heare our conference Vrs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden ores the siluer streame, And greedily deuoure the treacherous baite: So angle we for Beatrice, who euen now, Is couched in the wood-bine couerture, Feare you not my part of the Dialogue Her. Then go we neare her that her eare loose nothing, Of the false sweete baite that we lay for it: No truely Vrsula, she is too disdainfull, I know her spirits are as coy and wilde, As Haggerds of the rocke Vrsula. But are you sure, That Benedicke loues Beatrice so intirely? Her. So saies the Prince, and my new trothed Lord Vrs. And did they bid you tell her of it, Madam? Her. They did intreate me to acquaint her of it, But I perswaded them, if they lou'd Benedicke, To wish him wrastle with affection, And neuer to let Beatrice know of it Vrsula. Why did you so, doth not the Gentleman Deserue as full as fortunate a bed, As euer Beatrice shall couch vpon? Hero. O God of loue! I know he doth deserue, As much as may be yeelded to a man: But Nature neuer fram'd a womans heart, Of prowder stuffe then that of Beatrice: Disdaine and Scorne ride sparkling in her eyes, Mis-prizing what they looke on, and her wit Values it selfe so highly, that to her All matter else seemes weake: she cannot loue, Nor take no shape nor proiect of affection, Shee is so selfe indeared Vrsula. Sure I thinke so, And therefore certainely it were not good She knew his loue, lest she make sport at it Hero. Why you speake truth, I neuer yet saw man, How wise, how noble, yong, how rarely featur'd. But she would spell him backward: if faire fac'd, She would sweare the gentleman should be her sister: If blacke, why Nature drawing of an anticke, Made a foule blot: if tall, a launce ill headed: If low, an agot very vildlie cut: If speaking, why a vane blowne with all windes: If silent, why a blocke moued with none. So turnes she euery man the wrong side out, And neuer giues to Truth and Vertue, that Which simplenesse and merit purchaseth Vrsu. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable Hero. No, not to be so odde, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable, But who dare tell her so? if I should speake, She would mocke me into ayre, O she would laugh me Out of my selfe, presse me to death with wit, Therefore let Benedicke like couered fire, Consume away in sighes, waste inwardly: It were a better death, to die with mockes, Which is as bad as die with tickling Vrsu. Yet tell her of it, heare what shee will say Hero. No, rather I will goe to Benedicke, And counsaile him to fight against his passion, And truly Ile deuise some honest slanders, To staine my cosin with, one doth not know, How much an ill word may impoison liking Vrsu. O doe not doe your cosin such a wrong, She cannot be so much without true iudgement, Hauing so swift and excellent a wit As she is prisde to haue, as to refuse So rare a Gentleman as signior Benedicke Hero. He is the onely man of Italy, Alwaies excepted, my deare Claudio Vrsu. I pray you be not angry with me, Madame, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedicke, For shape, for bearing argument and valour, Goes formost in report through Italy Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent good name Vrsu. His excellence did earne it ere he had it: When are you married Madame? Hero. Why euerie day to morrow, come goe in, Ile shew thee some attires, and haue thy counsell, Which is the best to furnish me to morrow Vrsu. Shee's tane I warrant you, We haue caught her Madame? Hero. If it proue so, then louing goes by haps, Some Cupid kills with arrowes, some with traps. Enter. Beat. What fire is in mine eares? can this be true? Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorne so much? Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adew, No glory liues behinde the backe of such. And Benedicke, loue on, I will requite thee, Taming my wilde heart to thy louing hand: If thou dost loue, my kindnesse shall incite thee To binde our loues vp in a holy band. For others say thou dost deserue, and I Beleeue it better then reportingly. Enter. ----------ACT III, SCENE II--------- Scene 2. Enter Prince, Claudio, Benedicke, and Leonato. Prince. I doe but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon Clau. Ile bring you thither my Lord, if you'l vouchsafe me Prin. Nay, that would be as great a soyle in the new glosse of your marriage, as to shew a childe his new coat and forbid him to weare it, I will onely bee bold with Benedicke for his companie, for from the crowne of his head, to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth, he hath twice or thrice cut Cupids bow-string, and the little hang-man dare not shoot at him, he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinkes, his tongue speakes Bene. Gallants, I am not as I haue bin Leo. So say I, methinkes you are sadder Claud. I hope he be in loue Prin. Hang him truant, there's no true drop of bloud in him to be truly toucht with loue, if he be sad, he wants money Bene. I haue the tooth-ach Prin. Draw it Bene. Hang it Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards Prin. What? sigh for the tooth-ach Leon. Where is but a humour or a worme Bene. Well, euery one cannot master a griefe, but hee that has it Clau. Yet say I, he is in loue Prin. There is no appearance of fancie in him, vnlesse it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises, as to bee a Dutchman to day, a Frenchman to morrow: vnlesse hee haue a fancy to this foolery, as it appeares hee hath, hee is no foole for fancy, as you would haue it to appeare he is Clau. If he be not in loue with some woman, there is no beleeuing old signes, a brushes his hat a mornings, What should that bode? Prin. Hath any man seene him at the Barbers? Clau. No, but the Barbers man hath beene seen with him, and the olde ornament of his cheeke hath alreadie stuft tennis balls Leon. Indeed he lookes yonger than hee did, by the losse of a beard Prin. Nay a rubs himselfe with Ciuit, can you smell him out by that? Clau. That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in loue Prin. The greatest note of it is his melancholy Clau. And when was he wont to wash his face? Prin. Yea, or to paint himselfe? for the which I heare what they say of him Clau. Nay, but his iesting spirit, which is now crept into a lute-string, and now gouern'd by stops Prin. Indeed that tels a heauy tale for him: conclude, he is in loue Clau. Nay, but I know who loues him Prince. That would I know too, I warrant one that knowes him not Cla. Yes, and his ill conditions, and in despight of all, dies for him Prin. Shee shall be buried with her face vpwards Bene. Yet is this no charme for the tooth-ake, old signior, walke aside with mee, I haue studied eight or nine wise words to speake to you, which these hobby-horses must not heare Prin. For my life to breake with him about Beatrice Clau. 'Tis euen so, Hero and Margaret haue by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two Beares will not bite one another when they meete. Enter Iohn the Bastard. Bast. My Lord and brother, God saue you Prin. Good den brother Bast. If your leisure seru'd, I would speake with you Prince. In priuate? Bast. If it please you, yet Count Claudio may heare, for what I would speake of, concernes him Prin. What's the matter? Basta. Meanes your Lordship to be married to morrow? Prin. You know he does Bast. I know not that when he knowes what I know Clau. If there be any impediment, I pray you discouer it Bast. You may thinke I loue you not, let that appeare hereafter, and ayme better at me by that I now will manifest, for my brother (I thinke, he holds you well, and in dearenesse of heart) hath holpe to effect your ensuing marriage: surely sute ill spent, and labour ill bestowed Prin. Why, what's the matter? Bastard. I came hither to tell you, and circumstances shortned, (for she hath beene too long a talking of) the Lady is disloyall Clau. Who Hero? Bast. Euen shee, Leonatoes Hero, your Hero, euery mans Hero Clau. Disloyall? Bast. The word is too good to paint out her wickednesse, I could say she were worse, thinke you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it: wonder not till further warrant: goe but with mee to night, you shal see her chamber window entred, euen the night before her wedding day, if you loue her, then to morrow wed her: But it would better fit your honour to change your minde Claud. May this be so? Princ. I will not thinke it Bast. If you dare not trust that you see, confesse not that you know: if you will follow mee, I will shew you enough, and when you haue seene more, & heard more, proceed accordingly Clau. If I see any thing to night, why I should not marry her to morrow in the congregation, where I shold wedde, there will I shame her Prin. And as I wooed for thee to obtaine her, I will ioyne with thee to disgrace her Bast. I will disparage her no farther, till you are my witnesses, beare it coldly but till night, and let the issue shew it selfe Prin. O day vntowardly turned! Claud. O mischiefe strangelie thwarting! Bastard. O plague right well preuented! so will you say, when you haue seene the sequele. Enter.

Henry IV, Part 1.act 1.sc

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1, scene 2 with the given context.

Prince Hal and his companions are introduced in this scene. Hal and Sir John Falstaff are in the prince's apartment engaged in witty, insulting discourse. When Falstaff asks the time, the prince asks him what he needs to know it for, since is a lazy drunkard. Falstaff, in turn, teases the prince for being a wastrel. The two further discuss drinking and Falstaff's current occupation of purse snatching. Poins arrives with the news of a planned highway robbery at Gad's Hill. Hal refuses, but after Falstaff departs, Poins persuades the Prince to participate in the robbery for funs sake, as he has a magnificent plan to play a trick on Falstaff. He suggests that Peto, Bardolph, and Falstaff be made to rob the travelers and that later on, Hal and Poins in disguise should rob these three. When they later meet Falstaff and he begins telling of his exploits, they will expose him as a boastful liar. Hal agrees to take part in the jest and Poins takes his leave. Hal then engages in a soliloquy, in which he declares his decision to soon give up buffoonery and take his princely duties seriously.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- Actus Primus. Scoena Prima. Enter the King, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of Westmerland, with others. King. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Finde we a time for frighted Peace to pant, And breath shortwinded accents of new broils To be commenc'd in Stronds a-farre remote: No more the thirsty entrance of this Soile, Shall daube her lippes with her owne childrens blood: No more shall trenching Warre channell her fields, Nor bruise her Flowrets with the Armed hoofes Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes, Which like the Meteors of a troubled Heauen, All of one Nature, of one Substance bred, Did lately meete in the intestine shocke, And furious cloze of ciuill Butchery, Shall now in mutuall well-beseeming rankes March all one way, and be no more oppos'd Against Acquaintance, Kindred, and Allies. The edge of Warre, like an ill-sheathed knife, No more shall cut his Master. Therefore Friends, As farre as to the Sepulcher of Christ, Whose Souldier now vnder whose blessed Crosse We are impressed and ingag'd to fight, Forthwith a power of English shall we leuie, Whose armes were moulded in their Mothers wombe, To chace these Pagans in those holy Fields, Ouer whose Acres walk'd those blessed feete Which fourteene hundred yeares ago were nail'd For our aduantage on the bitter Crosse. But this our purpose is a tweluemonth old, And bootlesse 'tis to tell you we will go: Therefore we meete not now. Then let me heare Of you my gentle Cousin Westmerland, What yesternight our Councell did decree, In forwarding this deere expedience West. My Liege: This haste was hot in question, And many limits of the Charge set downe But yesternight: when all athwart there came A Post from Wales, loaden with heauy Newes; Whose worst was, That the Noble Mortimer, Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight Against the irregular and wilde Glendower, Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, And a thousand of his people butchered: Vpon whose dead corpes there was such misuse, Such beastly, shamelesse transformation, By those Welshwomen done, as may not be (Without much shame) re-told or spoken of King. It seemes then, that the tidings of this broile, Brake off our businesse for the Holy land West. This matcht with other like, my gracious Lord, Farre more vneuen and vnwelcome Newes Came from the North, and thus it did report: On Holy-roode day, the gallant Hotspurre there, Young Harry Percy, and braue Archibald, That euer-valiant and approoued Scot, At Holmeden met, where they did spend A sad and bloody houre: As by discharge of their Artillerie, And shape of likely-hood the newes was told: For he that brought them, in the very heate And pride of their contention, did take horse, Vncertaine of the issue any way King. Heere is a deere and true industrious friend, Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his Horse, Strain'd with the variation of each soyle, Betwixt that Holmedon, and this Seat of ours: And he hath brought vs smooth and welcome newes. The Earle of Dowglas is discomfited, Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty Knights Balk'd in their owne blood did Sir Walter see On Holmedons Plaines. Of Prisoners, Hotspurre tooke Mordake Earle of Fife, and eldest sonne To beaten Dowglas, and the Earle of Atholl, Of Murry, Angus, and Menteith. And is not this an honourable spoyle? A gallant prize? Ha Cosin, is it not? Infaith it is West. A Conquest for a Prince to boast of King. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, & mak'st me sin, In enuy, that my Lord Northumberland Should be the Father of so blest a Sonne: A Sonne, who is the Theame of Honors tongue; Among'st a Groue, the very straightest Plant, Who is sweet Fortunes Minion, and her Pride: Whil'st I by looking on the praise of him, See Ryot and Dishonor staine the brow Of my yong Harry. O that it could be prou'd, That some Night-tripping-Faiery, had exchang'd In Cradle-clothes, our Children where they lay, And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet: Then would I haue his Harry, and he mine: But let him from my thoughts. What thinke you Coze Of this young Percies pride? The Prisoners Which he in this aduenture hath surpriz'd, To his owne vse he keepes, and sends me word I shall haue none but Mordake Earle of Fife West. This is his Vnckles teaching. This is Worcester Maleuolent to you in all Aspects: Which makes him prune himselfe, and bristle vp The crest of Youth against your Dignity King. But I haue sent for him to answer this: And for this cause a-while we must neglect Our holy purpose to Ierusalem. Cosin, on Wednesday next, our Councell we will hold At Windsor, and so informe the Lords: But come your selfe with speed to vs againe, For more is to be saide, and to be done, Then out of anger can be vttered West. I will my Liege. Exeunt. ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- Scaena Secunda. Enter Henry Prince of Wales, Sir Iohn Falstaffe, and Pointz. Fal. Now Hal, what time of day is it Lad? Prince. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of olde Sacke, and vnbuttoning thee after Supper, and sleeping vpon Benches in the afternoone, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truely, which thou wouldest truly know. What a diuell hast thou to do with the time of the day? vnlesse houres were cups of Sacke, and minutes Capons, and clockes the tongues of Bawdes, and dialls the signes of Leaping-houses, and the blessed Sunne himselfe a faire hot Wench in Flame-coloured Taffata; I see no reason, why thou shouldest bee so superfluous, to demaund the time of the day Fal. Indeed you come neere me now Hal, for we that take Purses, go by the Moone and seuen Starres, and not by Phoebus hee, that wand'ring Knight so faire. And I prythee sweet Wagge, when thou art King, as God saue thy Grace, Maiesty I should say, for Grace thou wilte haue none Prin. What, none? Fal. No, not so much as will serue to be Prologue to an Egge and Butter Prin. Well, how then? Come roundly, roundly Fal. Marry then, sweet Wagge, when thou art King, let not vs that are Squires of the Nights bodie, bee call'd Theeues of the Dayes beautie. Let vs be Dianaes Forresters, Gentlemen of the Shade, Minions of the Moone; and let men say, we be men of good Gouernment, being gouerned as the Sea, by our noble and chast mistris the Moone, vnder whose countenance we steale Prin. Thou say'st well, and it holds well too: for the fortune of vs that are the Moones men, doeth ebbe and flow like the Sea, beeing gouerned as the Sea is, by the Moone: as for proofe. Now a Purse of Gold most resolutely snatch'd on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday Morning; got with swearing, Lay by: and spent with crying, Bring in: now, in as low an ebbe as the foot of the Ladder, and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of the Gallowes Fal. Thou say'st true Lad: and is not my Hostesse of the Tauerne a most sweet Wench? Prin. As is the hony, my old Lad of the Castle: and is not a Buffe Ierkin a most sweet robe of durance? Fal. How now? how now mad Wagge? What in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a plague haue I to doe with a Buffe-Ierkin? Prin. Why, what a poxe haue I to doe with my Hostesse of the Tauerne? Fal. Well, thou hast call'd her to a reck'ning many a time and oft Prin. Did I euer call for thee to pay thy part? Fal. No, Ile giue thee thy due, thou hast paid al there Prin. Yea and elsewhere, so farre as my Coine would stretch, and where it would not, I haue vs'd my credit Fal. Yea, and so vs'd it, that were it heere apparant, that thou art Heire apparant. But I prythee sweet Wag, shall there be Gallowes standing in England when thou art King? and resolution thus fobb'd as it is, with the rustie curbe of old Father Anticke the Law? Doe not thou when thou art a King, hang a Theefe Prin. No, thou shalt Fal. Shall I? O rare! Ile be a braue Iudge Prin. Thou iudgest false already. I meane, thou shalt haue the hanging of the Theeues, and so become a rare Hangman Fal. Well Hal, well: and in some sort it iumpes with my humour, as well as waiting in the Court, I can tell you Prin. For obtaining of suites? Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suites, whereof the Hangman hath no leane Wardrobe. I am as Melancholly as a Gyb-Cat, or a lugg'd Beare Prin. Or an old Lyon, or a Louers Lute Fal. Yea, or the Drone of a Lincolnshire Bagpipe Prin. What say'st thou to a Hare, or the Melancholly of Moore Ditch? Fal. Thou hast the most vnsauoury smiles, and art indeed the most comparatiue rascallest sweet yong Prince. But Hal, I prythee trouble me no more with vanity, I wold thou and I knew, where a Commodity of good names were to be bought: an olde Lord of the Councell rated me the other day in the street about you sir; but I mark'd him not, and yet hee talk'd very wisely, but I regarded him not, and yet he talkt wisely, and in the street too Prin. Thou didst well: for no man regards it Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeede able to corrupt a Saint. Thou hast done much harme vnto me Hall, God forgiue thee for it. Before I knew thee Hal, I knew nothing: and now I am (if a man shold speake truly) little better then one of the wicked. I must giue ouer this life, and I will giue it ouer: and I do not, I am a Villaine. Ile be damn'd for neuer a Kings sonne in Christendome Prin. Where shall we take a purse to morrow, Iacke? Fal. Where thou wilt Lad, Ile make one: and I doe not, call me Villaine, and baffle me Prin. I see a good amendment of life in thee: From Praying, to Purse-taking Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my Vocation Hal: 'Tis no sin for a man to labour in his Vocation Pointz. Now shall wee know if Gads hill haue set a Watch. O, if men were to be saued by merit, what hole in Hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent Villaine, that euer cryed, Stand, to a true man Prin. Good morrow Ned Poines. Good morrow sweet Hal. What saies Monsieur remorse? What sayes Sir Iohn Sacke and Sugar: Iacke? How agrees the Diuell and thee about thy Soule, that thou soldest him on Good-Friday last, for a Cup of Madera, and a cold Capons legge? Prin. Sir Iohn stands to his word, the diuel shall haue his bargaine, for he was neuer yet a Breaker of Prouerbs: He will giue the diuell his due Poin. Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the diuell Prin. Else he had damn'd cozening the diuell Poy. But my Lads, my Lads, to morrow morning, by foure a clocke early at Gads hill, there are Pilgrimes going to Canterbury with rich Offerings, and Traders riding to London with fat Purses. I haue vizards for you all; you haue horses for your selues: Gads-hill lyes to night in Rochester, I haue bespoke Supper to morrow in Eastcheape; we may doe it as secure as sleepe: if you will go, I will stuffe your Purses full of Crownes: if you will not, tarry at home and be hang'd Fal. Heare ye Yedward, if I tarry at home and go not, Ile hang you for going Poy. You will chops Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one? Prin. Who, I rob? I a Theefe? Not I Fal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee, nor thou cam'st not of the blood-royall, if thou dar'st not stand for ten shillings Prin. Well then, once in my dayes Ile be a mad-cap Fal. Why, that's well said Prin. Well, come what will, Ile tarry at home Fal. Ile be a Traitor then, when thou art King Prin. I care not Poyn. Sir Iohn, I prythee leaue the Prince & me alone, I will lay him downe such reasons for this aduenture, that he shall go Fal. Well, maist thou haue the Spirit of perswasion; and he the eares of profiting, that what thou speakest, may moue; and what he heares may be beleeued, that the true Prince, may (for recreation sake) proue a false theefe; for the poore abuses of the time, want countenance. Farwell, you shall finde me in Eastcheape Prin. Farwell the latter Spring. Farewell Alhollown Summer Poy. Now, my good sweet Hony Lord, ride with vs to morrow. I haue a iest to execute, that I cannot mannage alone. Falstaffe, Haruey, Rossill, and Gads-hill, shall robbe those men that wee haue already way-layde, your selfe and I, wil not be there: and when they haue the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head from my shoulders Prin. But how shal we part with them in setting forth? Poyn. Why, we wil set forth before or after them, and appoint them a place of meeting, wherin it is at our pleasure to faile; and then will they aduenture vppon the exploit themselues, which they shall haue no sooner atchieued, but wee'l set vpon them Prin. I, but tis like that they will know vs by our horses, by our habits, and by euery other appointment to be our selues Poy. Tut our horses they shall not see, Ile tye them in the wood, our vizards wee will change after wee leaue them: and sirrah, I haue Cases of Buckram for the nonce, to immaske our noted outward garments Prin. But I doubt they will be too hard for vs Poin. Well, for two of them, I know them to bee as true bred Cowards as euer turn'd backe: and for the third if he fight longer then he sees reason, Ile forswear Armes. The vertue of this Iest will be, the incomprehensible lyes that this fat Rogue will tell vs, when we meete at Supper: how thirty at least he fought with, what Wardes, what blowes, what extremities he endured; and in the reproofe of this, lyes the iest Prin. Well, Ile goe with thee, prouide vs all things necessary, and meete me to morrow night in Eastcheape, there Ile sup. Farewell Poyn. Farewell, my Lord. Exit Pointz Prin. I know you all, and will a-while vphold The vnyoak'd humor of your idlenesse: Yet heerein will I imitate the Sunne, Who doth permit the base contagious cloudes To smother vp his Beauty from the world, That when he please againe to be himselfe, Being wanted, he may be more wondred at, By breaking through the foule and vgly mists Of vapours, that did seeme to strangle him. If all the yeare were playing holidaies, To sport, would be as tedious as to worke; But when they seldome come, they wisht-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. So when this loose behauiour I throw off, And pay the debt I neuer promised; By how much better then my word I am, By so much shall I falsifie mens hopes, And like bright Mettall on a sullen ground: My reformation glittering o're my fault, Shall shew more goodly, and attract more eyes, Then that which hath no foyle to set it off. Ile so offend, to make offence a skill, Redeeming time, when men thinke least I will. ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- Scoena Tertia. Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspurre, Sir Walter Blunt, and others. King. My blood hath beene too cold and temperate, Vnapt to stirre at these indignities, And you haue found me; for accordingly, You tread vpon my patience: But be sure, I will from henceforth rather be my Selfe, Mighty, and to be fear'd, then my condition Which hath beene smooth as Oyle, soft as yong Downe, And therefore lost that Title of respect, Which the proud soule ne're payes, but to the proud Wor. Our house (my Soueraigne Liege) little deserues The scourge of greatnesse to be vsed on it, And that same greatnesse too, which our owne hands Haue holpe to make so portly Nor. My Lord King. Worcester get thee gone: for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye. O sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And Maiestie might neuer yet endure The moody Frontier of a seruant brow, You haue good leaue to leaue vs. When we need Your vse and counsell, we shall send for you. You were about to speake North. Yea, my good Lord. Those Prisoners in your Highnesse demanded, Which Harry Percy heere at Holmedon tooke, Were (as he sayes) not with such strength denied As was deliuered to your Maiesty: Who either through enuy, or misprision, Was guilty of this fault; and not my Sonne Hot. My Liege, I did deny no Prisoners. But, I remember when the fight was done, When I was dry with Rage, and extreame Toyle, Breathlesse, and Faint, leaning vpon my Sword, Came there a certaine Lord, neat and trimly drest; Fresh as a Bride-groome, and his Chin new reapt, Shew'd like a stubble Land at Haruest home. He was perfumed like a Milliner, And 'twixt his Finger and his Thumbe, he held A Pouncet-box: which euer and anon He gaue his Nose, and took't away againe: Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Tooke it in Snuffe. And still he smil'd and talk'd: And as the Souldiers bare dead bodies by, He call'd them vntaught Knaues, Vnmannerly, To bring a slouenly vnhandsome Coarse Betwixt the Winde, and his Nobility. With many Holiday and Lady tearme He question'd me: Among the rest, demanded My Prisoners, in your Maiesties behalfe. I then, all-smarting, with my wounds being cold, (To be so pestered with a Popingay) Out of my Greefe, and my Impatience, Answer'd (neglectingly) I know not what, He should, or should not: For he made me mad, To see him shine so briske, and smell so sweet, And talke so like a Waiting-Gentlewoman, Of Guns, & Drums, and Wounds: God saue the marke; And telling me, the Soueraign'st thing on earth Was Parmacity, for an inward bruise: And that it was great pitty, so it was, That villanous Salt-peter should be digg'd Out of the Bowels of the harmlesse Earth, Which many a good Tall Fellow had destroy'd So Cowardly. And but for these vile Gunnes, He would himselfe haue beene a Souldier. This bald, vnioynted Chat of his (my Lord) Made me to answer indirectly (as I said.) And I beseech you, let not this report Come currant for an Accusation, Betwixt my Loue, and your high Maiesty Blunt. The circumstance considered, good my Lord, What euer Harry Percie then had said, To such a person, and in such a place, At such a time, with all the rest retold, May reasonably dye, and neuer rise To do him wrong, or any way impeach What then he said, so he vnsay it now King. Why yet doth deny his Prisoners, But with Prouiso and Exception, That we at our owne charge, shall ransome straight His Brother-in-Law, the foolish Mortimer, Who (in my soule) hath wilfully betraid The liues of those, that he did leade to Fight, Against the great Magitian, damn'd Glendower: Whose daughter (as we heare) the Earle of March Hath lately married. Shall our Coffers then, Be emptied, to redeeme a Traitor home? Shall we buy Treason? and indent with Feares, When they haue lost and forfeyted themselues. No: on the barren Mountaine let him sterue: For I shall neuer hold that man my Friend, Whose tongue shall aske me for one peny cost To ransome home reuolted Mortimer Hot. Reuolted Mortimer? He neuer did fall off, my Soueraigne Liege, But by the chance of Warre: to proue that true, Needs no more but one tongue. For all those Wounds, Those mouthed Wounds, which valiantly he tooke, When on the gentle Seuernes siedgie banke, In single Opposition hand to hand, He did confound the best part of an houre In changing hardiment with great Glendower: Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink Vpon agreement, of swift Seuernes flood; Who then affrighted with their bloody lookes, Ran fearefully among the trembling Reeds, And hid his crispe-head in the hollow banke, Blood-stained with these Valiant Combatants. Neuer did base and rotten Policy Colour her working with such deadly wounds; Nor neuer could the Noble Mortimer Receiue so many, and all willingly: Then let him not be sland'red with Reuolt King. Thou do'st bely him Percy, thou dost bely him; He neuer did encounter with Glendower: I tell thee, he durst as well haue met the diuell alone, As Owen Glendower for an enemy. Art thou not asham'd? But Sirrah, henceforth Let me not heare you speake of Mortimer. Send me your Prisoners with the speediest meanes, Or you shall heare in such a kinde from me As will displease ye. My Lord Northumberland, We License your departure with your sonne, Send vs your Prisoners, or you'l heare of it. Exit King. Hot. And if the diuell come and roare for them I will not send them. I will after straight And tell him so: for I will ease my heart, Although it be with hazard of my head Nor. What? drunke with choller? stay & pause awhile, Heere comes your Vnckle. Enter Worcester. Hot. Speake of Mortimer? Yes, I will speake of him, and let my soule Want mercy, if I do not ioyne with him. In his behalfe, Ile empty all these Veines, And shed my deere blood drop by drop i'th dust, But I will lift the downfall Mortimer As high i'th Ayre, as this Vnthankfull King, As this Ingrate and Cankred Bullingbrooke Nor. Brother, the King hath made your Nephew mad Wor. Who strooke this heate vp after I was gone? Hot. He will (forsooth) haue all my Prisoners: And when I vrg'd the ransom once againe Of my Wiues Brother, then his cheeke look'd pale, And on my face he turn'd an eye of death, Trembling euen at the name of Mortimer Wor. I cannot blame him: was he not proclaim'd By Richard that dead is, the next of blood? Nor. He was: I heard the Proclamation, And then it was, when the vnhappy King (Whose wrongs in vs God pardon) did set forth Vpon his Irish Expedition: From whence he intercepted, did returne To be depos'd, and shortly murthered Wor. And for whose death, we in the worlds wide mouth Liue scandaliz'd, and fouly spoken of Hot. But soft I pray you; did King Richard then Proclaime my brother Mortimer, Heyre to the Crowne? Nor. He did, my selfe did heare it Hot. Nay then I cannot blame his Cousin King, That wish'd him on the barren Mountaines staru'd. But shall it be, that you that set the Crowne Vpon the head of this forgetfull man, And for his sake, wore the detested blot Of murtherous subornation? Shall it be, That you a world of curses vndergoe, Being the Agents, or base second meanes, The Cords, the Ladder, or the Hangman rather? O pardon, if that I descend so low, To shew the Line, and the Predicament Wherein you range vnder this subtill King. Shall it for shame, be spoken in these dayes, Or fill vp Chronicles in time to come, That men of your Nobility and Power, Did gage them both in an vniust behalfe (As Both of you, God pardon it, haue done) To put downe Richard, that sweet louely Rose, And plant this Thorne, this Canker Bullingbrooke? And shall it in more shame be further spoken, That you are fool'd, discarded, and shooke off By him, for whom these shames ye vnderwent? No: yet time serues, wherein you may redeeme Your banish'd Honors, and restore your selues Into the good Thoughts of the world againe. Reuenge the geering and disdain'd contempt Of this proud King, who studies day and night To answer all the Debt he owes vnto you, Euen with the bloody Payment of your deaths: Therefore I say- Wor. Peace Cousin, say no more. And now I will vnclaspe a Secret booke, And to your quicke conceyuing Discontents, Ile reade you Matter, deepe and dangerous, As full of perill and aduenturous Spirit, As to o're-walke a Current, roaring loud On the vnstedfast footing of a Speare Hot. If he fall in, good night, or sinke or swimme: Send danger from the East vnto the West, So Honor crosse it from the North to South, And let them grapple: The blood more stirres To rowze a Lyon, then to start a Hare Nor. Imagination of some great exploit, Driues him beyond the bounds of Patience Hot. By heauen, me thinkes it were an easie leap, To plucke bright Honor from the pale-fac'd Moone, Or diue into the bottome of the deepe, Where Fadome-line could neuer touch the ground, And plucke vp drowned Honor by the Lockes: So he that doth redeeme her thence, might weare Without Co-riuall, all her Dignities: But out vpon this halfe-fac'd Fellowship Wor. He apprehends a World of Figures here, But not the forme of what he should attend: Good Cousin giue me audience for a-while, And list to me Hot. I cry you mercy Wor. Those same Noble Scottes That are your Prisoners Hot. Ile keepe them all. By heauen, he shall not haue a Scot of them: No, if a Scot would saue his Soule, he shall not. Ile keepe them, by this Hand Wor. You start away, And lend no eare vnto my purposes. Those Prisoners you shall keepe Hot. Nay, I will: that's flat: He said, he would not ransome Mortimer: Forbad my tongue to speake of Mortimer. But I will finde him when he lyes asleepe, And in his eare, Ile holla Mortimer. Nay, Ile haue a Starling shall be taught to speake Nothing but Mortimer, and giue it him, To keepe his anger still in motion Wor. Heare you Cousin: a word Hot. All studies heere I solemnly defie, Saue how to gall and pinch this Bullingbrooke, And that same Sword and Buckler Prince of Wales. But that I thinke his Father loues him not, And would be glad he met with some mischance, I would haue poyson'd him with a pot of Ale Wor. Farewell Kinsman: Ile talke to you When you are better temper'd to attend Nor. Why what a Waspe-tongu'd & impatient foole Art thou, to breake into this Womans mood, Tying thine eare to no tongue but thine owne? Hot. Why look you, I am whipt & scourg'd with rods, Netled, and stung with Pismires, when I heare Of this vile Politician Bullingbrooke. In Richards time: What de'ye call the place? A plague vpon't, it is in Gloustershire: 'Twas, where the madcap Duke his Vncle kept, His Vncle Yorke, where I first bow'd my knee Vnto this King of Smiles, this Bullingbrooke: When you and he came backe from Rauenspurgh Nor. At Barkley Castle Hot. You say true: Why what a caudie deale of curtesie, This fawning Grey-hound then did proffer me, Looke when his infant Fortune came to age, And gentle Harry Percy, and kinde Cousin: O, the Diuell take such Couzeners, God forgiue me, Good Vncle tell your tale, for I haue done Wor. Nay, if you haue not, too't againe, Wee'l stay your leysure Hot. I haue done insooth Wor. Then once more to your Scottish Prisoners. Deliuer them vp without their ransome straight, And make the Dowglas sonne your onely meane For powres in Scotland: which for diuers reasons Which I shall send you written, be assur'd Will easily be granted you, my Lord. Your Sonne in Scotland being thus imploy'd, Shall secretly into the bosome creepe Of that same noble Prelate, well belou'd, The Archbishop Hot. Of Yorke, is't not? Wor. True, who beares hard His Brothers death at Bristow, the Lord Scroope. I speake not this in estimation, As what I thinke might be, but what I know Is ruminated, plotted, and set downe, And onely stayes but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on Hot. I smell it: Vpon my life, it will do wond'rous well Nor. Before the game's a-foot, thou still let'st slip Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a Noble plot, And then the power of Scotland, and of Yorke To ioyne with Mortimer, Ha Wor. And so they shall Hot. Infaith it is exceedingly well aym'd Wor. And 'tis no little reason bids vs speed, To saue our heads, by raising of a Head: For, beare our selues as euen as we can, The King will alwayes thinke him in our debt, And thinke, we thinke our selues vnsatisfied, Till he hath found a time to pay vs home. And see already, how he doth beginne To make vs strangers to his lookes of loue Hot. He does, he does; wee'l be reueng'd on him Wor. Cousin, farewell. No further go in this, Then I by Letters shall direct your course When time is ripe, which will be sodainly: Ile steale to Glendower, and loe, Mortimer, Where you, and Dowglas, and our powres at once, As I will fashion it, shall happily meete, To beare our fortunes in our owne strong armes, Which now we hold at much vncertainty Nor. Farewell good Brother, we shall thriue, I trust Hot. Vncle, adieu: O let the houres be short, Till fields, and blowes, and grones, applaud our sport. Exit

Henry IV, Part 1.act 2.sc

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2, scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

At an inn in Rochester, two carriers wait to get their horses. In the meantime, Gadshill, an accomplice of Falstaff's and the robbers gang, arrives. He tries to borrow their lanterns and engage them in conversation, but they refuse him, not wishing to import information regarding their masters' departure. After the carriers leave, Gadshill calls the inn's chamberlain, who has been acting as his informer. The chamberlain tells Gadshill that a franklin from Kent carrying three hundred marks in gold will soon be traveling from the inn in a small party. Gadshill announces his intent to rob the party. He is heedless of law and punishment, for he is riding with Sir John and other influential people. Gadshill promises the chamberlain a fair share of the loot, but the chamberlain knows of these empty promises and does not expect anything.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- Actus Secundus. Scena Prima. Enter a Carrier with a Lanterne in his hand. 1.Car. Heigh-ho, an't be not foure by the day, Ile be hang'd. Charles waine is ouer the new Chimney, and yet our horse not packt. What Ostler? Ost. Anon, anon 1.Car. I prethee Tom, beate Cuts Saddle, put a few Flockes in the point: the poore Iade is wrung in the withers, out of all cesse. Enter another Carrier. 2.Car. Pease and Beanes are as danke here as a Dog, and this is the next way to giue poore Iades the Bottes: This house is turned vpside downe since Robin the Ostler dyed 1.Car. Poore fellow neuer ioy'd since the price of oats rose, it was the death of him 2.Car. I thinke this is the most villanous house in al London rode for Fleas: I am stung like a Tench 1.Car. Like a Tench? There is ne're a King in Christendome, could be better bit, then I haue beene since the first Cocke 2.Car. Why, you will allow vs ne're a Iourden, and then we leake in your Chimney: and your Chamber-lye breeds Fleas like a Loach 1.Car. What Ostler, come away, and be hangd: come away 2.Car. I haue a Gammon of Bacon, and two razes of Ginger, to be deliuered as farre as Charing-crosse 1.Car. The Turkies in my Pannier are quite starued. What Ostler? A plague on thee, hast thou neuer an eye in thy head? Can'st not heare? And t'were not as good a deed as drinke, to break the pate of thee, I am a very Villaine. Come and be hang'd, hast no faith in thee? Enter Gads-hill. Gad. Good-morrow Carriers. What's a clocke? Car. I thinke it be two a clocke Gad. I prethee lend me thy Lanthorne to see my Gelding in the stable 1.Car. Nay soft I pray ye, I know a trick worth two of that Gad. I prethee lend me thine 2.Car. I, when, canst tell? Lend mee thy Lanthorne (quoth-a) marry Ile see thee hang'd first Gad. Sirra Carrier: What time do you mean to come to London? 2.Car. Time enough to goe to bed with a Candle, I warrant thee. Come neighbour Mugges, wee'll call vp the Gentlemen, they will along with company, for they haue great charge. Exeunt. Enter Chamberlaine. Gad. What ho, Chamberlaine? Cham. At hand quoth Pick-purse Gad. That's euen as faire, as at hand quoth the Chamberlaine: For thou variest no more from picking of Purses, then giuing direction, doth from labouring. Thou lay'st the plot, how Cham. Good morrow Master Gads-Hill, it holds currant that I told you yesternight. There's a Franklin in the wilde of Kent, hath brought three hundred Markes with him in Gold: I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at Supper; a kinde of Auditor, one that hath abundance of charge too (God knowes what) they are vp already, and call for Egges and Butter. They will away presently Gad. Sirra, if they meete not with S[aint]. Nicholas Clarks, Ile giue thee this necke Cham. No, Ile none of it: I prythee keep that for the Hangman, for I know thou worshipst S[aint]. Nicholas as truly as a man of falshood may Gad. What talkest thou to me of the Hangman? If I hang, Ile make a fat payre of Gallowes. For, if I hang, old Sir Iohn hangs with mee, and thou know'st hee's no Starueling. Tut, there are other Troians that y dream'st not of, the which (for sport sake) are content to doe the Profession some grace; that would (if matters should bee look'd into) for their owne Credit sake, make all Whole. I am ioyned with no Foot-land-Rakers, No Long-staffe six-penny strikers, none of these mad Mustachio-purple-hu'd-Maltwormes, but with Nobility, and Tranquilitie; Bourgomasters, and great Oneyers, such as can holde in, such as will strike sooner then speake; and speake sooner then drinke, and drinke sooner then pray: and yet I lye, for they pray continually vnto their Saint the Commonwealth; or rather, not to pray to her, but prey on her: for they ride vp & downe on her, and make hir their Boots Cham. What, the Commonwealth their Bootes? Will she hold out water in foule way? Gad. She will, she will; Iustice hath liquor'd her. We steale as in a Castle, cocksure: we haue the receit of Fernseede, we walke inuisible Cham. Nay, I thinke rather, you are more beholding to the Night, then to the Fernseed, for your walking inuisible Gad. Giue me thy hand. Thou shalt haue a share in our purpose, As I am a true man Cham. Nay, rather let mee haue it, as you are a false Theefe Gad. Goe too: Homo is a common name to all men. Bid the Ostler bring the Gelding out of the stable. Farewell, ye muddy Knaue. Exeunt. ----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- Scaena Secunda. Enter Prince, Poynes, and Peto. Poines. Come shelter, shelter, I haue remoued Falstafs Horse, and he frets like a gum'd Veluet Prin. Stand close. Enter Falstaffe. Fal. Poines, Poines, and be hang'd Poines Prin. Peace ye fat-kidney'd Rascall, what a brawling dost thou keepe Fal. What Poines. Hal? Prin. He is walk'd vp to the top of the hill, Ile go seek him Fal. I am accurst to rob in that Theefe company: that Rascall hath remoued my Horse, and tied him I know not where. If I trauell but foure foot by the squire further a foote, I shall breake my winde. Well, I doubt not but to dye a faire death for all this, if I scape hanging for killing that Rogue, I haue forsworne his company hourely any time this two and twenty yeare, & yet I am bewitcht with the Rogues company. If the Rascall haue not giuen me medicines to make me loue him, Ile be hang'd; it could not be else: I haue drunke Medicines. Poines, Hal, a Plague vpon you both. Bardolph, Peto: Ile starue ere I rob a foote further. And 'twere not as good a deede as to drinke, to turne True-man, and to leaue these Rogues, I am the veriest Varlet that euer chewed with a Tooth. Eight yards of vneuen ground, is threescore & ten miles afoot with me: and the stony-hearted Villaines knowe it well enough. A plague vpon't, when Theeues cannot be true one to another. They Whistle. Whew: a plague light vpon you all. Giue my Horse you Rogues: giue me my Horse, and be hang'd Prin. Peace ye fat guttes, lye downe, lay thine eare close to the ground, and list if thou can heare the tread of Trauellers Fal. Haue you any Leauers to lift me vp again being downe? Ile not beare mine owne flesh so far afoot again, for all the coine in thy Fathers Exchequer. What a plague meane ye to colt me thus? Prin. Thou ly'st, thou art not colted, thou art vncolted Fal. I prethee good Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good Kings sonne Prin. Out you Rogue, shall I be your Ostler? Fal. Go hang thy selfe in thine owne heire-apparant-Garters: If I be tane, Ile peach for this: and I haue not Ballads made on all, and sung to filthy tunes, let a Cup of Sacke be my poyson: when a iest is so forward, & a foote too, I hate it. Enter Gads-hill. Gad. Stand Fal. So I do against my will Poin. O 'tis our Setter, I know his voyce: Bardolfe, what newes? Bar. Case ye, case ye; on with your Vizards, there's mony of the Kings comming downe the hill, 'tis going to the Kings Exchequer Fal. You lie you rogue, 'tis going to the Kings Tauern Gad. There's enough to make vs all Fal. To be hang'd Prin. You foure shall front them in the narrow Lane: Ned and I, will walke lower; if they scape from your encounter, then they light on vs Peto. But how many be of them? Gad. Some eight or ten Fal. Will they not rob vs? Prin. What, a Coward Sir Iohn Paunch? Fal. Indeed I am not Iohn of Gaunt your Grandfather; but yet no Coward, Hal Prin. Wee'l leaue that to the proofe Poin. Sirra Iacke, thy horse stands behinde the hedg, when thou need'st him, there thou shalt finde him. Farewell, and stand fast Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd Prin. Ned, where are our disguises? Poin. Heere hard by: Stand close Fal. Now my Masters, happy man be his dole, say I: euery man to his businesse. Enter Trauellers Tra. Come Neighbor: the boy shall leade our Horses downe the hill: Wee'l walke a-foot a while, and ease our Legges Theeues. Stay Tra. Iesu blesse vs Fal. Strike down with them, cut the villains throats; a whorson Caterpillars: Bacon-fed Knaues, they hate vs youth; downe with them, fleece them Tra. O, we are vndone, both we and ours for euer Fal. Hang ye gorbellied knaues, are you vndone? No ye Fat Chuffes, I would your store were heere. On Bacons, on, what ye knaues? Yong men must liue, you are Grand Iurers, are ye? Wee'l iure ye ifaith. Heere they rob them, and binde them. Enter the Prince and Poines. Prin. The Theeues haue bound the True-men: Now could thou and I rob the Theeues, and go merily to London, it would be argument for a Weeke, Laughter for a Moneth, and a good iest for euer Poynes. Stand close, I heare them comming. Enter Theeues againe. Fal. Come my Masters, let vs share, and then to horsse before day: and the Prince and Poynes bee not two arrand Cowards, there's no equity stirring. There's no moe valour in that Poynes, than in a wilde Ducke Prin. Your money Poin. Villaines. As they are sharing, the Prince and Poynes set vpon them. They all run away, leauing the booty behind them. Prince. Got with much ease. Now merrily to Horse: The Theeues are scattred, and possest with fear so strongly, that they dare not meet each other: each takes his fellow for an Officer. Away good Ned, Falstaffe sweates to death, and Lards the leane earth as he walkes along: wer't not for laughing, I should pitty him Poin. How the Rogue roar'd. Exeunt.

Henry IV, Part 1.act 4.sc

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 4, scene 2 based on the provided context.

Falstaff and Bardolph are on their way to the battlefield, with Falstaff's soldiers following behind. Falstaff sends Bardolph to buy some sack and asks him to bid Peto to meet him at the end of town. Falstaff then engages in a long monologue, in which he confides that he has earned three hundred pounds by pressing only those men who were willing and able to buy themselves out of service. Instead of soldiers, he has instead filled his ranks with the lowest and poorest class of men. They are such ragged "scarecrows" , in fact, that he is ashamed to be seen in town with them. He is overtaken by Prince Hal and Westmoreland, who ask him about the "pitiful rascals" following him. Falstaff comments that they are merely "food for powder" - cannon fodder. The prince realizes that he has misused his command but does not chastise him. He and Westmoreland urge Falstaff to hurry, for the battle is soon to begin.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- Actus Quartus. Scoena Prima. Enter Harrie Hotspurre, Worcester, and Dowglas. Hot. Well said, my Noble Scot, if speaking truth In this fine Age, were not thought flatterie, Such attribution should the Dowglas haue, As not a Souldiour of this seasons stampe, Should go so generall currant through the world. By heauen I cannot flatter: I defie The Tongues of Soothers. But a Brauer place In my hearts loue, hath no man then your Selfe. Nay, taske me to my word: approue me Lord Dow. Thou art the King of Honor: No man so potent breathes vpon the ground, But I will Beard him. Enter a Messenger. Hot. Do so, and 'tis well. What letters hast there? I can but thanke you Mess. These Letters come from your Father Hot. Letters from him? Why comes he not himselfe? Mes. He cannot come, my Lord, He is greeuous sicke Hot. How? haz he the leysure to be sicke now, In such a iustling time? Who leades his power? Vnder whose Gouernment come they along? Mess. His Letters beares his minde, not I his minde Wor. I prethee tell me, doth he keepe his Bed? Mess. He did, my Lord, foure dayes ere I set forth: And at the time of my departure thence, He was much fear'd by his Physician Wor. I would the state of time had first beene whole, Ere he by sicknesse had beene visited: His health was neuer better worth then now Hotsp. Sicke now? droope now? this sicknes doth infect The very Life-blood of our Enterprise, 'Tis catching hither, euen to our Campe. He writes me here, that inward sicknesse, And that his friends by deputation Could not so soone be drawne: nor did he thinke it meet, To lay so dangerous and deare a trust On any Soule remou'd, but on his owne. Yet doth he giue vs bold aduertisement, That with our small coniunction we should on, To see how Fortune is dispos'd to vs: For, as he writes, there is no quailing now, Because the King is certainely possest Of all our purposes. What say you to it? Wor. Your Fathers sicknesse is a mayme to vs Hotsp. A perillous Gash, a very Limme lopt off: And yet, in faith, it is not his present want Seemes more then we shall finde it. Were it good, to set the exact wealth of all our states All at one Cast? To set so rich a mayne On the nice hazard of one doubtfull houre, It were not good: for therein should we reade The very Bottome, and the Soule of Hope, The very List, the very vtmost Bound Of all our fortunes Dowg. Faith, and so wee should, Where now remaines a sweet reuersion. We may boldly spend, vpon the hope Of what is to come in: A comfort of retyrement liues in this Hotsp. A Randeuous, a Home to flye vnto, If that the Deuill and Mischance looke bigge Vpon the Maydenhead of our Affaires Wor. But yet I would your Father had beene here: The qualitie and Heire of our Attempt Brookes no diuision: It will be thought By some, that know not why he is away, That wisedome, loyaltie, and meere dislike Of our proceedings, kept the Earle from hence. And thinke, how such an apprehension May turne the tyde of fearefull Faction, And breede a kinde of question in our cause: For well you know, wee of the offring side, Must keepe aloofe from strict arbitrement, And stop all sight-holes, euery loope, from whence The eye of reason may prie in vpon vs: This absence of your Father drawes a Curtaine, That shewes the ignorant a kinde of feare, Before not dreamt of Hotsp. You strayne too farre. I rather of his absence make this vse: It lends a Lustre, and more great Opinion, A larger Dare to your great Enterprize, Then if the Earle were here: for men must thinke, If we without his helpe, can make a Head To push against the Kingdome; with his helpe, We shall o're-turne it topsie-turuy downe: Yet all goes well, yet all our ioynts are whole Dowg. As heart can thinke: There is not such a word spoke of in Scotland, At this Dreame of Feare. Enter Sir Richard Vernon. Hotsp. My Cousin Vernon, welcome by my Soule Vern. Pray God my newes be worth a welcome, Lord. The Earle of Westmerland, seuen thousand strong, Is marching hither-wards, with Prince Iohn Hotsp. No harme: what more? Vern. And further, I haue learn'd, The King himselfe in person hath set forth, Or hither-wards intended speedily, With strong and mightie preparation Hotsp. He shall be welcome too. Where is his Sonne, The nimble-footed Mad-Cap, Prince of Wales, And his Cumrades, that daft the World aside, And bid it passe? Vern. All furnisht, all in Armes, All plum'd like Estridges, that with the Winde Bayted like Eagles, hauing lately bath'd, Glittering in Golden Coates, like Images, As full of spirit as the Moneth of May, And gorgeous as the Sunne at Mid-summer, Wanton as youthfull Goates, wilde as young Bulls. I saw young Harry with his Beuer on, His Cushes on his thighes, gallantly arm'd, Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his Seat, As if an Angell dropt downe from the Clouds, To turne and winde a fierie Pegasus, And witch the World with Noble Horsemanship Hotsp. No more, no more, Worse then the Sunne in March: This prayse doth nourish Agues: let them come. They come like Sacrifices in their trimme, And to the fire-ey'd Maid of smoakie Warre, All hot, and bleeding, will wee offer them: The mayled Mars shall on his Altar sit Vp to the eares in blood. I am on fire, To heare this rich reprizall is so nigh, And yet not ours. Come, let me take my Horse, Who is to beare me like a Thunder-bolt, Against the bosome of the Prince of Wales. Harry to Harry, shall not Horse to Horse Meete, and ne're part, till one drop downe a Coarse? Oh, that Glendower were come Ver. There is more newes: I learned in Worcester, as I rode along, He cannot draw his Power this fourteene dayes Dowg. That's the worst Tidings that I heare of yet Wor. I by my faith, that beares a frosty sound Hotsp. What may the Kings whole Battaile reach vnto? Ver. To thirty thousand Hot. Forty let it be, My Father and Glendower being both away, The powres of vs, may serue so great a day. Come, let vs take a muster speedily: Doomesday is neere; dye all, dye merrily Dow. Talke not of dying, I am out of feare Of death, or deaths hand, for this one halfe yeare. Exeunt. Omnes. ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- Scaena Secunda. Enter Falstaffe and Bardolph. Falst. Bardolph, get thee before to Couentry, fill me a Bottle of Sack, our Souldiers shall march through: wee'le to Sutton-cop-hill to Night Bard. Will you giue me Money, Captaine? Falst. Lay out, lay out Bard. This Bottle makes an Angell Falst. And if it doe, take it for thy labour: and if it make twentie, take them all, Ile answere the Coynage. Bid my Lieutenant Peto meete me at the Townes end Bard. I will Captaine: farewell. Enter. Falst. If I be not asham'd of my Souldiers, I am a sowc't-Gurnet: I haue mis-vs'd the Kings Presse damnably. I haue got, in exchange of a hundred and fiftie Souldiers, three hundred and odde Pounds. I presse me none but good House-holders, Yeomens Sonnes: enquire me out contracted Batchelers, such as had beene ask'd twice on the Banes: such a Commoditie of warme slaues, as had as lieue heare the Deuill, as a Drumme; such as feare the report of a Caliuer, worse then a struck-Foole, or a hurt wilde-Ducke. I prest me none but such Tostes and Butter, with Hearts in their Bellyes no bigger then Pinnes heads, and they haue bought out their seruices: And now, my whole Charge consists of Ancients, Corporals, Lieutenants, Gentlemen of Companies, Slaues as ragged a Lazarus in the painted Cloth, where the Gluttons Dogges licked his Sores; and such, as indeed were neuer Souldiers, but dis-carded vniust Seruingmen, younger Sonnes to younger Brothers, reuolted Tapsters and Ostlers, Trade-falne, the Cankers of a calme World, and long Peace, tenne times more dis-honorable ragged, then an old-fac'd Ancient; and such haue I to fill vp the roomes of them that haue bought out their seruices: that you would thinke, that I had a hundred and fiftie totter'd Prodigalls, lately come from Swine-keeping, from eating Draffe and Huskes. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me, I had vnloaded all the Gibbets, and prest the dead bodyes. No eye hath seene such skar-Crowes: Ile not march through Couentry with them, that's flat. Nay, and the Villaines march wide betwixt the Legges, as if they had Gyues on; for indeede, I had the most of them out of Prison. There's not a Shirt and a halfe in all my Company: and the halfe Shirt is two Napkins tackt together, and throwne ouer the shoulders like a Heralds Coat, without sleeues: and the Shirt, to say the truth, stolne from my Host of S[aint]. Albones, or the Red-Nose Inne-keeper of Dauintry. But that's all one, they'le finde Linnen enough on euery Hedge. Enter the Prince, and the Lord of Westmerland. Prince. How now blowne Iack? how now Quilt? Falst. What Hal? How now mad Wag, what a Deuill do'st thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of Westmerland, I cry you mercy, I thought your Honour had already beene at Shrewsbury West. 'Faith, Sir Iohn, 'tis more then time that I were there, and you too: but my Powers are there alreadie. The King, I can tell you, lookes for vs all: we must away all to Night Falst. Tut, neuer feare me, I am as vigilant as a Cat, to steale Creame Prince. I thinke to steale Creame indeed, for thy theft hath alreadie made thee Butter: but tell me, Iack, whose fellowes are these that come after? Falst. Mine, Hal, mine Prince. I did neuer see such pittifull Rascals Falst. Tut, tut, good enough to tosse: foode for Powder, foode for Powder: they'le fill a Pit, as well as better: tush man, mortall men, mortall men Westm. I, but Sir Iohn, me thinkes they are exceeding poore and bare, too beggarly Falst. Faith, for their pouertie, I know not where they had that; and for their barenesse, I am sure they neuer learn'd that of me Prince. No, Ile be sworne, vnlesse you call three fingers on the Ribbes bare. But sirra, make haste, Percy is already in the field Falst. What, is the King encamp'd? Westm. Hee is, Sir Iohn, I feare wee shall stay too long Falst. Well, to the latter end of a Fray, and the beginning of a Feast, fits a dull fighter, and a keene Guest. Exeunt. ----------ACT 4, SCENE 3--------- Scoena Tertia. Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Dowglas, and Vernon. Hotsp. Wee'le fight with him to Night Worc. It may not be Dowg. You giue him then aduantage Vern. Not a whit Hotsp. Why say you so? lookes he not for supply? Vern. So doe wee Hotsp. His is certaine, ours is doubtfull Worc. Good Cousin be aduis'd, stirre not to night Vern. Doe not, my Lord Dowg. You doe not counsaile well: You speake it out of feare, and cold heart Vern. Doe me no slander, Dowglas: by my Life, And I dare well maintaine it with my Life, If well-respected Honor bid me on, I hold as little counsaile with weake feare, As you, my Lord, or any Scot that this day liues. Let it be seene to morrow in the Battell, Which of vs feares Dowg. Yea, or to night Vern. Content Hotsp. To night, say I Vern. Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, being me[n] of such great leading as you are That you fore-see not what impediments Drag backe our expedition: certaine Horse Of my Cousin Vernons are not yet come vp, Your Vnckle Worcesters Horse came but to day, And now their pride and mettall is asleepe, Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, That not a Horse is halfe the halfe of himselfe Hotsp. So are the Horses of the Enemie In generall iourney bated, and brought low: The better part of ours are full of rest Worc. The number of the King exceedeth ours: For Gods sake, Cousin, stay till all come in. The Trumpet sounds a Parley. Enter Sir Walter Blunt. Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the King, If you vouchsafe me hearing, and respect Hotsp. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt: And would to God you were of our determination. Some of vs loue you well: and euen those some Enuie your great deseruings, and good name, Because you are not of our qualitie, But stand against vs like an Enemie Blunt. And Heauen defend, but still I should stand so, So long as out of Limit, and true Rule, You stand against anoynted Maiestie. But to my Charge. The King hath sent to know The nature of your Griefes, and whereupon You coniure from the Brest of Ciuill Peace, Such bold Hostilitie, teaching his dutious Land Audacious Crueltie. If that the King Haue any way your good Deserts forgot, Which he confesseth to be manifold, He bids you name your Griefes, and with all speed You shall haue your desires, with interest; And Pardon absolute for your selfe, and these, Herein mis-led, by your suggestion Hotsp. The King is kinde: And well wee know, the King Knowes at what time to promise, when to pay. My Father, my Vnckle, and my selfe, Did giue him that same Royaltie he weares: And when he was not sixe and twentie strong, Sicke in the Worlds regard, wretched, and low, A poore vnminded Out-law, sneaking home, My Father gaue him welcome to the shore: And when he heard him sweare, and vow to God, He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, To sue his Liuerie, and begge his Peace, With teares of Innocencie, and tearmes of Zeale; My Father, in kinde heart and pitty mou'd, Swore him assistance, and perform'd it too. Now, when the Lords and Barons of the Realme Perceiu'd Northumberland did leane to him, The more and lesse came in with Cap and Knee, Met him in Boroughs, Cities, Villages, Attended him on Bridges, stood in Lanes, Layd Gifts before him, proffer'd him their Oathes, Gaue him their Heires, as Pages followed him, Euen at the heeles, in golden multitudes. He presently, as Greatnesse knowes it selfe, Step me a little higher then his Vow Made to my Father, while his blood was poore, Vpon the naked shore at Rauenspurgh: And now (forsooth) takes on him to reforme Some certaine Edicts, and some strait Decrees, That lay too heauie on the Common-wealth; Cryes out vpon abuses, seemes to weepe Ouer his Countries Wrongs: and by this Face, This seeming Brow of Iustice, did he winne The hearts of all that hee did angle for. Proceeded further, cut me off the Heads Of all the Fauorites, that the absent King In deputation left behinde him heere, When hee was personall in the Irish Warre Blunt. Tut, I came not to hear this Hotsp. Then to the point. In short time after, hee depos'd the King. Soone after that, depriu'd him of his Life: And in the neck of that, task't the whole State. To make that worse, suffer'd his Kinsman March, Who is, if euery Owner were plac'd, Indeede his King, to be engag'd in Wales, There, without Ransome, to lye forfeited: Disgrac'd me in my happie Victories, Sought to intrap me by intelligence, Rated my Vnckle from the Councell-Boord, In rage dismiss'd my Father from the Court, Broke Oath on Oath, committed Wrong on Wrong, And in conclusion, droue vs to seeke out This Head of safetie; and withall, to prie Into his Title: the which wee finde Too indirect, for long continuance Blunt. Shall I returne this answer to the King? Hotsp. Not so, Sir Walter. Wee'le with-draw a while: Goe to the King, and let there be impawn'd Some suretie for a safe returne againe, And in the Morning early shall my Vnckle Bring him our purpose: and so farewell Blunt. I would you would accept of Grace and Loue Hotsp. And't may be, so wee shall Blunt. Pray Heauen you doe. Exeunt. Scena Quarta. Enter the Arch-Bishop of Yorke, and Sir Michell. Arch. Hie, good Sir Michell, beare this sealed Briefe With winged haste to the Lord Marshall, This to my Cousin Scroope, and all the rest To whom they are directed. If you knew how much they doe import, You would make haste Sir Mich. My good Lord, I guesse their tenor Arch. Like enough you doe. To morrow, good Sir Michell, is a day, Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men Must bide the touch. For Sir, at Shrewsbury, As I am truly giuen to vnderstand, The King, with mightie and quick-raysed Power, Meetes with Lord Harry: and I feare, Sir Michell, What with the sicknesse of Northumberland, Whose Power was in the first proportion; And what with Owen Glendowers absence thence, Who with them was rated firmely too, And comes not in, ouer-rul'd by Prophecies, I feare the Power of Percy is too weake, To wage an instant tryall with the King Sir Mich. Why, my good Lord, you need not feare, There is Dowglas, and Lord Mortimer Arch. No, Mortimer is not there Sir Mic. But there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, And there is my Lord of Worcester, And a Head of gallant Warriors, Noble Gentlemen Arch. And so there is, but yet the King hath Drawne The speciall head of all the Land together: The Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, The Noble Westmerland, and warlike Blunt; And many moe Corriuals, and deare men Of estimation, and command in Armes Sir M. Doubt not my Lord, he shall be well oppos'd Arch. I hope no lesse? Yet needfull 'tis to feare, And to preuent the worst, Sir Michell speed; For if Lord Percy thriue not, ere the King Dismisse his power, he meanes to visit vs: For he hath heard of our Confederacie, And, 'tis but Wisedome to make strong against him: Therefore make hast, I must go write againe To other Friends: and so farewell, Sir Michell. Exeunt.

Henry IV, Part 1.act 5.sc

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 5, scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

The kings forces have gathered, and Henry, Hal, Blunt, Lancaster, and Falstaff are at camp. Henry and Hal discuss the weather, which is worsening. The king is not worried, for "nothing can seem foul" to those that win. Worcester and Vernon arrive. Worcester reiterates the complaints of the Percies. The king replies these are fine sounding excuses that merely disguise their desire for rebellion. Prince Hal then offers a proposal. He suggests that he and Hotspur settle the matter in a personal duel between themselves, thereby saving innocent lives. The king forbids this, but again promises the rebels full pardon if they accept his peace offer. If they do not, he is prepared to destroy them. Vernon and Worcester leave with the offer. Hal is sure that Hotspur and Douglas will not accept the offer. The king is of a similar mind and gives orders to prepare for battle. When the king leaves, Falstaff asks Hal to help him out if he sees him during the battle. Hal tells him not to be afraid; after all, he " God a death" . When Hal is gone, Falstaff says that the debt is not yet due, and while he pretends that honor urges him on, honor to him is nothing but an empty word.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- Actus Quintus. Scena Prima. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of Westmerland, Sir Walter Blunt, and Falstaffe. King. How bloodily the Sunne begins to peere Aboue yon busky hill: the day lookes pale At his distemperature Prin. The Southerne winde Doth play the Trumpet to his purposes, And by his hollow whistling in the Leaues, Fortels a Tempest, and a blust'ring day King. Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seeme foule to those that win. The Trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester. King. How now my Lord of Worster? 'Tis not well That you and I should meet vpon such tearmes, As now we meet. You haue deceiu'd our trust, And made vs doffe our easie Robes of Peace, To crush our old limbes in vngentle Steele: This is not well, my Lord, this is not well. What say you to it? Will you againe vnknit This churlish knot of all-abhorred Warre? And moue in the obedient Orbe againe, Where you did giue a faire and naturall light, And be no more an exhall'd Meteor, A prodigie of Feare, and a Portent Of broached Mischeefe, to the vnborne Times? Wor. Heare me, my Liege: For mine owne part, I could be well content To entertaine the Lagge-end of my life With quiet houres: For I do protest, I haue not sought the day of this dislike King. You haue not sought it: how comes it then? Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it Prin. Peace, Chewet, peace Wor. It pleas'd your Maiesty, to turne your lookes Of Fauour, from my Selfe, and all our House; And yet I must remember you my Lord, We were the first, and dearest of your Friends: For you, my staffe of Office did I breake In Richards time, and poasted day and night To meete you on the way, and kisse your hand, When yet you were in place, and in account Nothing so strong and fortunate, as I; It was my Selfe, my Brother, and his Sonne, That brought you home, and boldly did out-dare The danger of the time. You swore to vs, And you did sweare that Oath at Doncaster, That you did nothing of purpose 'gainst the State, Nor claime no further, then your new-falne right, The seate of Gaunt, Dukedome of Lancaster, To this, we sware our aide: But in short space, It rain'd downe Fortune showring on your head, And such a floud of Greatnesse fell on you, What with our helpe, what with the absent King. What with the iniuries of wanton time, The seeming sufferances that you had borne, And the contrarious Windes that held the King So long in the vnlucky Irish Warres, That all in England did repute him dead: And from this swarme of faire aduantages, You tooke occasion to be quickly woo'd, To gripe the generall sway into your hand, Forgot your Oath to vs at Doncaster, And being fed by vs, you vs'd vs so, As that vngentle gull the Cuckowes Bird, Vseth the Sparrow, did oppresse our Nest Grew by our Feeding, to so great a builke, That euen our Loue durst not come neere your sight For feare of swallowing: But with nimble wing We were infor'd for safety sake, to flye Out of your sight, and raise this present Head, Whereby we stand opposed by such meanes As you your selfe, haue forg'd against your selfe, By vnkinde vsage, dangerous countenance, And violation of all faith and troth Sworne to vs in yonger enterprize Kin. These things indeed you haue articulated, Proclaim'd at Market Crosses, read in Churches, To face the Garment of Rebellion With some fine colour, that may please the eye Of fickle Changelings, and poore Discontents, Which gape, and rub the Elbow at the newes Of hurly burly Innouation: And neuer yet did Insurrection want Such water-colours, to impaint his cause: Nor moody Beggars, staruing for a time Of pell-mell hauocke, and confusion Prin. In both our Armies, there is many a soule Shall pay full dearely for this encounter, If once they ioyne in triall. Tell your Nephew, The Prince of Wales doth ioyne with all the world In praise of Henry Percie: By my Hopes, This present enterprize set off his head, I do not thinke a brauer Gentleman, More actiue, valiant, or more valiant yong, More daring, or more bold, is now aliue, To grace this latter Age with Noble deeds. For my part, I may speake it to my shame, I haue a Truant beene to Chiualry, And so I heare, he doth account me too: Yet this before my Fathers Maiesty, I am content that he shall take the oddes Of his great name and estimation, And will, to saue the blood on either side, Try fortune with him, in a Single Fight King. And Prince of Wales, so dare we venter thee, Albeit, considerations infinite Do make against it: No good Worster, no, We loue our people well; euen those we loue That are misled vpon your Cousins part: And will they take the offer of our Grace: Both he, and they, and you; yea euery man Shall be my Friend againe, and Ile be his. So tell your Cousin, and bring me word, What he will do. But if he will not yeeld, Rebuke and dread correction waite on vs, And they shall do their Office. So bee gone, We will not now be troubled with reply, We offer faire, take it aduisedly. Exit Worcester. Prin. It will not be accepted, on my life, The Dowglas and the Hotspurre both together, Are confident against the world in Armes King. Hence therefore, euery Leader to his charge, For on their answer will we set on them; And God befriend vs, as our cause is iust. Exeunt. Manet Prince and Falstaffe. Fal. Hal, if thou see me downe in the battell, And bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship Prin. Nothing but a Colossus can do thee that frendship Say thy prayers, and farewell Fal. I would it were bed time Hal, and all well Prin. Why, thou ow'st heauen a death Falst. 'Tis not due yet: I would bee loath to pay him before his day. What neede I bee so forward with him, that call's not on me? Well, 'tis no matter, Honor prickes me on. But how if Honour pricke me off when I come on? How then? Can Honour set too a legge? No: or an arme? No: Or take away the greefe of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in Surgerie, then? No. What is Honour A word. What is that word Honour? Ayre: A trim reckoning. Who hath it? He that dy'de a Wednesday. Doth he feele it? No. Doth hee heare it? No. Is it insensible then? yea, to the dead. But wil it not liue with the liuing? No. Why? Detraction wil not suffer it, therfore Ile none of it. Honour is a meere Scutcheon, and so ends my Catechisme. Enter. ----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- Scena Secunda. Enter Worcester, and Sir Richard Vernon. Wor. O no, my Nephew must not know, Sir Richard, The liberall kinde offer of the King Ver. 'Twere best he did Wor. Then we are all vndone. It is not possible, it cannot be, The King would keepe his word in louing vs, He will suspect vs still, and finde a time To punish this offence in others faults: Supposition, all our liues, shall be stucke full of eyes; For Treason is but trusted like the Foxe, Who ne're so tame, so cherisht, and lock'd vp, Will haue a wilde tricke of his Ancestors: Looke how he can, or sad or merrily, Interpretation will misquote our lookes, And we shall feede like Oxen at a stall, The better cherisht, still the nearer death. My Nephewes Trespasse may be well forgot, It hath the excuse of youth, and heate of blood, And an adopted name of Priuiledge, A haire-brain'd Hotspurre, gouern'd by a Spleene: All his offences liue vpon my head, And on his Fathers. We did traine him on, And his corruption being tane from vs, We as the Spring of all, shall pay for all: Therefore good Cousin, let not Harry know In any case, the offer of the King Ver. Deliuer what you will, Ile say 'tis so. Heere comes your Cosin. Enter Hotspurre. Hot. My Vnkle is return'd, Deliuer vp my Lord of Westmerland. Vnkle, what newes? Wor. The King will bid you battell presently Dow. Defie him by the Lord of Westmerland Hot. Lord Dowglas: Go you and tell him so Dow. Marry and shall, and verie willingly. Exit Dowglas. Wor. There is no seeming mercy in the King Hot. Did you begge any? God forbid Wor. I told him gently of our greeuances, Of his Oath-breaking: which he mended thus, By now forswearing that he is forsworne, He cals vs Rebels, Traitors, and will scourge With haughty armes, this hatefull name in vs. Enter Dowglas. Dow. Arme Gentlemen, to Armes, for I haue thrown A braue defiance in King Henries teeth: And Westmerland that was ingag'd did beare it, Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on Wor. The Prince of Wales stept forth before the king, And Nephew, challeng'd you to single fight Hot. O, would the quarrell lay vpon our heads, And that no man might draw short breath to day, But I and Harry Monmouth. Tell me, tell mee, How shew'd his Talking? Seem'd it in contempt? Ver. No, by my Soule: I neuer in my life Did heare a Challenge vrg'd more modestly, Vnlesse a Brother should a Brother dare To gentle exercise, and proofe of Armes. He gaue you all the Duties of a Man, Trimm'd vp your praises with a Princely tongue, Spoke your deseruings like a Chronicle, Making you euer better then his praise, By still dispraising praise, valew'd with you: And which became him like a Prince indeed, He made a blushing citall of himselfe, And chid his Trewant youth with such a Grace, As if he mastred there a double spirit Of teaching, and of learning instantly: There did he pause. But let me tell the World, If he out-liue the enuie of this day, England did neuer owe so sweet a hope, So much misconstrued in his Wantonnesse, Hot. Cousin, I thinke thou art enamored On his Follies: neuer did I heare Of any Prince so wilde at Liberty. But be he as he will, yet once ere night, I will imbrace him with a Souldiers arme, That he shall shrinke vnder my curtesie. Arme, arme with speed. And Fellow's, Soldiers, Friends, Better consider what you haue to do, That I that haue not well the gift of Tongue, Can lift your blood vp with perswasion. Enter a Messenger. Mes. My Lord, heere are Letters for you Hot. I cannot reade them now. O Gentlemen, the time of life is short; To spend that shortnesse basely, were too long. If life did ride vpon a Dials point, Still ending at the arriuall of an houre, And if we liue, we liue to treade on Kings: If dye; braue death, when Princes dye with vs. Now for our Consciences, the Armes is faire, When the intent for bearing them is iust. Enter another Messenger. Mes. My Lord prepare, the King comes on apace Hot. I thanke him, that he cuts me from my tale: For I professe not talking: Onely this, Let each man do his best. And heere I draw a Sword, Whose worthy temper I intend to staine With the best blood that I can meete withall, In the aduenture of this perillous day. Now Esperance Percy, and set on: Sound all the lofty Instruments of Warre, And by that Musicke, let vs all imbrace: For heauen to earth, some of vs neuer shall, A second time do such a curtesie. They embrace, the trumpets sound, the King entereth with his power, alarum vnto the battell. Then enter Dowglas, and Sir Walter Blunt. Blu. What is thy name, that in battel thus y crossest me? What honor dost thou seeke vpon my head? Dow. Know then my name is Dowglas, And I do haunt thee in the Battell thus, Because some tell me, that thou art a King Blunt. They tell thee true Dow. The Lord of Stafford deere to day hath bought Thy likenesse: for insted of thee King Harry, This Sword hath ended him, so shall it thee, Vnlesse thou yeeld thee as a Prisoner Blu. I was not borne to yeeld, thou haughty Scot, And thou shalt finde a King that will reuenge Lords Staffords death. Fight, Blunt is slaine, then enters Hotspur. Hot. O Dowglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus I neuer had triumphed o're a Scot Dow. All's done, all's won, here breathles lies the king Hot. Where? Dow. Heere Hot. This Dowglas? No, I know this face full well: A gallant Knight he was, his name was Blunt, Semblably furnish'd like the King himselfe Dow. Ah foole: go with thy soule whether it goes, A borrowed Title hast thou bought too deere. Why didst thou tell me, that thou wer't a King? Hot. The King hath many marching in his Coats Dow. Now by my Sword, I will kill all his Coates, Ile murder all his Wardrobe peece by peece, Vntill I meet the King Hot. Vp, and away, Our Souldiers stand full fairely for the day. Exeunt. Alarum, and enter Falstaffe solus. Fal. Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot heere: here's no scoring, but vpon the pate. Soft who are you? Sir Walter Blunt, there's Honour for you: here's no vanity, I am as hot as molten Lead, and as heauy too; heauen keepe Lead out of mee, I neede no more weight then mine owne Bowelles. I haue led my rag of Muffins where they are pepper'd: there's not three of my 150. left aliue, and they for the Townes end, to beg during life. But who comes heere? Enter the Prince Pri. What, stand'st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword, Many a Nobleman lies starke and stiffe Vnder the hooues of vaunting enemies, Whose deaths are vnreueng'd. Prethy lend me thy sword Fal. O Hal, I prethee giue me leaue to breath awhile: Turke Gregory neuer did such deeds in Armes, as I haue done this day. I haue paid Percy, I haue made him sure Prin. He is indeed, and liuing to kill thee: I prethee lend me thy sword Falst. Nay Hal, is Percy bee aliue, thou getst not my Sword; but take my Pistoll if thou wilt Prin. Giue it me: What, is it in the case? Fal. I Hal, 'tis hot: There's that will Sacke a City. The Prince drawes out a Bottle of Sacke. Prin. What, is it a time to iest and dally now. Enter. Throwes it at him. Fal. If Percy be aliue, Ile pierce him: if he do come in my way, so: if he do not, if I come in his (willingly) let him make a Carbonado of me. I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: Giue mee life, which if I can saue, so: if not, honour comes vnlook'd for, and ther's an end. Exit ----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- Scena Tertia. Alarum, excursions, enter the King, the Prince, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, and Earle of Westmerland. King. I prethee Harry withdraw thy selfe, thou bleedest too much: Lord Iohn of Lancaster, go you with him P.Ioh. Not I, My Lord, vnlesse I did bleed too Prin. I beseech your Maiesty make vp, Least your retirement do amaze your friends King. I will do so: My Lord of Westmerland leade him to his Tent West. Come my Lord, Ile leade you to your Tent Prin. Lead me my Lord? I do not need your helpe; And heauen forbid a shallow scratch should driue The Prince of Wales from such a field as this, Where stain'd Nobility lyes troden on, And Rebels Armes triumph in massacres Ioh. We breath too long: Come cosin Westmerland, Our duty this way lies, for heauens sake come Prin. By heauen thou hast deceiu'd me Lancaster, I did not thinke thee Lord of such a spirit: Before, I lou'd thee as a Brother, Iohn; But now, I do respect thee as my Soule King. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point, With lustier maintenance then I did looke for Of such an vngrowne Warriour Prin. O this Boy, lends mettall to vs all. Enter. Enter Dowglas. Dow. Another King? They grow like Hydra's heads: I am the Dowglas, fatall to all those That weare those colours on them. What art thou That counterfeit'st the person of a King? King. The King himselfe: who Dowglas grieues at hart So many of his shadowes thou hast met, And not the very King. I haue two Boyes Seeke Percy and thy selfe about the Field: But seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily, I will assay thee: so defend thy selfe Dow. I feare thou art another counterfeit: And yet infaith thou bear'st thee like a King: But mine I am sure thou art, whoere thou be, And thus I win thee. They fight, the K[ing]. being in danger, Enter Prince. Prin. Hold vp thy head vile Scot, or thou art like Neuer to hold it vp againe: the Spirits Of valiant Sherly, Stafford, Blunt, are in my Armes; it is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, Who neuer promiseth, but he meanes to pay. They Fight, Dowglas flyeth. Cheerely My Lord: how fare's your Grace? Sir Nicolas Gawsey hath for succour sent, And so hath Clifton: Ile to Clifton straight King. Stay, and breath awhile. Thou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion, And shew'd thou mak'st some tender of my life In this faire rescue thou hast brought to mee Prin. O heauen, they did me too much iniury, That euer said I hearkned to your death. If it were so, I might haue let alone The insulting hand of Dowglas ouer you, Which would haue bene as speedy in your end, As all the poysonous Potions in the world, And sau'd the Treacherous labour of your Sonne K. Make vp to Clifton, Ile to Sir Nicholas Gausey. Exit Enter Hotspur. Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth Prin. Thou speak'st as if I would deny my name Hot. My name is Harrie Percie Prin. Why then I see a very valiant rebel of that name. I am the Prince of Wales, and thinke not Percy, To share with me in glory any more: Two Starres keepe not their motion in one Sphere, Nor can one England brooke a double reigne, Of Harry Percy, and the Prince of Wales Hot. Nor shall it Harry, for the houre is come To end the one of vs; and would to heauen, Thy name in Armes, were now as great as mine Prin. Ile make it greater, ere I part from thee, And all the budding Honors on thy Crest, Ile crop, to make a Garland for my head Hot. I can no longer brooke thy Vanities. Fight. Enter Falstaffe. Fal. Well said Hal, to it Hal. Nay you shall finde no Boyes play heere, I can tell you. Enter Dowglas, he fights with Falstaffe, who fals down as if he were dead. The Prince killeth Percie. Hot. Oh Harry, thou hast rob'd me of my youth: I better brooke the losse of brittle life, Then those proud Titles thou hast wonne of me, They wound my thoghts worse, then the sword my flesh: But thought's the slaue of Life, and Life, Times foole; And Time, that takes suruey of all the world, Must haue a stop. O, I could Prophesie, But that the Earth, and the cold hand of death, Lyes on my Tongue: No Percy, thou art dust And food for- Prin. For Wormes, braue Percy. Farewell great heart: Ill-weau'd Ambition, how much art thou shrunke? When that this bodie did containe a spirit, A Kingdome for it was too small a bound: But now two paces of the vilest Earth Is roome enough. This Earth that beares the dead, Beares not aliue so stout a Gentleman. If thou wer't sensible of curtesie, I should not make so great a shew of Zeale. But let my fauours hide thy mangled face, And euen in thy behalfe, Ile thanke my selfe For doing these fayre Rites of Tendernesse. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heauen, Thy ignomy sleepe with thee in the graue, But not remembred in thy Epitaph. What? Old Acquaintance? Could not all this flesh Keepe in a little life? Poore Iacke, farewell: I could haue better spar'd a better man. O, I should haue a heauy misse of thee, If I were much in loue with Vanity. Death hath not strucke so fat a Deere to day, Though many dearer in this bloody Fray: Imbowell'd will I see thee by and by, Till then, in blood, by Noble Percie lye. Enter. Falstaffe riseth vp. Falst. Imbowell'd? If thou imbowell mee to day, Ile giue you leaue to powder me, and eat me too to morow. 'Twas time to counterfet, or that hotte Termagant Scot, had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I am no counterfeit; to dye, is to be a counterfeit, for hee is but the counterfeit of a man, who hath not the life of a man: But to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liueth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeede. The better part of Valour, is Discretion; in the which better part, I haue saued my life. I am affraide of this Gun-powder Percy though he be dead. How if hee should counterfeit too, and rise? I am afraid hee would proue the better counterfeit: therefore Ile make him sure: yea, and Ile sweare I kill'd him. Why may not hee rise as well as I: Nothing confutes me but eyes, and no-bodie sees me. Therefore sirra, with a new wound in your thigh come you along me. Takes Hotspurre on his backe. Enter Prince and Iohn of Lancaster. Prin. Come Brother Iohn, full brauely hast thou flesht thy Maiden sword Iohn. But soft, who haue we heere? Did you not tell me this Fat man was dead? Prin. I did, I saw him dead, Breathlesse, and bleeding on the ground: Art thou aliue? Or is it fantasie that playes vpon our eye-sight? I prethee speake, we will not trust our eyes Without our eares. Thou art not what thou seem'st Fal. No, that's certaine: I am not a double man: but if I be not Iacke Falstaffe, then am I a Iacke: There is Percy, if your Father will do me any Honor, so: if not, let him kill the next Percie himselfe. I looke to be either Earle or Duke, I can assure you Prin. Why, Percy I kill'd my selfe, and saw thee dead Fal. Did'st thou? Lord, Lord, how the world is giuen to Lying? I graunt you I was downe, and out of breath, and so was he, but we rose both at an instant, and fought a long houre by Shrewsburie clocke. If I may bee beleeued, so: if not, let them that should reward Valour, beare the sinne vpon their owne heads. Ile take't on my death I gaue him this wound in the Thigh: if the man were aliue, and would deny it, I would make him eate a peece of my sword Iohn. This is the strangest Tale that e're I heard Prin. This is the strangest Fellow, Brother Iohn. Come bring your luggage Nobly on your backe: For my part, if a lye may do thee grace, Ile gil'd it with the happiest tearmes I haue. A Retreat is sounded. The Trumpets sound Retreat, the day is ours: Come Brother, let's to the highest of the field, To see what Friends are liuing, who are dead. Exeunt. Fal. Ile follow as they say, for Reward. Hee that rewards me, heauen reward him. If I do grow great again, Ile grow lesse? For Ile purge, and leaue Sacke, and liue cleanly, as a Nobleman should do. Exit ----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- Scaena Quarta. The Trumpets sound. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord Iohn of Lancaster, Earle of Westmerland, with Worcester & Vernon Prisoners. King. Thus euer did Rebellion finde Rebuke. Ill-spirited Worcester, did we not send Grace, Pardon, and tearmes of Loue to all of you? And would'st thou turne our offers contrary? Misuse the tenor of thy Kinsmans trust? Three Knights vpon our party slaine to day, A Noble Earle, and many a creature else, Had beene aliue this houre, If like a Christian thou had'st truly borne Betwixt our Armies, true Intelligence Wor. What I haue done, my safety vrg'd me to, And I embrace this fortune patiently, Since not to be auoyded, it fals on mee King. Beare Worcester to death, and Vernon too: Other offenders we will pause vpon. Exit Worcester and Vernon. How goes the Field? Prin. The Noble Scot Lord Dowglas, when hee saw The fortune of the day quite turn'd from him, The Noble Percy slaine, and all his men, Vpon the foot of feare, fled with the rest; And falling from a hill, he was so bruiz'd That the pursuers tooke him. At my Tent The Dowglas is, and I beseech your Grace, I may dispose of him King. With all my heart Prin. Then Brother Iohn of Lancaster, To you this honourable bounty shall belong: Go to the Dowglas, and deliuer him Vp to his pleasure, ransomlesse and free: His Valour shewne vpon our Crests to day, Hath taught vs how to cherish such high deeds, Euen in the bosome of our Aduersaries King. Then this remaines: that we diuide our Power. You Sonne Iohn, and my Cousin Westmerland Towards Yorke shall bend you, with your deerest speed To meet Northumberland, and the Prelate Scroope, Who (as we heare) are busily in Armes. My Selfe, and you Sonne Harry will towards Wales, To fight with Glendower, and the Earle of March. Rebellion in this Land shall lose his way, Meeting the Checke of such another day: And since this Businesse so faire is done, Let vs not leaue till all our owne be wonne. Exeunt. FINIS. The First Part of Henry the Fourth, with the Life and Death of HENRY Sirnamed HOT-SPVRRE.

Henry VI Part 1.act 1.sce

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1, scene 3 with the given context.

act 1, scene 1|act 1, scene 2|act 1, scene 3|act 1, scene 4

The Duke of Gloucester, Lord Protector of the realm tries to enter the Tower, afraid that things may have gone wrong there since Henry V's death. The warders refuse to let him in, saying they have orders not to. Gloucester is understandably annoyed by not being let in when he's basically running England, but when the guy in charge comes , he says that he has clear orders not to let Gloucester in. This is sort of like locking Dumbledore out of Hogwarts. Gloucester isn't quite as full of professor-ly charm as Dumbledore, but still. Worse yet, Woodville says it's Winchester who's ordered them to keep Gloucester out. As we know from the very first scene of the play, Gloucester and Winchester don't get along. Gloucester disses Winchester badly--he says Henry V never liked Winchester anyway, and that Woodville had better open the gates. Winchester turns up about now and starts things out by insulting Gloucester. How so? He calls him "ambitious." Now that sounds nice--ambition means you accomplish great things and get your homework done early, right? Well, not in the Renaissance, especially if you're a nobleman but not a king. People suspected ambition and thought an ambitious character might want to take over. Gloucester disses Winchester right back, and the insults get thick and fast. Winchester accuses Gloucester of usurping the King's power and betraying the kingdom, and Gloucester accuses Winchester of trying to murder Henry V way back when, among other things. The insults keep going until a fight breaks out, and Gloucester's men chase Winchester's men off. The Mayor of London comes and asks why they can't all just get along. Gloucester and Winchester tell him, at length. Gloucester complains that Winchester has no regard for God or King , and that he's taken over the Tower. Winchester rattles off a list of accusations against Gloucester: He keeps pushing for war, he asks for too much money, he wants to overthrow religion completely, and he wants to betray Henry VI and be king himself. Gloucester is ticked off by this list, unsurprisingly, especially since lots of it seems to be false. He says he'll answer with blows, and the fighting starts again. The Mayor gets one of his officers to make a loud proclamation, which basically says, "Go home, and now you can't use weapons in my city." It even threatens the death penalty if they do use weapons here again. Dude's laying down the law, old fashioned sheriff style. Gloucester and Winchester agree to stop fighting now, but only on the condition that they can keep feuding in other ways. Gloucester is more moderate: He says he won't break the law, but that their business isn't over. Winchester is less moderate: He basically threatens to kill Gloucester at some later point. The Lord Mayor says if they don't stop he'll bring in clubs. He apparently doesn't like Winchester either, since he mutters to the audience, "This cardinal's more haughty than the devil" . Burn. Gloucester acknowledges the Mayor's authority, and Winchester makes another threat on Gloucester's life. They leave. The Mayor marvels that the nobles could be so quarrelsome.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE 1. Westminster Abbey Dead March. Enter the funeral of KING HENRY THE FIFTH, attended on by the DUKE OF BEDFORD, Regent of France, the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, Protector, the DUKE OF EXETER, the EARL OF WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER BEDFORD. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars That have consented unto Henry's death! King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. GLOUCESTER. England ne'er had a king until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command; His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings; His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, More dazzled and drove back his enemies Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. What should I say? His deeds exceed all speech: He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered. EXETER. We mourn in black; why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead and never shall revive. Upon a wooden coffin we attend; And death's dishonourable victory We with our stately presence glorify, Like captives bound to a triumphant car. What! shall we curse the planets of mishap That plotted thus our glory's overthrow? Or shall we think the subtle-witted French Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, By magic verses have contriv'd his end? WINCHESTER. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings; Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day So dreadful will not be as was his sight. The battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought; The Church's prayers made him so prosperous. GLOUCESTER. The Church! Where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd, His thread of life had not so soon decay'd. None do you like but an effeminate prince, Whom like a school-boy you may overawe. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art Protector And lookest to command the Prince and realm. Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe More than God or religious churchmen may. GLOUCESTER. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh; And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, Except it be to pray against thy foes. BEDFORD. Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace; Let's to the altar. Heralds, wait on us. Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms, Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mothers' moist'ned eyes babes shall suck, Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate: Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, Combat with adverse planets in the heavens. A far more glorious star thy soul will make Than Julius Caesar or bright Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. BEDFORD. What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse? Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. GLOUCESTER. Is Paris lost? Is Rouen yielded up? If Henry were recall'd to life again, These news would cause him once more yield the ghost. EXETER. How were they lost? What treachery was us'd? MESSENGER. No treachery, but want of men and money. Amongst the soldiers this is muttered That here you maintain several factions; And whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought, You are disputing of your generals: One would have ling'ring wars, with little cost; Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; A third thinks, without expense at all, By guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd. Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honours, new-begot. Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms; Of England's coat one half is cut away. EXETER. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. BEDFORD. Me they concern; Regent I am of France. Give me my steeled coat; I'll fight for France. Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance. France is revolted from the English quite, Except some petty towns of no import. The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; The Bastard of Orleans with him is join'd; Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; The Duke of Alencon flieth to his side. EXETER. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! O, whither shall we fly from this reproach? GLOUCESTER. We will not fly but to our enemies' throats. Bedford, if thou be slack I'll fight it out. BEDFORD. Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness? An army have I muster'd in my thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun. Enter a third MESSENGER THIRD MESSENGER. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. WINCHESTER. What! Wherein Talbot overcame? Is't so? THIRD MESSENGER. O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown. The circumstance I'll tell you more at large. The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, Retiring from the siege of Orleans, Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, By three and twenty thousand of the French Was round encompassed and set upon. No leisure had he to enrank his men; He wanted pikes to set before his archers; Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges They pitched in the ground confusedly To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. More than three hours the fight continued; Where valiant Talbot, above human thought, Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him; Here, there, and everywhere, enrag'd he slew The French exclaim'd the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agaz'd on him. His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit, 'A Talbot! a Talbot!' cried out amain, And rush'd into the bowels of the battle. Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward. He, being in the vaward plac'd behind With purpose to relieve and follow them- Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke; Hence grew the general wreck and massacre. Enclosed were they with their enemies. A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back; Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength, Durst not presume to look once in the face. BEDFORD. Is Talbot slain? Then I will slay myself, For living idly here in pomp and ease, Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, Unto his dastard foemen is betray'd. THIRD MESSENGER. O no, he lives, but is took prisoner, And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford; Most of the rest slaughter'd or took likewise. BEDFORD. His ransom there is none but I shall pay. I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne; His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours. Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make To keep our great Saint George's feast withal. Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake. THIRD MESSENGER. So you had need; for Orleans is besieg'd; The English army is grown weak and faint; The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. EXETER. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. BEDFORD. I do remember it, and here take my leave To go about my preparation. Exit GLOUCESTER. I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can To view th' artillery and munition; And then I will proclaim young Henry king. Exit EXETER. To Eltham will I, where the young King is, Being ordain'd his special governor; And for his safety there I'll best devise. Exit WINCHESTER. [Aside] Each hath his place and function to attend: I am left out; for me nothing remains. But long I will not be Jack out of office. The King from Eltham I intend to steal, And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. Exeunt ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. France. Before Orleans Sound a flourish. Enter CHARLES THE DAUPHIN, ALENCON, and REIGNIER, marching with drum and soldiers CHARLES. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens So in the earth, to this day is not known. Late did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors, upon us he smiles. What towns of any moment but we have? At pleasure here we lie near Orleans; Otherwhiles the famish'd English, like pale ghosts, Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. ALENCON. They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves. Either they must be dieted like mules And have their provender tied to their mouths, Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. REIGNIER. Let's raise the siege. Why live we idly here? Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear; Remaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury, And he may well in fretting spend his gall Nor men nor money hath he to make war. CHARLES. Sound, sound alarum; we will rush on them. Now for the honour of the forlorn French! Him I forgive my death that killeth me, When he sees me go back one foot or flee. Exeunt Here alarum. They are beaten back by the English, with great loss. Re-enter CHARLES, ALENCON, and REIGNIER CHARLES. Who ever saw the like? What men have I! Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled But that they left me midst my enemies. REIGNIER. Salisbury is a desperate homicide; He fighteth as one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. ALENCON. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records England all Olivers and Rowlands bred During the time Edward the Third did reign. More truly now may this be verified; For none but Samsons and Goliases It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten! Lean raw-bon'd rascals! Who would e'er suppose They had such courage and audacity? CHARLES. Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brain'd slaves, And hunger will enforce them to be more eager. Of old I know them; rather with their teeth The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege. REIGNIER. I think by some odd gimmers or device Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do. By my consent, we'll even let them alone. ALENCON. Be it so. Enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS BASTARD. Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him. CHARLES. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. BASTARD. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd. Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence? Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand. A holy maid hither with me I bring, Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven, Ordained is to raise this tedious siege And drive the English forth the bounds of France. The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome: What's past and what's to come she can descry. Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. CHARLES. Go, call her in. [Exit BASTARD] But first, to try her skill, Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place; Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern; By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. Re-enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS with JOAN LA PUCELLE REIGNIER. Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats? PUCELLE. Reignier, is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me? Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind; I know thee well, though never seen before. Be not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me. In private will I talk with thee apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. REIGNIER. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. PUCELLE. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter, My wit untrain'd in any kind of art. Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas'd To shine on my contemptible estate. Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks, God's Mother deigned to appear to me, And in a vision full of majesty Will'd me to leave my base vocation And free my country from calamity Her aid she promis'd and assur'd success. In complete glory she reveal'd herself; And whereas I was black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infus'd on me That beauty am I bless'd with which you may see. Ask me what question thou canst possible, And I will answer unpremeditated. My courage try by combat if thou dar'st, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this: thou shalt be fortunate If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. CHARLES. Thou hast astonish'd me with thy high terms. Only this proof I'll of thy valour make In single combat thou shalt buckle with me; And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; Otherwise I renounce all confidence. PUCELLE. I am prepar'd; here is my keen-edg'd sword, Deck'd with five flower-de-luces on each side, The which at Touraine, in Saint Katherine's churchyard, Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth. CHARLES. Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman. PUCELLE. And while I live I'll ne'er fly from a man. [Here they fight and JOAN LA PUCELLE overcomes] CHARLES. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon, And fightest with the sword of Deborah. PUCELLE. Christ's Mother helps me, else I were too weak. CHARLES. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me. Impatiently I burn with thy desire; My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu'd. Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, Let me thy servant and not sovereign be. 'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. PUCELLE. I must not yield to any rites of love, For my profession's sacred from above. When I have chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense. CHARLES. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall. REIGNIER. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. ALENCON. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock; Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech. REIGNIER. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean? ALENCON. He may mean more than we poor men do know; These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues. REIGNIER. My lord, where are you? What devise you on? Shall we give o'er Orleans, or no? PUCELLE. Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants! Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard. CHARLES. What she says I'll confirm; we'll fight it out. PUCELLE. Assign'd am I to be the English scourge. This night the siege assuredly I'll raise. Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days, Since I have entered into these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. With Henry's death the English circle ends; Dispersed are the glories it included. Now am I like that proud insulting ship Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once. CHARLES. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the mother of great Constantine, Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters were like thee. Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth, How may I reverently worship thee enough? ALENCON. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege. REIGNIER. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours; Drive them from Orleans, and be immortaliz'd. CHARLES. Presently we'll try. Come, let's away about it. No prophet will I trust if she prove false. Exeunt ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. London. Before the Tower gates Enter the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, with his serving-men in blue coats GLOUCESTER. I am come to survey the Tower this day; Since Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance. Where be these warders that they wait not here? Open the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls. FIRST WARDER. [Within] Who's there that knocks so imperiously? FIRST SERVING-MAN. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. SECOND WARDER. [Within] Whoe'er he be, you may not be let in. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector? FIRST WARDER. [Within] The Lord protect him! so we answer him. We do no otherwise than we are will'd. GLOUCESTER. Who willed you, or whose will stands but mine? There's none Protector of the realm but I. Break up the gates, I'll be your warrantize. Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms? [GLOUCESTER'S men rush at the Tower gates, and WOODVILLE the Lieutenant speaks within] WOODVILLE. [Within] What noise is this? What traitors have we here? GLOUCESTER. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear? Open the gates; here's Gloucester that would enter. WOODVILLE. [Within] Have patience, noble Duke, I may not open; The Cardinal of Winchester forbids. From him I have express commandment That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. GLOUCESTER. Faint-hearted Woodville, prizest him fore me? Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook! Thou art no friend to God or to the King. Open the gates, or I'll shut thee out shortly. SERVING-MEN. Open the gates unto the Lord Protector, Or we'll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. Enter to the PROTECTOR at the Tower gates WINCHESTER and his men in tawny coats WINCHESTER. How now, ambitious Humphry! What means this? GLOUCESTER. Peel'd priest, dost thou command me to be shut out? WINCHESTER. I do, thou most usurping proditor, And not Protector of the King or realm. GLOUCESTER. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that contrived'st to murder our dead lord; Thou that giv'st whores indulgences to sin. I'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat, If thou proceed in this thy insolence. WINCHESTER. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot. This be Damascus; be thou cursed Cain, To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. GLOUCESTER. I will not slay thee, but I'll drive thee back. Thy scarlet robes as a child's bearing-cloth I'll use to carry thee out of this place. WINCHESTER. Do what thou dar'st; I beard thee to thy face. GLOUCESTER. What! am I dar'd and bearded to my face? Draw, men, for all this privileged place Blue-coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard; I mean to tug it, and to cuff you soundly; Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat; In spite of Pope or dignities of church, Here by the cheeks I'll drag thee up and down. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the Pope. GLOUCESTER. Winchester goose! I cry 'A rope, a rope!' Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay? Thee I'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array. Out, tawny-coats! Out, scarlet hypocrite! Here GLOUCESTER'S men beat out the CARDINAL'S men; and enter in the hurly burly the MAYOR OF LONDON and his OFFICERS MAYOR. Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates, Thus contumeliously should break the peace! GLOUCESTER. Peace, Mayor! thou know'st little of my wrongs: Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King, Hath here distrain'd the Tower to his use. WINCHESTER. Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens; One that still motions war and never peace, O'ercharging your free purses with large fines; That seeks to overthrow religion, Because he is Protector of the realm, And would have armour here out of the Tower, To crown himself King and suppress the Prince. GLOUCESTER. I will not answer thee with words, but blows. [Here they skirmish again] MAYOR. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife But to make open proclamation. Come, officer, as loud as e'er thou canst, Cry. OFFICER. [Cries] All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God's peace and the King's, we charge and command you, in his Highness' name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use, any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death. GLOUCESTER. Cardinal, I'll be no breaker of the law; But we shall meet and break our minds at large. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, we'll meet to thy cost, be sure; Thy heart-blood I will have for this day's work. MAYOR. I'll call for clubs if you will not away. This Cardinal's more haughty than the devil. GLOUCESTER. Mayor, farewell; thou dost but what thou mayst. WINCHESTER. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head, For I intend to have it ere long. Exeunt, severally, GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER with their servants MAYOR. See the coast clear'd, and then we will depart. Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! I myself fight not once in forty year. Exeunt ----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. France. Before Orleans Enter, on the walls, the MASTER-GUNNER OF ORLEANS and his BOY MASTER-GUNNER. Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is besieg'd, And how the English have the suburbs won. BOY. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, Howe'er unfortunate I miss'd my aim. MASTER-GUNNER. But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul'd by me. Chief master-gunner am I of this town; Something I must do to procure me grace. The Prince's espials have informed me How the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd, Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars In yonder tower, to overpeer the city, And thence discover how with most advantage They may vex us with shot or with assault. To intercept this inconvenience, A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have plac'd; And even these three days have I watch'd If I could see them. Now do thou watch, For I can stay no longer. If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word; And thou shalt find me at the Governor's. Exit BOY. Father, I warrant you; take you no care; I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them. Exit Enter SALISBURY and TALBOT on the turrets, with SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE, and others SALISBURY. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd! How wert thou handled being prisoner? Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd? Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top. TALBOT. The Earl of Bedford had a prisoner Call'd the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; For him was I exchang'd and ransomed. But with a baser man of arms by far Once, in contempt, they would have barter'd me; Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death Rather than I would be so vile esteem'd. In fine, redeem'd I was as I desir'd. But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart Whom with my bare fists I would execute, If I now had him brought into my power. SALISBURY. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain'd. TALBOT. With scoffs, and scorns, and contumelious taunts, In open market-place produc'd they me To be a public spectacle to all; Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our children so. Then broke I from the officers that led me, And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground To hurl at the beholders of my shame; My grisly countenance made others fly; None durst come near for fear of sudden death. In iron walls they deem'd me not secure; So great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread That they suppos'd I could rend bars of steel And spurn in pieces posts of adamant; Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had That walk'd about me every minute-while; And if I did but stir out of my bed, Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. Enter the BOY with a linstock SALISBURY. I grieve to hear what torments you endur'd; But we will be reveng'd sufficiently. Now it is supper-time in Orleans: Here, through this grate, I count each one And view the Frenchmen how they fortify. Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee. Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale, Let me have your express opinions Where is best place to make our batt'ry next. GARGRAVE. I think at the North Gate; for there stand lords. GLANSDALE. And I here, at the bulwark of the bridge. TALBOT. For aught I see, this city must be famish'd, Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. [Here they shoot and SALISBURY and GARGRAVE fall down] SALISBURY. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners! GARGRAVE. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man! TALBOT. What chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us? Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak. How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men? One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off! Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand That hath contriv'd this woeful tragedy! In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame; Henry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars; Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up, His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field. Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail, One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace; The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it. Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort, Thou shalt not die whiles He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, As who should say 'When I am dead and gone, Remember to avenge me on the French.' Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero, Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn. Wretched shall France be only in my name. [Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens] What stir is this? What tumult's in the heavens? Whence cometh this alarum and the noise? Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd head The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd, A holy prophetess new risen up, Is come with a great power to raise the siege. [Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans] TALBOT. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan. It irks his heart he cannot be reveng'd. Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you. Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish, Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels And make a quagmire of your mingled brains. Convey me Salisbury into his tent, And then we'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare. Alarum. Exeunt

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 1, scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

act 1, scene 5|act 1, scene 1|act 1, scene 2|act 1, scene 3

and commentary The edition used in this commentary is William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part One, edited by Michael Taylor, Oxford World's Classics, general editor Stanley Wells, 2004, reprint, 2008. Page and line numbers refer to this edition. Act 1, Scene 1 The play opens with the funeral of King Henry V, who preceded King Henry VI as monarch of England. Attending the funeral are various prominent nobles and churchmen, who reflect on what the king's death means to England. The Duke of Bedford is Regent of France, a reference to England's conquest of some territories of France during Henry V's reign. The Duke of Gloucester is described as the Protector. The Protector is a person who rules temporarily on behalf of a monarch who is too young to rule in his own right until he comes of age. Henry VI is at this point still a boy. Also in attendance at the funeral are the Duke of Exeter, the Earl of Warwick, the Bishop of Winchester, and the Duke of Somerset. Both Bedford and Gloucester say that Henry V was the worthiest king of all time and a great military leader who conquered England's enemies . The nobles see Henry V's death as a tragedy for the country, marking the end of England's period of glorious conquest in France. A squabble breaks out among the nobles. Exeter wonders if the French have killed Henry V by bewitching him. Winchester says that Henry V was successful because he was strengthened by churchmen's prayers, but Gloucester replies that the churchmen hastened his end by praying against him. He adds that Winchester would prefer an effeminate and weak prince to one with a mind of his own. Winchester accuses Gloucester of caring more about pandering to his wife's ambition than about God. Gloucester accuses Winchester of being ungodly. Bedford tries to make peace by summoning the nobles to the altar. There, they will lay down their arms, which are useless now that Henry V is dead. Bedford fears that a terrible time is coming when all the men will have been killed and only women are left to mourn the dead. Bedford is interrupted by a messenger, who adds to the sense of a nation shamed by announcing that the English have lost many of the towns in France that were conquered by Henry V. The cause, adds the messenger, was a lack of men and money for the army in France. The nobles are dismayed. Bedford, who is Regent of France, calls for his armor so that he can go to France and fight for the return of the lost towns. A second messenger enters with worse news. France has revolted against its English occupiers and Charles the Dauphin has been crowned king. Other prominent royals and nobles have joined Charles, including the Bastard of Orleans; Reignier, Duke of Anjou; and the Duke of Alencon. Exeter, Gloucester and Bedford vow to raise an army, go to France, and reclaim the lost towns. A third messenger arrives and says that Lord Talbot, a renowned English military leader, has suffered a serious defeat at Orleans. Despite his lack of men and weapons, Talbot fought courageously for hours. But he was betrayed by the cowardice of Sir John Fastolf, who was supposed to provide backup to Talbot but fled instead. Talbot was then stabbed in the back by a soldier fighting for the French. He is still alive but has been taken prisoner, along with other nobles. Bedford says he will set off for France to ransom Talbot. He says he will take ten thousand men with him to launch a fresh offensive against the French. The messenger says that the English army has grown weak from lack of supplies. The Earl of Salisbury, one of the leaders of the English forces, faces imminent mutiny by his men. Exeter reminds the other nobles of their vows to Henry V to crush the Dauphin or make him recognize the authority of England. Bedford leaves to get ready for his journey to France. Gloucester says he will proclaim young Henry VI king. Exeter leaves to make arrangements to keep Henry VI safe. Left alone onstage, Winchester reveals to the audience in a soliloquy his plot to kidnap the young king and make himself the ruler of England.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 5--------- SCENE 5. Before Orleans Here an alarum again, and TALBOT pursueth the DAUPHIN and driveth him. Then enter JOAN LA PUCELLE driving Englishmen before her. Then enter TALBOT TALBOT. Where is my strength, my valour, and my force? Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them; A woman clad in armour chaseth them. Enter LA PUCELLE Here, here she comes. I'll have a bout with thee. Devil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee; Blood will I draw on thee--thou art a witch And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv'st. PUCELLE. Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee. [Here they fight] TALBOT. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? My breast I'll burst with straining of my courage. And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, But I will chastise this high minded strumpet. [They fight again] PUCELLE. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come. I must go victual Orleans forthwith. [A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers] O'ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength. Go, go, cheer up thy hungry starved men; Help Salisbury to make his testament. This day is ours, as many more shall be. Exit TALBOT. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do. A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal, Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists. So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They call'd us, for our fierceness, English dogs; Now like to whelps we crying run away. [A short alarum] Hark, countrymen! Either renew the fight Or tear the lions out of England's coat; Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead: Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, Or horse or oxen from the leopard, As you fly from your oft subdued slaves. [Alarum. Here another skirmish] It will not be-retire into your trenches. You all consented unto Salisbury's death, For none would strike a stroke in his revenge. Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans In spite of us or aught that we could do. O, would I were to die with Salisbury! The shame hereof will make me hide my head. Exit TALBOT. Alarum; retreat ----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE 1. Westminster Abbey Dead March. Enter the funeral of KING HENRY THE FIFTH, attended on by the DUKE OF BEDFORD, Regent of France, the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, Protector, the DUKE OF EXETER, the EARL OF WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER BEDFORD. Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars That have consented unto Henry's death! King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long! England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. GLOUCESTER. England ne'er had a king until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command; His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings; His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, More dazzled and drove back his enemies Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. What should I say? His deeds exceed all speech: He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered. EXETER. We mourn in black; why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead and never shall revive. Upon a wooden coffin we attend; And death's dishonourable victory We with our stately presence glorify, Like captives bound to a triumphant car. What! shall we curse the planets of mishap That plotted thus our glory's overthrow? Or shall we think the subtle-witted French Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, By magic verses have contriv'd his end? WINCHESTER. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings; Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day So dreadful will not be as was his sight. The battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought; The Church's prayers made him so prosperous. GLOUCESTER. The Church! Where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd, His thread of life had not so soon decay'd. None do you like but an effeminate prince, Whom like a school-boy you may overawe. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art Protector And lookest to command the Prince and realm. Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe More than God or religious churchmen may. GLOUCESTER. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh; And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, Except it be to pray against thy foes. BEDFORD. Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace; Let's to the altar. Heralds, wait on us. Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms, Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead. Posterity, await for wretched years, When at their mothers' moist'ned eyes babes shall suck, Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate: Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils, Combat with adverse planets in the heavens. A far more glorious star thy soul will make Than Julius Caesar or bright Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: Guienne, Champagne, Rheims, Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. BEDFORD. What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse? Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. GLOUCESTER. Is Paris lost? Is Rouen yielded up? If Henry were recall'd to life again, These news would cause him once more yield the ghost. EXETER. How were they lost? What treachery was us'd? MESSENGER. No treachery, but want of men and money. Amongst the soldiers this is muttered That here you maintain several factions; And whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought, You are disputing of your generals: One would have ling'ring wars, with little cost; Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings; A third thinks, without expense at all, By guileful fair words peace may be obtain'd. Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honours, new-begot. Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms; Of England's coat one half is cut away. EXETER. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. BEDFORD. Me they concern; Regent I am of France. Give me my steeled coat; I'll fight for France. Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance. France is revolted from the English quite, Except some petty towns of no import. The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; The Bastard of Orleans with him is join'd; Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; The Duke of Alencon flieth to his side. EXETER. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! O, whither shall we fly from this reproach? GLOUCESTER. We will not fly but to our enemies' throats. Bedford, if thou be slack I'll fight it out. BEDFORD. Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness? An army have I muster'd in my thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun. Enter a third MESSENGER THIRD MESSENGER. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. WINCHESTER. What! Wherein Talbot overcame? Is't so? THIRD MESSENGER. O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown. The circumstance I'll tell you more at large. The tenth of August last this dreadful lord, Retiring from the siege of Orleans, Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, By three and twenty thousand of the French Was round encompassed and set upon. No leisure had he to enrank his men; He wanted pikes to set before his archers; Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges They pitched in the ground confusedly To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. More than three hours the fight continued; Where valiant Talbot, above human thought, Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him; Here, there, and everywhere, enrag'd he slew The French exclaim'd the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agaz'd on him. His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit, 'A Talbot! a Talbot!' cried out amain, And rush'd into the bowels of the battle. Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward. He, being in the vaward plac'd behind With purpose to relieve and follow them- Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke; Hence grew the general wreck and massacre. Enclosed were they with their enemies. A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back; Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength, Durst not presume to look once in the face. BEDFORD. Is Talbot slain? Then I will slay myself, For living idly here in pomp and ease, Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, Unto his dastard foemen is betray'd. THIRD MESSENGER. O no, he lives, but is took prisoner, And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford; Most of the rest slaughter'd or took likewise. BEDFORD. His ransom there is none but I shall pay. I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne; His crown shall be the ransom of my friend; Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours. Farewell, my masters; to my task will I; Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make To keep our great Saint George's feast withal. Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody deeds shall make an Europe quake. THIRD MESSENGER. So you had need; for Orleans is besieg'd; The English army is grown weak and faint; The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, Since they, so few, watch such a multitude. EXETER. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, Or bring him in obedience to your yoke. BEDFORD. I do remember it, and here take my leave To go about my preparation. Exit GLOUCESTER. I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can To view th' artillery and munition; And then I will proclaim young Henry king. Exit EXETER. To Eltham will I, where the young King is, Being ordain'd his special governor; And for his safety there I'll best devise. Exit WINCHESTER. [Aside] Each hath his place and function to attend: I am left out; for me nothing remains. But long I will not be Jack out of office. The King from Eltham I intend to steal, And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. Exeunt ----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. France. Before Orleans Sound a flourish. Enter CHARLES THE DAUPHIN, ALENCON, and REIGNIER, marching with drum and soldiers CHARLES. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens So in the earth, to this day is not known. Late did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors, upon us he smiles. What towns of any moment but we have? At pleasure here we lie near Orleans; Otherwhiles the famish'd English, like pale ghosts, Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. ALENCON. They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves. Either they must be dieted like mules And have their provender tied to their mouths, Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. REIGNIER. Let's raise the siege. Why live we idly here? Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear; Remaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury, And he may well in fretting spend his gall Nor men nor money hath he to make war. CHARLES. Sound, sound alarum; we will rush on them. Now for the honour of the forlorn French! Him I forgive my death that killeth me, When he sees me go back one foot or flee. Exeunt Here alarum. They are beaten back by the English, with great loss. Re-enter CHARLES, ALENCON, and REIGNIER CHARLES. Who ever saw the like? What men have I! Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled But that they left me midst my enemies. REIGNIER. Salisbury is a desperate homicide; He fighteth as one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. ALENCON. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records England all Olivers and Rowlands bred During the time Edward the Third did reign. More truly now may this be verified; For none but Samsons and Goliases It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten! Lean raw-bon'd rascals! Who would e'er suppose They had such courage and audacity? CHARLES. Let's leave this town; for they are hare-brain'd slaves, And hunger will enforce them to be more eager. Of old I know them; rather with their teeth The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege. REIGNIER. I think by some odd gimmers or device Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do. By my consent, we'll even let them alone. ALENCON. Be it so. Enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS BASTARD. Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him. CHARLES. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. BASTARD. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd. Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence? Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand. A holy maid hither with me I bring, Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven, Ordained is to raise this tedious siege And drive the English forth the bounds of France. The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome: What's past and what's to come she can descry. Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. CHARLES. Go, call her in. [Exit BASTARD] But first, to try her skill, Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place; Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern; By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. Re-enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS with JOAN LA PUCELLE REIGNIER. Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats? PUCELLE. Reignier, is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me? Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind; I know thee well, though never seen before. Be not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me. In private will I talk with thee apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. REIGNIER. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. PUCELLE. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter, My wit untrain'd in any kind of art. Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas'd To shine on my contemptible estate. Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks, God's Mother deigned to appear to me, And in a vision full of majesty Will'd me to leave my base vocation And free my country from calamity Her aid she promis'd and assur'd success. In complete glory she reveal'd herself; And whereas I was black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infus'd on me That beauty am I bless'd with which you may see. Ask me what question thou canst possible, And I will answer unpremeditated. My courage try by combat if thou dar'st, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this: thou shalt be fortunate If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. CHARLES. Thou hast astonish'd me with thy high terms. Only this proof I'll of thy valour make In single combat thou shalt buckle with me; And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true; Otherwise I renounce all confidence. PUCELLE. I am prepar'd; here is my keen-edg'd sword, Deck'd with five flower-de-luces on each side, The which at Touraine, in Saint Katherine's churchyard, Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth. CHARLES. Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman. PUCELLE. And while I live I'll ne'er fly from a man. [Here they fight and JOAN LA PUCELLE overcomes] CHARLES. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon, And fightest with the sword of Deborah. PUCELLE. Christ's Mother helps me, else I were too weak. CHARLES. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me. Impatiently I burn with thy desire; My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu'd. Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, Let me thy servant and not sovereign be. 'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. PUCELLE. I must not yield to any rites of love, For my profession's sacred from above. When I have chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense. CHARLES. Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall. REIGNIER. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk. ALENCON. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock; Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech. REIGNIER. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean? ALENCON. He may mean more than we poor men do know; These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues. REIGNIER. My lord, where are you? What devise you on? Shall we give o'er Orleans, or no? PUCELLE. Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants! Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard. CHARLES. What she says I'll confirm; we'll fight it out. PUCELLE. Assign'd am I to be the English scourge. This night the siege assuredly I'll raise. Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days, Since I have entered into these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. With Henry's death the English circle ends; Dispersed are the glories it included. Now am I like that proud insulting ship Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once. CHARLES. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou with an eagle art inspired then. Helen, the mother of great Constantine, Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters were like thee. Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth, How may I reverently worship thee enough? ALENCON. Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege. REIGNIER. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours; Drive them from Orleans, and be immortaliz'd. CHARLES. Presently we'll try. Come, let's away about it. No prophet will I trust if she prove false. Exeunt ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. London. Before the Tower gates Enter the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, with his serving-men in blue coats GLOUCESTER. I am come to survey the Tower this day; Since Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance. Where be these warders that they wait not here? Open the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls. FIRST WARDER. [Within] Who's there that knocks so imperiously? FIRST SERVING-MAN. It is the noble Duke of Gloucester. SECOND WARDER. [Within] Whoe'er he be, you may not be let in. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector? FIRST WARDER. [Within] The Lord protect him! so we answer him. We do no otherwise than we are will'd. GLOUCESTER. Who willed you, or whose will stands but mine? There's none Protector of the realm but I. Break up the gates, I'll be your warrantize. Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms? [GLOUCESTER'S men rush at the Tower gates, and WOODVILLE the Lieutenant speaks within] WOODVILLE. [Within] What noise is this? What traitors have we here? GLOUCESTER. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear? Open the gates; here's Gloucester that would enter. WOODVILLE. [Within] Have patience, noble Duke, I may not open; The Cardinal of Winchester forbids. From him I have express commandment That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. GLOUCESTER. Faint-hearted Woodville, prizest him fore me? Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook! Thou art no friend to God or to the King. Open the gates, or I'll shut thee out shortly. SERVING-MEN. Open the gates unto the Lord Protector, Or we'll burst them open, if that you come not quickly. Enter to the PROTECTOR at the Tower gates WINCHESTER and his men in tawny coats WINCHESTER. How now, ambitious Humphry! What means this? GLOUCESTER. Peel'd priest, dost thou command me to be shut out? WINCHESTER. I do, thou most usurping proditor, And not Protector of the King or realm. GLOUCESTER. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that contrived'st to murder our dead lord; Thou that giv'st whores indulgences to sin. I'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat, If thou proceed in this thy insolence. WINCHESTER. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot. This be Damascus; be thou cursed Cain, To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. GLOUCESTER. I will not slay thee, but I'll drive thee back. Thy scarlet robes as a child's bearing-cloth I'll use to carry thee out of this place. WINCHESTER. Do what thou dar'st; I beard thee to thy face. GLOUCESTER. What! am I dar'd and bearded to my face? Draw, men, for all this privileged place Blue-coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard; I mean to tug it, and to cuff you soundly; Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat; In spite of Pope or dignities of church, Here by the cheeks I'll drag thee up and down. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the Pope. GLOUCESTER. Winchester goose! I cry 'A rope, a rope!' Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay? Thee I'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array. Out, tawny-coats! Out, scarlet hypocrite! Here GLOUCESTER'S men beat out the CARDINAL'S men; and enter in the hurly burly the MAYOR OF LONDON and his OFFICERS MAYOR. Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates, Thus contumeliously should break the peace! GLOUCESTER. Peace, Mayor! thou know'st little of my wrongs: Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King, Hath here distrain'd the Tower to his use. WINCHESTER. Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens; One that still motions war and never peace, O'ercharging your free purses with large fines; That seeks to overthrow religion, Because he is Protector of the realm, And would have armour here out of the Tower, To crown himself King and suppress the Prince. GLOUCESTER. I will not answer thee with words, but blows. [Here they skirmish again] MAYOR. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife But to make open proclamation. Come, officer, as loud as e'er thou canst, Cry. OFFICER. [Cries] All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God's peace and the King's, we charge and command you, in his Highness' name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use, any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death. GLOUCESTER. Cardinal, I'll be no breaker of the law; But we shall meet and break our minds at large. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, we'll meet to thy cost, be sure; Thy heart-blood I will have for this day's work. MAYOR. I'll call for clubs if you will not away. This Cardinal's more haughty than the devil. GLOUCESTER. Mayor, farewell; thou dost but what thou mayst. WINCHESTER. Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head, For I intend to have it ere long. Exeunt, severally, GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER with their servants MAYOR. See the coast clear'd, and then we will depart. Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! I myself fight not once in forty year. Exeunt

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 1, scene 4 using the context provided.

The action shifts to France. The French Master Gunner of Orleans tells his son that the English have occupied a tower, to which they gained entrance through a secret gate. From this tower they are planning their attack on Orleans. The Gunner has placed a cannon near the place to prevent any further incursions. He asks his son to keep watch and let him know if he sees any Englishmen there. The Boy agrees, but once his father is out of earshot, says he will avoid telling his father of any activity: he wants to claim any glory for himself

----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. France. Before Orleans Enter, on the walls, the MASTER-GUNNER OF ORLEANS and his BOY MASTER-GUNNER. Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is besieg'd, And how the English have the suburbs won. BOY. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, Howe'er unfortunate I miss'd my aim. MASTER-GUNNER. But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul'd by me. Chief master-gunner am I of this town; Something I must do to procure me grace. The Prince's espials have informed me How the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd, Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars In yonder tower, to overpeer the city, And thence discover how with most advantage They may vex us with shot or with assault. To intercept this inconvenience, A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have plac'd; And even these three days have I watch'd If I could see them. Now do thou watch, For I can stay no longer. If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word; And thou shalt find me at the Governor's. Exit BOY. Father, I warrant you; take you no care; I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them. Exit Enter SALISBURY and TALBOT on the turrets, with SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE, and others SALISBURY. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd! How wert thou handled being prisoner? Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd? Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top. TALBOT. The Earl of Bedford had a prisoner Call'd the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; For him was I exchang'd and ransomed. But with a baser man of arms by far Once, in contempt, they would have barter'd me; Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death Rather than I would be so vile esteem'd. In fine, redeem'd I was as I desir'd. But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart Whom with my bare fists I would execute, If I now had him brought into my power. SALISBURY. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain'd. TALBOT. With scoffs, and scorns, and contumelious taunts, In open market-place produc'd they me To be a public spectacle to all; Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our children so. Then broke I from the officers that led me, And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground To hurl at the beholders of my shame; My grisly countenance made others fly; None durst come near for fear of sudden death. In iron walls they deem'd me not secure; So great fear of my name 'mongst them was spread That they suppos'd I could rend bars of steel And spurn in pieces posts of adamant; Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had That walk'd about me every minute-while; And if I did but stir out of my bed, Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. Enter the BOY with a linstock SALISBURY. I grieve to hear what torments you endur'd; But we will be reveng'd sufficiently. Now it is supper-time in Orleans: Here, through this grate, I count each one And view the Frenchmen how they fortify. Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee. Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale, Let me have your express opinions Where is best place to make our batt'ry next. GARGRAVE. I think at the North Gate; for there stand lords. GLANSDALE. And I here, at the bulwark of the bridge. TALBOT. For aught I see, this city must be famish'd, Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. [Here they shoot and SALISBURY and GARGRAVE fall down] SALISBURY. O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners! GARGRAVE. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man! TALBOT. What chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us? Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak. How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men? One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off! Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand That hath contriv'd this woeful tragedy! In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame; Henry the Fifth he first train'd to the wars; Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up, His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field. Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail, One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace; The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it. Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort, Thou shalt not die whiles He beckons with his hand and smiles on me, As who should say 'When I am dead and gone, Remember to avenge me on the French.' Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero, Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn. Wretched shall France be only in my name. [Here an alarum, and it thunders and lightens] What stir is this? What tumult's in the heavens? Whence cometh this alarum and the noise? Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My lord, my lord, the French have gather'd head The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join'd, A holy prophetess new risen up, Is come with a great power to raise the siege. [Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans] TALBOT. Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan. It irks his heart he cannot be reveng'd. Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you. Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish, Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels And make a quagmire of your mingled brains. Convey me Salisbury into his tent, And then we'll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare. Alarum. Exeunt ----------ACT 1, SCENE 5--------- SCENE 5. Before Orleans Here an alarum again, and TALBOT pursueth the DAUPHIN and driveth him. Then enter JOAN LA PUCELLE driving Englishmen before her. Then enter TALBOT TALBOT. Where is my strength, my valour, and my force? Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them; A woman clad in armour chaseth them. Enter LA PUCELLE Here, here she comes. I'll have a bout with thee. Devil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee; Blood will I draw on thee--thou art a witch And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv'st. PUCELLE. Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee. [Here they fight] TALBOT. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? My breast I'll burst with straining of my courage. And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder, But I will chastise this high minded strumpet. [They fight again] PUCELLE. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come. I must go victual Orleans forthwith. [A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers] O'ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength. Go, go, cheer up thy hungry starved men; Help Salisbury to make his testament. This day is ours, as many more shall be. Exit TALBOT. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do. A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal, Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists. So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They call'd us, for our fierceness, English dogs; Now like to whelps we crying run away. [A short alarum] Hark, countrymen! Either renew the fight Or tear the lions out of England's coat; Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead: Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, Or horse or oxen from the leopard, As you fly from your oft subdued slaves. [Alarum. Here another skirmish] It will not be-retire into your trenches. You all consented unto Salisbury's death, For none would strike a stroke in his revenge. Pucelle is ent'red into Orleans In spite of us or aught that we could do. O, would I were to die with Salisbury! The shame hereof will make me hide my head. Exit TALBOT. Alarum; retreat ----------ACT 1, SCENE 6--------- SCENE 6. ORLEANS Flourish. Enter on the walls, LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, REIGNIER, ALENCON, and soldiers PUCELLE. Advance our waving colours on the walls; Rescu'd is Orleans from the English. Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform'd her word. CHARLES. Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter, How shall I honour thee for this success? Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens, That one day bloom'd and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess. Recover'd is the town of Orleans. More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state. REIGNIER. Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town? Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires And feast and banquet in the open streets To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. ALENCON. All France will be replete with mirth and joy When they shall hear how we have play'd the men. CHARLES. 'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; For which I will divide my crown with her; And all the priests and friars in my realm Shall in procession sing her endless praise. A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear Than Rhodope's of Memphis ever was. In memory of her, when she is dead, Her ashes, in an urn more precious Than the rich jewel'd coffer of Darius, Transported shall be at high festivals Before the kings and queens of France. No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint. Come in, and let us banquet royally After this golden day of victory. Flourish. Exeunt

Henry VI Part 1.act 2.sce

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 2, scene 1 based on the provided context.

act 2, scene 1|act 2, scene 2|act 2, scene 3|act 2, scene 4|act 2, scene 5

The scene starts with the French setting a watch on the walls of Orleans. Talbot is planning a surprise attack, since the French have been feasting and are likely not to be on their guard. He's talking to Bedford, the king's regent or representative in France, and to Burgundy, a very powerful French noble who is on England's side. Bedford says Charles is cowardly to accept a witch's help in battle: Charles must not be very confident in his strength if he needs hell to help him. Burgundy inquires about Joan of Arc and Talbot says she is a maid or virgin. Bedford doubts that a maid could be so warlike, in a classic example of the views of the period. Burgundy says Joan may prove masculine, especially if she carries armor. Talbot says oh well, if the French want to invoke evil spirits, that's their problem; the English will trust in God as their fortress. The English agree to split up and attack Orleans from several places. The English call out to St. George, the patron saint of England. This is sort of like trying to get Obi-Wan Kenobi on your side. The sentinels aren't asleep, and they do notice the English, so the French lords are surprised instead and have to leap over the wall to retreat half ready. It's like turning up to class with your dressy Oxford shirt and your Mario pajama pants. The French say how desperate and bold the attack is, and wonder whether Talbot might be "a fiend of hell" , or supported by heaven. Either way, his success seems supernatural to them. Charles and Joan come in together, which is maybe a little suspicious since it's the middle of the night. Have they been in bed together? Or have they been virtuously keeping guard on the walls? Hrm... Charles turns on Joan and asks if she wanted them to succeed a little only to lose a lot. He's pretty fickle, given that he was just promising to make her the patron saint of France. Joan asks why he is so impatient and says her power isn't always at the same level; she blames the French military for not keeping a better watch. Charles blames Alencon. Alencon says his area was fine--what about the other leaders? The Bastard says his quarter was secure, too. Reignier gets in on the action and says "Mine, too." Charles says he's spent the whole night walking around and helping the sentinels, and asks how this could have happened. Joan says it won't really help to figure out why it happened--they should get going and fix the problem. An English soldier comes and chases them off. Embarrassingly, they leave their clothing, or at least some of it, behind, so the English soldier takes their things. This has got to be pretty humiliating for France: A soldier who doesn't even get a name in the play is taking spoils from the King and his closest advisors. The soldier points out that Talbot's name is just as good as a sword: It scares the French off. Good thing the French nobility is already gone. This would be pretty awkward if they were around to hear it.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE 1. Before Orleans Enter a FRENCH SERGEANT and two SENTINELS SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant. If any noise or soldier you perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall. [Exit SERGEANT] Thus are poor servitors, When others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain, and cold. Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and forces, with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march TALBOT. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Wallon, and Picardy, are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day carous'd and banqueted; Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting best to quittance their deceit, Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery. BEDFORD. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm's fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! BURGUNDY. Traitors have never other company. But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure? TALBOT. A maid, they say. BEDFORD. A maid! and be so martial! BURGUNDY. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She carry armour as she hath begun. TALBOT. Well, let them practise and converse with spirits: God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. TALBOT. Not all together; better far, I guess, That we do make our entrance several ways; That if it chance the one of us do fail The other yet may rise against their force. BEDFORD. Agreed; I'll to yond corner. BURGUNDY. And I to this. TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount or make his grave. Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night appear How much in duty I am bound to both. [The English scale the walls and cry 'Saint George! a Talbot!'] SENTINEL. Arm! arm! The enemy doth make assault. The French leap o'er the walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, half ready and half unready ALENCON. How now, my lords? What, all unready so? BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we 'scap'd so well. REIGNIER. 'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds, Hearing alarums at our chamber doors. ALENCON. Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this. BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. REIGNIER. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him ALENCON. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how he sped. Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE BASTARD. Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard. CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain That now our loss might be ten times so much? PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend? At all times will you have my power alike? Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? Improvident soldiers! Had your watch been good This sudden mischief never could have fall'n. CHARLES. Duke of Alencon, this was your default That, being captain of the watch to-night, Did look no better to that weighty charge. ALENCON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the government, We had not been thus shamefully surpris'd. BASTARD. Mine was secure. REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord. CHARLES. And, for myself, most part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was employ'd in passing to and fro About relieving of the sentinels. Then how or which way should they first break in? PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further of the case, How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place But weakly guarded, where the breach was made. And now there rests no other shift but this To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispers'd, And lay new platforms to endamage them. Alarum. Enter an ENGLISH SOLDIER, crying 'A Talbot! A Talbot!' They fly, leaving their clothes behind SOLDIER. I'll be so bold to take what they have left. The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword; For I have loaden me with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. Exit ----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. ORLEANS. Within the town Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a CAPTAIN, and others BEDFORD. The day begins to break, and night is fled Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth. Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit. [Retreat sounded] TALBOT. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury And here advance it in the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happened in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I'll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd; Upon the which, that every one may read, Shall be engrav'd the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his mournful death, And what a terror he had been to France. But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace, His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. BEDFORD. 'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began, Rous'd on the sudden from their drowsy beds, They did amongst the troops of armed men Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field. BURGUNDY. Myself, as far as I could well discern For smoke and dusky vapours of the night, Am sure I scar'd the Dauphin and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night. After that things are set in order here, We'll follow them with all the power we have. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts So much applauded through the realm of France? TALBOT. Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him? MESSENGER. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report. BURGUNDY. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encount'red with. You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. TALBOT. Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman's kindness overrul'd; And therefore tell her I return great thanks And in submission will attend on her. Will not your honours bear me company? BEDFORD. No, truly; 'tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. TALBOT. Well then, alone, since there's no remedy, I mean to prove this lady's courtesy. Come hither, Captain. [Whispers] You perceive my mind? CAPTAIN. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. Exeunt ----------ACT 2, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. AUVERGNE. The Castle Enter the COUNTESS and her PORTER COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. PORTER. Madam, I will. COUNTESS. The plot is laid; if all things fall out right, I shall as famous be by this exploit. As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death. Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account. Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears To give their censure of these rare reports. Enter MESSENGER and TALBOT. MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd, By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come. COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What! is this the man? MESSENGER. Madam, it is. COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France? Is this Talbot, so much fear'd abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes? I see report is fabulous and false. I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies. TALBOT. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I'll sort some other time to visit you. [Going] COUNTESS. What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. TALBOT. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot's here. Re-enter PORTER With keys COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. TALBOT. Prisoner! To whom? COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord And for that cause I train'd thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in my gallery thy picture hangs; But now the substance shall endure the like And I will chain these legs and arms of thine That hast by tyranny these many years Wasted our country, slain our citizens, And sent our sons and husbands captivate. TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha! COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan. TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow Whereon to practise your severity. COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man? TALBOT. I am indeed. COUNTESS. Then have I substance too. TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself. You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least proportion of humanity. I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of such a spacious lofty pitch Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't. COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet he is not here. How can these contrarieties agree? TALBOT. That will I show you presently. Winds his horn; drums strike up; a peal of ordnance. Enter soldiers How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded That Talbot is but shadow of himself? These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength, With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns, And in a moment makes them desolate. COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse. I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be gathered by thy shape. Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath, For I am sorry that with reverence I did not entertain thee as thou art. TALBOT. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconster The mind of Talbot as you did mistake The outward composition of his body. What you have done hath not offended me. Nor other satisfaction do I crave But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have, For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well. COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured To feast so great a warrior in my house. Exeunt ----------ACT 2, SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. London. The Temple garden Enter the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another LAWYER PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence? Dare no man answer in a case of truth? SUFFOLK. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. PLANTAGENET. Then say at once if I maintain'd the truth; Or else was wrangling Somerset in th' error? SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. SOMERSET. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. WARWICK. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between two blades, which bears the better temper; Between two horses, which doth bear him best; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance: The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, So clear, so shining, and so evident, That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts. Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. SOMERSET. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. WARWICK. I love no colours; and, without all colour Of base insinuating flattery, I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset, And say withal I think he held the right. VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more Till you conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected; If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. PLANTAGENET. And I. VERNON. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. SOMERSET. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so, against your will. VERNON. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. SOMERSET. Well, well, come on; who else? LAWYER. [To Somerset] Unless my study and my books be false, The argument you held was wrong in you; In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. PLANTAGENET. Now, Somerset, where is your argument? SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. PLANTAGENET. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side. SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet, 'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? PLANTAGENET. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. SOMERSET. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. SUFFOLK. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat. SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. WARWICK. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset; His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, Third son to the third Edward, King of England. Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root? PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durst not for his craven heart say thus. SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom. Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king's days? And by his treason stand'st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And till thou be restor'd thou art a yeoman. PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted; Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor; And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripened to my will. For your partaker Pole, and you yourself, I'll note you in my book of memory To scourge you for this apprehension. Look to it well, and say you are well warn'd. SOMERSET. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still; And know us by these colours for thy foes For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever, and my faction, wear, Until it wither with me to my grave, Or flourish to the height of my degree. SUFFOLK. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition! And so farewell until I meet thee next. Exit SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. Exit PLANTAGENET. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it! WARWICK. This blot that they object against your house Shall be wip'd out in the next Parliament, Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester; And if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, Against proud Somerset and William Pole, Will I upon thy party wear this rose; And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the Red Rose and the White A thousand souls to death and deadly night. PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. VERNON. In your behalf still will I wear the same. LAWYER. And so will I. PLANTAGENET. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say This quarrel will drink blood another day. Exeunt ----------ACT 2, SCENE 5--------- SCENE 5. The Tower of London Enter MORTIMER, brought in a chair, and GAOLERS MORTIMER. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, And pithless arms, like to a withered vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground. Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have. But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? FIRST KEEPER. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come. We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber; And answer was return'd that he will come. MORTIMER. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied. Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been obscur'd, Depriv'd of honour and inheritance. But now the arbitrator of despairs, Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence. I would his troubles likewise were expir'd, That so he might recover what was lost. Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET FIRST KEEPER. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. MORTIMER. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come? PLANTAGENET. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd, Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. MORTIMER. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck And in his bosom spend my latter gasp. O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock, Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd? PLANTAGENET. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm; And, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he us'd his lavish tongue And did upbraid me with my father's death; Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet, And for alliance sake, declare the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. MORTIMER. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me And hath detain'd me all my flow'ring youth Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his decease. PLANTAGENET. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am ignorant and cannot guess. MORTIMER. I will, if that my fading breath permit And death approach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Depos'd his nephew Richard, Edward's son, The first-begotten and the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent; During whose reign the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour'd my advancement to the throne. The reason mov'd these warlike lords to this Was, for that-young Richard thus remov'd, Leaving no heir begotten of his body-- I was the next by birth and parentage; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel Duke of Clarence, third son To King Edward the Third; whereas he From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark: as in this haughty great attempt They laboured to plant the rightful heir, I lost my liberty, and they their lives. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv'd From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister, that thy mother was, Again, in pity of my hard distress, Levied an army, weening to redeem And have install'd me in the diadem; But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl, And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title rested, were suppress'd. PLANTAGENET. Of Which, my lord, your honour is the last. MORTIMER. True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather; But yet be wary in thy studious care. PLANTAGENET. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me. But yet methinks my father's execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. MORTIMER. With silence, nephew, be thou politic; Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster And like a mountain not to be remov'd. But now thy uncle is removing hence, As princes do their courts when they are cloy'd With long continuance in a settled place. PLANTAGENET. O uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age! MORTIMER. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; Only give order for my funeral. And so, farewell; and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! [Dies] PLANTAGENET. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, And like a hermit overpass'd thy days. Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast; And what I do imagine, let that rest. Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself Will see his burial better than his life. Exeunt GAOLERS, hearing out the body of MORTIMER Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Chok'd with ambition of the meaner sort; And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath offer'd to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress; And therefore haste I to the Parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my ill th' advantage of my good. Exit

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2, scenes 1-3, utilizing the provided context.

act 2, scenes 1-3|act 2, scenes 4-5

A French soldier instructs several sentinels to keep watch on the walls. Talbot enters with Bedford and Burgundy and other soldiers, equipped with ladders. Talbot says that they have chosen the best time to launch a surprise attack, for the French have tired themselves out in celebrations. Bedford and Burgundy criticize Charles for thinking so little of the strength of his troops that he would turn to a witch for aid. The English lords split up and enter the city from three different directions. Talbot and his men scale the wall and the sentinels call the alarm. Alencon and Rene emerge, half equipped for battle, followed by Charles and Joan. Charles asks Joan if she has been treacherous and helped the British mount this surprise attack. But she tells him he is just being impatient with her, unfairly expecting her to prevail both while awake and while sleeping. She says the blame is not hers but that of Charles's bad watchmen. Charles condemns Alencon, as it was his men who were on the watch that night. Now the lords fall to accusing each other of forming the weak link in the fortifications, but Joan tells them to stop disagreeing and repair the damage. The next morning Bedford and Talbot hear the French sounding the retreat. Talbot calls for the body of Salisbury to be brought into the city. Talbot intends to bury him in the center of Orleans so that everyone may know of his death and the sack of Orleans. A messenger arrives and asks for Talbot: the Countess of Auvergne summons him to her castle so she may behold the man who has achieved such fame. Burgundy thinks her request trivializes war and tells Talbot to ignore it. Talbot, however, decides to visit her and sends the messenger back to the Countess to announce his acceptance. The Countess prepares for Talbot's visit, remarking that if her plans come off, she will be famous. The messenger announces the arrival of Talbot. Seeing him, the Countess wonders aloud if Talbot can be the same man so feared throughout France; she thinks reports of him must be false, for he seems to be neither a Hercules nor a Hector , and doesn't strike an imposing image. Hearing her expressions of doubt, he turns to leave. She calls him back, however, and when he confirms his identity, she replies that he is then a prisoner. "Prisoner! To whom?" he asks; "To me," the Countess replies; she explains that she lured Talbot to her home in order to imprison him and make him pay for the death he reaped among her countrymen. Talbot laughs at the idea that she could try to contain him. At his laughter she asks, "Art thou not he ?" He says that he is the man known as Talbot, but what she sees of him is not all he is. Rather, what she sees is the smallest part of him, and her castle could never contain the sum of his parts. The Countess thinks he speaks in riddles, so he shows her what he means by blowing on his trumpet. Instantly, English soldiers arrive, and Talbot explains that they are the substance and arms of the greater Talbot, who still holds power over the towns of France. The Countess asks Talbot to forgive her actions, since she misunderstood his power. Talbot says he is not offended and asks that his soldiers may dine at her home.

----------ACT 2, SCENES 1-3--------- ACT II. SCENE 1. Before Orleans Enter a FRENCH SERGEANT and two SENTINELS SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant. If any noise or soldier you perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall. [Exit SERGEANT] Thus are poor servitors, When others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain, and cold. Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and forces, with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march TALBOT. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Wallon, and Picardy, are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day carous'd and banqueted; Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting best to quittance their deceit, Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery. BEDFORD. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm's fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! BURGUNDY. Traitors have never other company. But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure? TALBOT. A maid, they say. BEDFORD. A maid! and be so martial! BURGUNDY. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She carry armour as she hath begun. TALBOT. Well, let them practise and converse with spirits: God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. TALBOT. Not all together; better far, I guess, That we do make our entrance several ways; That if it chance the one of us do fail The other yet may rise against their force. BEDFORD. Agreed; I'll to yond corner. BURGUNDY. And I to this. TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount or make his grave. Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night appear How much in duty I am bound to both. [The English scale the walls and cry 'Saint George! a Talbot!'] SENTINEL. Arm! arm! The enemy doth make assault. The French leap o'er the walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, half ready and half unready ALENCON. How now, my lords? What, all unready so? BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we 'scap'd so well. REIGNIER. 'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds, Hearing alarums at our chamber doors. ALENCON. Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this. BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. REIGNIER. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him ALENCON. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how he sped. Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE BASTARD. Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard. CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain That now our loss might be ten times so much? PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend? At all times will you have my power alike? Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? Improvident soldiers! Had your watch been good This sudden mischief never could have fall'n. CHARLES. Duke of Alencon, this was your default That, being captain of the watch to-night, Did look no better to that weighty charge. ALENCON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the government, We had not been thus shamefully surpris'd. BASTARD. Mine was secure. REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord. CHARLES. And, for myself, most part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was employ'd in passing to and fro About relieving of the sentinels. Then how or which way should they first break in? PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further of the case, How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place But weakly guarded, where the breach was made. And now there rests no other shift but this To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispers'd, And lay new platforms to endamage them. Alarum. Enter an ENGLISH SOLDIER, crying 'A Talbot! A Talbot!' They fly, leaving their clothes behind SOLDIER. I'll be so bold to take what they have left. The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword; For I have loaden me with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. Exit SCENE 2. ORLEANS. Within the town Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a CAPTAIN, and others BEDFORD. The day begins to break, and night is fled Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth. Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit. [Retreat sounded] TALBOT. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury And here advance it in the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happened in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I'll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd; Upon the which, that every one may read, Shall be engrav'd the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his mournful death, And what a terror he had been to France. But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace, His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. BEDFORD. 'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began, Rous'd on the sudden from their drowsy beds, They did amongst the troops of armed men Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field. BURGUNDY. Myself, as far as I could well discern For smoke and dusky vapours of the night, Am sure I scar'd the Dauphin and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night. After that things are set in order here, We'll follow them with all the power we have. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts So much applauded through the realm of France? TALBOT. Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him? MESSENGER. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report. BURGUNDY. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encount'red with. You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. TALBOT. Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman's kindness overrul'd; And therefore tell her I return great thanks And in submission will attend on her. Will not your honours bear me company? BEDFORD. No, truly; 'tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. TALBOT. Well then, alone, since there's no remedy, I mean to prove this lady's courtesy. Come hither, Captain. [Whispers] You perceive my mind? CAPTAIN. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. Exeunt SCENE 3. AUVERGNE. The Castle Enter the COUNTESS and her PORTER COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. PORTER. Madam, I will. COUNTESS. The plot is laid; if all things fall out right, I shall as famous be by this exploit. As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death. Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account. Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears To give their censure of these rare reports. Enter MESSENGER and TALBOT. MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd, By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come. COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What! is this the man? MESSENGER. Madam, it is. COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France? Is this Talbot, so much fear'd abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes? I see report is fabulous and false. I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies. TALBOT. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I'll sort some other time to visit you. [Going] COUNTESS. What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. TALBOT. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot's here. Re-enter PORTER With keys COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. TALBOT. Prisoner! To whom? COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord And for that cause I train'd thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in my gallery thy picture hangs; But now the substance shall endure the like And I will chain these legs and arms of thine That hast by tyranny these many years Wasted our country, slain our citizens, And sent our sons and husbands captivate. TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha! COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan. TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow Whereon to practise your severity. COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man? TALBOT. I am indeed. COUNTESS. Then have I substance too. TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself. You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least proportion of humanity. I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of such a spacious lofty pitch Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't. COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet he is not here. How can these contrarieties agree? TALBOT. That will I show you presently. Winds his horn; drums strike up; a peal of ordnance. Enter soldiers How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded That Talbot is but shadow of himself? These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength, With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns, And in a moment makes them desolate. COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse. I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be gathered by thy shape. Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath, For I am sorry that with reverence I did not entertain thee as thou art. TALBOT. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconster The mind of Talbot as you did mistake The outward composition of his body. What you have done hath not offended me. Nor other satisfaction do I crave But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have, For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well. COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured To feast so great a warrior in my house. Exeunt ----------ACT 2, SCENES 4-5--------- SCENE 4. London. The Temple garden Enter the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another LAWYER PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence? Dare no man answer in a case of truth? SUFFOLK. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. PLANTAGENET. Then say at once if I maintain'd the truth; Or else was wrangling Somerset in th' error? SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. SOMERSET. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. WARWICK. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between two blades, which bears the better temper; Between two horses, which doth bear him best; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance: The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, So clear, so shining, and so evident, That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts. Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. SOMERSET. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. WARWICK. I love no colours; and, without all colour Of base insinuating flattery, I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset, And say withal I think he held the right. VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more Till you conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected; If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. PLANTAGENET. And I. VERNON. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. SOMERSET. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so, against your will. VERNON. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. SOMERSET. Well, well, come on; who else? LAWYER. [To Somerset] Unless my study and my books be false, The argument you held was wrong in you; In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. PLANTAGENET. Now, Somerset, where is your argument? SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. PLANTAGENET. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side. SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet, 'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? PLANTAGENET. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. SOMERSET. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. SUFFOLK. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat. SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. WARWICK. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset; His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, Third son to the third Edward, King of England. Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root? PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durst not for his craven heart say thus. SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom. Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king's days? And by his treason stand'st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And till thou be restor'd thou art a yeoman. PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted; Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor; And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripened to my will. For your partaker Pole, and you yourself, I'll note you in my book of memory To scourge you for this apprehension. Look to it well, and say you are well warn'd. SOMERSET. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still; And know us by these colours for thy foes For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever, and my faction, wear, Until it wither with me to my grave, Or flourish to the height of my degree. SUFFOLK. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition! And so farewell until I meet thee next. Exit SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. Exit PLANTAGENET. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it! WARWICK. This blot that they object against your house Shall be wip'd out in the next Parliament, Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester; And if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, Against proud Somerset and William Pole, Will I upon thy party wear this rose; And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the Red Rose and the White A thousand souls to death and deadly night. PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. VERNON. In your behalf still will I wear the same. LAWYER. And so will I. PLANTAGENET. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say This quarrel will drink blood another day. Exeunt SCENE 5. The Tower of London Enter MORTIMER, brought in a chair, and GAOLERS MORTIMER. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, And pithless arms, like to a withered vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground. Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have. But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? FIRST KEEPER. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come. We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber; And answer was return'd that he will come. MORTIMER. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied. Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been obscur'd, Depriv'd of honour and inheritance. But now the arbitrator of despairs, Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence. I would his troubles likewise were expir'd, That so he might recover what was lost. Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET FIRST KEEPER. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. MORTIMER. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come? PLANTAGENET. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd, Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. MORTIMER. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck And in his bosom spend my latter gasp. O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock, Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd? PLANTAGENET. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm; And, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he us'd his lavish tongue And did upbraid me with my father's death; Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet, And for alliance sake, declare the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. MORTIMER. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me And hath detain'd me all my flow'ring youth Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his decease. PLANTAGENET. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am ignorant and cannot guess. MORTIMER. I will, if that my fading breath permit And death approach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Depos'd his nephew Richard, Edward's son, The first-begotten and the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent; During whose reign the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour'd my advancement to the throne. The reason mov'd these warlike lords to this Was, for that-young Richard thus remov'd, Leaving no heir begotten of his body-- I was the next by birth and parentage; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel Duke of Clarence, third son To King Edward the Third; whereas he From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark: as in this haughty great attempt They laboured to plant the rightful heir, I lost my liberty, and they their lives. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv'd From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister, that thy mother was, Again, in pity of my hard distress, Levied an army, weening to redeem And have install'd me in the diadem; But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl, And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title rested, were suppress'd. PLANTAGENET. Of Which, my lord, your honour is the last. MORTIMER. True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather; But yet be wary in thy studious care. PLANTAGENET. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me. But yet methinks my father's execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. MORTIMER. With silence, nephew, be thou politic; Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster And like a mountain not to be remov'd. But now thy uncle is removing hence, As princes do their courts when they are cloy'd With long continuance in a settled place. PLANTAGENET. O uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age! MORTIMER. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; Only give order for my funeral. And so, farewell; and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! [Dies] PLANTAGENET. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, And like a hermit overpass'd thy days. Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast; And what I do imagine, let that rest. Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself Will see his burial better than his life. Exeunt GAOLERS, hearing out the body of MORTIMER Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Chok'd with ambition of the meaner sort; And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath offer'd to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress; And therefore haste I to the Parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my ill th' advantage of my good. Exit

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 2, scene 3 with the given context.

The Countess of Avergne enters and reminds her servant of the order she has given him. In a soliloquy, she reveals that she has laid a plot against Talbot, adding that if it comes off, she will be famous. Talbot is shown in, The Countess says she cannot believe that this is Talbot, as she was expecting an impressive, strong man, whereas Talbot is small and puny-looking. Talbot goes to leave, but she calls him back. When he confirms that he is indeed Talbot, she declares that he is her prisoner. Talbot laughs and says that what she sees before her is only a tiny part of him. If the whole were there, it would not fit into her castle. The Countess is mystified. Talbot sounds a horn, and English soldiers enter. Talbot explains that his men form the rest of him. The Countess apologizes, admitting that he lives up to his great reputation. Talbot insists that he is not offended and asks in recompense only that she feed him and his soldiers. .

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE 1. Before Orleans Enter a FRENCH SERGEANT and two SENTINELS SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant. If any noise or soldier you perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the court of guard. FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall. [Exit SERGEANT] Thus are poor servitors, When others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrain'd to watch in darkness, rain, and cold. Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and forces, with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march TALBOT. Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Wallon, and Picardy, are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having all day carous'd and banqueted; Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting best to quittance their deceit, Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery. BEDFORD. Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm's fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! BURGUNDY. Traitors have never other company. But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure? TALBOT. A maid, they say. BEDFORD. A maid! and be so martial! BURGUNDY. Pray God she prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She carry armour as she hath begun. TALBOT. Well, let them practise and converse with spirits: God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks. BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee. TALBOT. Not all together; better far, I guess, That we do make our entrance several ways; That if it chance the one of us do fail The other yet may rise against their force. BEDFORD. Agreed; I'll to yond corner. BURGUNDY. And I to this. TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount or make his grave. Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night appear How much in duty I am bound to both. [The English scale the walls and cry 'Saint George! a Talbot!'] SENTINEL. Arm! arm! The enemy doth make assault. The French leap o'er the walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, half ready and half unready ALENCON. How now, my lords? What, all unready so? BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we 'scap'd so well. REIGNIER. 'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds, Hearing alarums at our chamber doors. ALENCON. Of all exploits since first I follow'd arms Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than this. BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. REIGNIER. If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him ALENCON. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how he sped. Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE BASTARD. Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard. CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain That now our loss might be ten times so much? PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend? At all times will you have my power alike? Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail Or will you blame and lay the fault on me? Improvident soldiers! Had your watch been good This sudden mischief never could have fall'n. CHARLES. Duke of Alencon, this was your default That, being captain of the watch to-night, Did look no better to that weighty charge. ALENCON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the government, We had not been thus shamefully surpris'd. BASTARD. Mine was secure. REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord. CHARLES. And, for myself, most part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was employ'd in passing to and fro About relieving of the sentinels. Then how or which way should they first break in? PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further of the case, How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place But weakly guarded, where the breach was made. And now there rests no other shift but this To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispers'd, And lay new platforms to endamage them. Alarum. Enter an ENGLISH SOLDIER, crying 'A Talbot! A Talbot!' They fly, leaving their clothes behind SOLDIER. I'll be so bold to take what they have left. The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword; For I have loaden me with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. Exit ----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. ORLEANS. Within the town Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a CAPTAIN, and others BEDFORD. The day begins to break, and night is fled Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth. Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit. [Retreat sounded] TALBOT. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury And here advance it in the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Now have I paid my vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night. And that hereafter ages may behold What ruin happened in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I'll erect A tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd; Upon the which, that every one may read, Shall be engrav'd the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his mournful death, And what a terror he had been to France. But, lords, in all our bloody massacre, I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace, His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. BEDFORD. 'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began, Rous'd on the sudden from their drowsy beds, They did amongst the troops of armed men Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field. BURGUNDY. Myself, as far as I could well discern For smoke and dusky vapours of the night, Am sure I scar'd the Dauphin and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night. After that things are set in order here, We'll follow them with all the power we have. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts So much applauded through the realm of France? TALBOT. Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him? MESSENGER. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the world with loud report. BURGUNDY. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars Will turn into a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encount'red with. You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. TALBOT. Ne'er trust me then; for when a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a woman's kindness overrul'd; And therefore tell her I return great thanks And in submission will attend on her. Will not your honours bear me company? BEDFORD. No, truly; 'tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. TALBOT. Well then, alone, since there's no remedy, I mean to prove this lady's courtesy. Come hither, Captain. [Whispers] You perceive my mind? CAPTAIN. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. Exeunt ----------ACT 2, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. AUVERGNE. The Castle Enter the COUNTESS and her PORTER COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have done so, bring the keys to me. PORTER. Madam, I will. COUNTESS. The plot is laid; if all things fall out right, I shall as famous be by this exploit. As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death. Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight, And his achievements of no less account. Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears To give their censure of these rare reports. Enter MESSENGER and TALBOT. MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd, By message crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come. COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What! is this the man? MESSENGER. Madam, it is. COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France? Is this Talbot, so much fear'd abroad That with his name the mothers still their babes? I see report is fabulous and false. I thought I should have seen some Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies. TALBOT. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at leisure, I'll sort some other time to visit you. [Going] COUNTESS. What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes. MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. TALBOT. Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot's here. Re-enter PORTER With keys COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. TALBOT. Prisoner! To whom? COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord And for that cause I train'd thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in my gallery thy picture hangs; But now the substance shall endure the like And I will chain these legs and arms of thine That hast by tyranny these many years Wasted our country, slain our citizens, And sent our sons and husbands captivate. TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha! COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan. TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow Whereon to practise your severity. COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man? TALBOT. I am indeed. COUNTESS. Then have I substance too. TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself. You are deceiv'd, my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least proportion of humanity. I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of such a spacious lofty pitch Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't. COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet he is not here. How can these contrarieties agree? TALBOT. That will I show you presently. Winds his horn; drums strike up; a peal of ordnance. Enter soldiers How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded That Talbot is but shadow of himself? These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength, With which he yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns, And in a moment makes them desolate. COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse. I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be gathered by thy shape. Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath, For I am sorry that with reverence I did not entertain thee as thou art. TALBOT. Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor misconster The mind of Talbot as you did mistake The outward composition of his body. What you have done hath not offended me. Nor other satisfaction do I crave But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of your wine and see what cates you have, For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well. COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured To feast so great a warrior in my house. Exeunt ----------ACT 2, SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. London. The Temple garden Enter the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and another LAWYER PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence? Dare no man answer in a case of truth? SUFFOLK. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. PLANTAGENET. Then say at once if I maintain'd the truth; Or else was wrangling Somerset in th' error? SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. SOMERSET. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. WARWICK. Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between two blades, which bears the better temper; Between two horses, which doth bear him best; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw. PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance: The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may find it out. SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, So clear, so shining, and so evident, That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye. PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts. Let him that is a true-born gentleman And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. SOMERSET. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me. WARWICK. I love no colours; and, without all colour Of base insinuating flattery, I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet. SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset, And say withal I think he held the right. VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more Till you conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree Shall yield the other in the right opinion. SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected; If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. PLANTAGENET. And I. VERNON. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. SOMERSET. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, And fall on my side so, against your will. VERNON. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on the side where still I am. SOMERSET. Well, well, come on; who else? LAWYER. [To Somerset] Unless my study and my books be false, The argument you held was wrong in you; In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. PLANTAGENET. Now, Somerset, where is your argument? SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. PLANTAGENET. Meantime your cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing The truth on our side. SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet, 'Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error. PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset? SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? PLANTAGENET. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. SOMERSET. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses, That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy. SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet. PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. SUFFOLK. I'll turn my part thereof into thy throat. SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. WARWICK. Now, by God's will, thou wrong'st him, Somerset; His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence, Third son to the third Edward, King of England. Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root? PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durst not for his craven heart say thus. SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom. Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king's days? And by his treason stand'st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And till thou be restor'd thou art a yeoman. PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted; Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor; And that I'll prove on better men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripened to my will. For your partaker Pole, and you yourself, I'll note you in my book of memory To scourge you for this apprehension. Look to it well, and say you are well warn'd. SOMERSET. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still; And know us by these colours for thy foes For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear. PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever, and my faction, wear, Until it wither with me to my grave, Or flourish to the height of my degree. SUFFOLK. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition! And so farewell until I meet thee next. Exit SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. Exit PLANTAGENET. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it! WARWICK. This blot that they object against your house Shall be wip'd out in the next Parliament, Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester; And if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Meantime, in signal of my love to thee, Against proud Somerset and William Pole, Will I upon thy party wear this rose; And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the Red Rose and the White A thousand souls to death and deadly night. PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. VERNON. In your behalf still will I wear the same. LAWYER. And so will I. PLANTAGENET. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say This quarrel will drink blood another day. Exeunt ----------ACT 2, SCENE 5--------- SCENE 5. The Tower of London Enter MORTIMER, brought in a chair, and GAOLERS MORTIMER. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, And pithless arms, like to a withered vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground. Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other comfort have. But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? FIRST KEEPER. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come. We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber; And answer was return'd that he will come. MORTIMER. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied. Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been obscur'd, Depriv'd of honour and inheritance. But now the arbitrator of despairs, Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence. I would his troubles likewise were expir'd, That so he might recover what was lost. Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET FIRST KEEPER. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. MORTIMER. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come? PLANTAGENET. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd, Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. MORTIMER. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck And in his bosom spend my latter gasp. O, tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock, Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd? PLANTAGENET. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm; And, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he us'd his lavish tongue And did upbraid me with my father's death; Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet, And for alliance sake, declare the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. MORTIMER. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me And hath detain'd me all my flow'ring youth Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his decease. PLANTAGENET. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am ignorant and cannot guess. MORTIMER. I will, if that my fading breath permit And death approach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Depos'd his nephew Richard, Edward's son, The first-begotten and the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent; During whose reign the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour'd my advancement to the throne. The reason mov'd these warlike lords to this Was, for that-young Richard thus remov'd, Leaving no heir begotten of his body-- I was the next by birth and parentage; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel Duke of Clarence, third son To King Edward the Third; whereas he From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark: as in this haughty great attempt They laboured to plant the rightful heir, I lost my liberty, and they their lives. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth, Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv'd From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister, that thy mother was, Again, in pity of my hard distress, Levied an army, weening to redeem And have install'd me in the diadem; But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl, And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title rested, were suppress'd. PLANTAGENET. Of Which, my lord, your honour is the last. MORTIMER. True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather; But yet be wary in thy studious care. PLANTAGENET. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me. But yet methinks my father's execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. MORTIMER. With silence, nephew, be thou politic; Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster And like a mountain not to be remov'd. But now thy uncle is removing hence, As princes do their courts when they are cloy'd With long continuance in a settled place. PLANTAGENET. O uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age! MORTIMER. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; Only give order for my funeral. And so, farewell; and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! [Dies] PLANTAGENET. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, And like a hermit overpass'd thy days. Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast; And what I do imagine, let that rest. Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself Will see his burial better than his life. Exeunt GAOLERS, hearing out the body of MORTIMER Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Chok'd with ambition of the meaner sort; And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath offer'd to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress; And therefore haste I to the Parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my ill th' advantage of my good. Exit

Henry VI Part 1.act 3.sce

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 3, scene 1 with the given context.

act 3, scene 1|act 3, scene 2|act 3, scene 3|act 3, scene 4

You can probably guess what's going to happen in this one just by reading the stage direction. Where there's Gloucester and Winchester, there's going to be a quarrel--and in Parliament, no less. It's like if Obi-Wan and Anakin Skywalker started quarrelling in the vast galactic Senate meeting. But without the hovercraft, unfortunately. Gloucester is trying to bring up a bill listing Winchester's bad behavior in Parliament. Winchester grabs the paper from his hands, and--no kidding--complains that he wrote out what he wants to say. Picky, picky. Winchester says if Gloucester is going to accuse him, he should do it on the spot without planning ahead; apparently Winchester really respects improv. And guess what? He thinks he's pretty darn good at it: He says he'll answer Gloucester without having to plan it. Gloucester says he may have written down Winchester's crimes, but he's also perfectly able to recite them from memory. Then he gets going on everything that's wrong with Winchester. He throws the book at him, calling his actions "pestiferous" and "dissentious" . Gloucester accuses Winchester of basically being a loan shark, an enemy to peace, and lustful. This is pretty strong stuff anyway, but it's particularly pointed because Winchester is a priest in the Catholic Church and is doubly not supposed to be doing all this stuff. Gloucester finishes it off with the most dangerous accusation of all: Winchester is a traitor and has laid traps to kill Gloucester. Not only that, but Gloucester even suspects him of trying to kill the King. We know from the story of Richard's father that traitors can be executed, so Winchester can't be happy to be called one by the Lord Protector. Winchester says none of these accusations are true, and Gloucester just wants to run the Kingdom by influencing the young king. Gloucester interrupts to shout that Winchester is a "bastard" descended from his grandfather. We at Shmoop try not to use strong language, especially in Parliament, but Gloucester apparently has no such scruples. Winchester accuses Gloucester of pushing people around under the cover of King Henry VI's authority. Gloucester points out that he is officially the Protector of the realm, and Winchester points out that he's pretty high up in the Church . Gloucester and Winchester continue to bicker. Warwick and Somerset get in on the action, trying to settle the dispute. Richard says he has to hold his tongue and not interfere in the debate just now , but otherwise he'd argue with Winchester. The young King Henry VI makes a moving appeal to Gloucester and Winchester to make peace. There's a commotion outside as he speaks. The Mayor turns up again. This guy has a hard job--and last time he told Gloucester and Winchester that their men couldn't carry weapons, so now they're throwing stones. They really are like squabbling kids. He asks the lords and the king to stop the fight. Windows are getting knocked out in the city, and shops have to close. The King tells the men to stop fighting, and they say, "Tough luck! We're going to keep fighting even if we have to use our teeth." Or something like that. They go back to fighting. Gloucester tells his men to stop. One of his servants says they're fighting so Gloucester won't be disgraced, though, and another expresses enthusiasm--and then they start fighting again. Gloucester tells them to stop, the King pleads with Winchester to back off , and Warwick appeals to both the feuding nobles to make peace. Winchester says he won't yield. Gloucester says he'll stop for the King, but that's the only reason. Gloucester does try to make peace, but Winchester brushes him off.; finally the King and Warwick convince him to shake hands with Gloucester. Gloucester doubts that Winchester's sincere, but tries to convince Parliament and the public that the two are at peace. The King says how happy he is and tells the servants to stop fighting now that their lords have agreed. The servants head off to find a doctor. Warwick now introduces the topic of Richard becoming Duke of York again. Gloucester, the King, and Warwick all like the idea, and Winchester agrees to go along with it. The king says that he'll restore all of York's lost inheritance to Richard if Richard will be loyal to him. Richard vows obedience and service up to death. No small promise, that. They do the ceremony that makes Richard Duke, and the lords welcome Richard as one of them. Well, mostly. Somerset mutters to the audience: "Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York" . Apparently he's not of the forget-and-forgive school. Gloucester says to the king, "Hey, let's go get you crowned in France." The King says something like, "Whatever you say, my friend." Gloucester is still kind of running this show, even if it is Henry who's about to be crowned; Gloucester's even got the ships ready to go. But his advice is good, as Henry says . Exeter is pretty worried about the feuds among the nobles. He says it's like a fire hidden under ashes that will break out into a flame, or like an infection slowly rotting away a sick person's body. Then he quotes a prophecy that Henry born at Monmouth would win all, while Henry born at Windsor would lose all. Exeter is loyal, even if he doesn't expect things to go well. He says he wishes he would die before these bad things happen.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 1--------- ACT III. SCENE 1. London. The Parliament House Flourish. Enter the KING, EXETER, GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, SOMERSET, and SUFFOLK; the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, and others. GLOUCESTER offers to put up a bill; WINCHESTER snatches it, and tears it WINCHESTER. Com'st thou with deep premeditated lines, With written pamphlets studiously devis'd? Humphrey of Gloucester, if thou canst accuse Or aught intend'st to lay unto my charge, Do it without invention, suddenly; I with sudden and extemporal speech Purpose to answer what thou canst object. GLOUCESTER. Presumptuous priest, this place commands my patience, Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour'd me. Think not, although in writing I preferr'd The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, That therefore I have forg'd, or am not able Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen. No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness, Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks, As very infants prattle of thy pride. Thou art a most pernicious usurer; Froward by nature, enemy to peace; Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems A man of thy profession and degree; And for thy treachery, what's more manifest In that thou laid'st a trap to take my life, As well at London Bridge as at the Tower? Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, The King, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt From envious malice of thy swelling heart. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe To give me hearing what I shall reply. If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse, As he will have me, how am I so poor? Or how haps it I seek not to advance Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling? And for dissension, who preferreth peace More than I do, except I be provok'd? No, my good lords, it is not that offends; It is not that that incens'd hath incens'd the Duke: It is because no one should sway but he; No one but he should be about the King; And that engenders thunder in his breast And makes him roar these accusations forth. But he shall know I am as good GLOUCESTER. As good! Thou bastard of my grandfather! WINCHESTER. Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray, But one imperious in another's throne? GLOUCESTER. Am I not Protector, saucy priest? WINCHESTER. And am not I a prelate of the church? GLOUCESTER. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps, And useth it to patronage his theft. WINCHESTER. Unreverent Gloucester! GLOUCESTER. Thou art reverend Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life. WINCHESTER. Rome shall remedy this. WARWICK. Roam thither then. SOMERSET. My lord, it were your duty to forbear. WARWICK. Ay, see the bishop be not overborne. SOMERSET. Methinks my lord should be religious, And know the office that belongs to such. WARWICK. Methinks his lordship should be humbler; It fitteth not a prelate so to plead. SOMERSET. Yes, when his holy state is touch'd so near. WARWICK. State holy or unhallow'd, what of that? Is not his Grace Protector to the King? PLANTAGENET. [Aside] Plantagenet, I see, must hold his tongue, Lest it be said 'Speak, sirrah, when you should; Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?' Else would I have a fling at Winchester. KING HENRY. Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, The special watchmen of our English weal, I would prevail, if prayers might prevail To join your hearts in love and amity. O, what a scandal is it to our crown That two such noble peers as ye should jar! Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. [A noise within: 'Down with the tawny coats!'] What tumult's this? WARWICK. An uproar, I dare warrant, Begun through malice of the Bishop's men. [A noise again: 'Stones! Stones!'] Enter the MAYOR OF LONDON, attended MAYOR. O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry, Pity the city of London, pity us! The Bishop and the Duke of Gloucester's men, Forbidden late to carry any weapon, Have fill'd their pockets full of pebble stones And, banding themselves in contrary parts, Do pelt so fast at one another's pate That many have their giddy brains knock'd out. Our windows are broke down in every street, And we for fear compell'd to shut our shops. Enter in skirmish, the retainers of GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER, with bloody pates KING HENRY. We charge you, on allegiance to ourself, To hold your slaught'ring hands and keep the peace. Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we'll fall to it with our teeth. SECOND SERVING-MAN. Do what ye dare, we are as resolute. [Skirmish again] GLOUCESTER. You of my household, leave this peevish broil, And set this unaccustom'd fight aside. THIRD SERVING-MAN. My lord, we know your Grace to be a man Just and upright, and for your royal birth Inferior to none but to his Majesty; And ere that we will suffer such a prince, So kind a father of the commonweal, To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate, We and our wives and children all will fight And have our bodies slaught'red by thy foes. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Ay, and the very parings of our nails Shall pitch a field when we are dead. [Begin again] GLOUCESTER. Stay, stay, I say! And if you love me, as you say you do, Let me persuade you to forbear awhile. KING HENRY. O, how this discord doth afflict my soul! Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold My sighs and tears and will not once relent? Who should be pitiful, if you be not? Or who should study to prefer a peace, If holy churchmen take delight in broils? WARWICK. Yield, my Lord Protector; yield, Winchester; Except you mean with obstinate repulse To slay your sovereign and destroy the realm. You see what mischief, and what murder too, Hath been enacted through your enmity; Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood. WINCHESTER. He shall submit, or I will never yield. GLOUCESTER. Compassion on the King commands me stoop, Or I would see his heart out ere the priest Should ever get that privilege of me. WARWICK. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the Duke Hath banish'd moody discontented fury, As by his smoothed brows it doth appear; Why look you still so stem and tragical? GLOUCESTER. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. KING HENRY. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach That malice was a great and grievous sin; And will not you maintain the thing you teach, But prove a chief offender in the same? WARWICK. Sweet King! The Bishop hath a kindly gird. For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent; What, shall a child instruct you what to do? WINCHESTER. Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee; Love for thy love and hand for hand I give. GLOUCESTER [Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart. See here, my friends and loving countrymen: This token serveth for a flag of truce Betwixt ourselves and all our followers. So help me God, as I dissemble not! WINCHESTER [Aside] So help me God, as I intend it not! KING HENRY. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract! Away, my masters! trouble us no more; But join in friendship, as your lords have done. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Content: I'll to the surgeon's. SECOND SERVING-MAN. And so will I. THIRD SERVING-MAN. And I will see what physic the tavern affords. Exeunt servants, MAYOR, &C. WARWICK. Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign; Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet We do exhibit to your Majesty. GLOUCESTER. Well urg'd, my Lord of Warwick; for, sweet prince, An if your Grace mark every circumstance, You have great reason to do Richard right; Especially for those occasions At Eltham Place I told your Majesty. KING HENRY. And those occasions, uncle, were of force; Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is That Richard be restored to his blood. WARWICK. Let Richard be restored to his blood; So shall his father's wrongs be recompens'd. WINCHESTER. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. KING HENRY. If Richard will be true, not that alone But all the whole inheritance I give That doth belong unto the house of York, From whence you spring by lineal descent. PLANTAGENET. Thy humble servant vows obedience And humble service till the point of death. KING HENRY. Stoop then and set your knee against my foot; And in reguerdon of that duty done I girt thee with the valiant sword of York. Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, And rise created princely Duke of York. PLANTAGENET. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall! And as my duty springs, so perish they That grudge one thought against your Majesty! ALL. Welcome, high Prince, the mighty Duke of York! SOMERSET. [Aside] Perish, base Prince, ignoble Duke of York! GLOUCESTER. Now will it best avail your Majesty To cross the seas and to be crown'd in France: The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, As it disanimates his enemies. KING HENRY. When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes; For friendly counsel cuts off many foes. GLOUCESTER. Your ships already are in readiness. Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but EXETER EXETER. Ay, we may march in England or in France, Not seeing what is likely to ensue. This late dissension grown betwixt the peers Burns under feigned ashes of forg'd love And will at last break out into a flame; As fest'red members rot but by degree Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away, So will this base and envious discord breed. And now I fear that fatal prophecy. Which in the time of Henry nam'd the Fifth Was in the mouth of every sucking babe: That Henry born at Monmouth should win all, And Henry born at Windsor should lose all. Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish His days may finish ere that hapless time. Exit ----------ACT 3, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. France. Before Rouen Enter LA PUCELLE disguis'd, with four soldiers dressed like countrymen, with sacks upon their backs PUCELLE. These are the city gates, the gates of Rouen, Through which our policy must make a breach. Take heed, be wary how you place your words; Talk like the vulgar sort of market-men That come to gather money for their corn. If we have entrance, as I hope we shall, And that we find the slothful watch but weak, I'll by a sign give notice to our friends, That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. FIRST SOLDIER. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city, And we be lords and rulers over Rouen; Therefore we'll knock. [Knocks] WATCH. [Within] Qui est la? PUCELLE. Paysans, pauvres gens de France Poor market-folks that come to sell their corn. WATCH. Enter, go in; the market-bell is rung. PUCELLE. Now, Rouen, I'll shake thy bulwarks to the ground. [LA PUCELLE, &c., enter the town] Enter CHARLES, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, and forces CHARLES. Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem! And once again we'll sleep secure in Rouen. BASTARD. Here ent'red Pucelle and her practisants; Now she is there, how will she specify Here is the best and safest passage in? ALENCON. By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower; Which once discern'd shows that her meaning is No way to that, for weakness, which she ent'red. Enter LA PUCELLE, on the top, thrusting out a torch burning PUCELLE. Behold, this is the happy wedding torch That joineth Rouen unto her countrymen, But burning fatal to the Talbotites. Exit BASTARD. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend; The burning torch in yonder turret stands. CHARLES. Now shine it like a comet of revenge, A prophet to the fall of all our foes! ALENCON. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends; Enter, and cry 'The Dauphin!' presently, And then do execution on the watch. Alarum. Exeunt An alarum. Enter TALBOT in an excursion TALBOT. France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears, If Talbot but survive thy treachery. PUCELLE, that witch, that damned sorceress, Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares, That hardly we escap'd the pride of France. Exit An alarum; excursions. BEDFORD brought in sick in a chair. Enter TALBOT and BURGUNDY without; within, LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, BASTARD, ALENCON, and REIGNIER, on the walls PUCELLE. Good morrow, gallants! Want ye corn for bread? I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast Before he'll buy again at such a rate. 'Twas full of darnel--do you like the taste? BURGUNDY. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan. I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own, And make thee curse the harvest of that corn. CHARLES. Your Grace may starve, perhaps, before that time. BEDFORD. O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason! PUCELLE. What you do, good grey beard? Break a lance, And run a tilt at death within a chair? TALBOT. Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, Encompass'd with thy lustful paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead? Damsel, I'll have a bout with you again, Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. PUCELLE. Are ye so hot, sir? Yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace; If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow. [The English party whisper together in council] God speed the parliament! Who shall be the Speaker? TALBOT. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field? PUCELLE. Belike your lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours or no. TALBOT. I speak not to that railing Hecate, But unto thee, Alencon, and the rest. Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out? ALENCON. Signior, no. TALBOT. Signior, hang! Base muleteers of France! Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls, And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. PUCELLE. Away, captains! Let's get us from the walls; For Talbot means no goodness by his looks. God b'uy, my lord; we came but to tell you That we are here. Exeunt from the walls TALBOT. And there will we be too, ere it be long, Or else reproach be Talbot's greatest fame! Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house, Prick'd on by public wrongs sustain'd in France, Either to get the town again or die; And I, as sure as English Henry lives And as his father here was conqueror, As sure as in this late betrayed town Great Coeur-de-lion's heart was buried So sure I swear to get the town or die. BURGUNDY. My vows are equal partners with thy vows. TALBOT. But ere we go, regard this dying prince, The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, We will bestow you in some better place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. BEDFORD. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me; Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen, And will be partner of your weal or woe. BURGUNDY. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you. BEDFORD. Not to be gone from hence; for once I read That stout Pendragon in his litter sick Came to the field, and vanquished his foes. Methinks I should revive the soldiers' hearts, Because I ever found them as myself. TALBOT. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast! Then be it so. Heavens keep old Bedford safe! And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, But gather we our forces out of hand And set upon our boasting enemy. Exeunt against the town all but BEDFORD and attendants An alarum; excursions. Enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE, and a CAPTAIN CAPTAIN. Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste? FASTOLFE. Whither away? To save myself by flight: We are like to have the overthrow again. CAPTAIN. What! Will you and leave Lord Talbot? FASTOLFE. Ay, All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. Exit CAPTAIN. Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee! Exit into the town Retreat; excursions. LA PUCELLE, ALENCON, and CHARLES fly BEDFORD. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please, For I have seen our enemies' overthrow. What is the trust or strength of foolish man? They that of late were daring with their scoffs Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves. [BEDFORD dies and is carried in by two in his chair] An alarum. Re-enter TALBOT, BURGUNDY, and the rest TALBOT. Lost and recovered in a day again! This is a double honour, Burgundy. Yet heavens have glory for this victory! BURGUNDY. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects Thy noble deeds as valour's monuments. TALBOT. Thanks, gentle Duke. But where is Pucelle now? I think her old familiar is asleep. Now where's the Bastard's braves, and Charles his gleeks? What, all amort? Rouen hangs her head for grief That such a valiant company are fled. Now will we take some order in the town, Placing therein some expert officers; And then depart to Paris to the King, For there young Henry with his nobles lie. BURGUNDY. What Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy. TALBOT. But yet, before we go, let's not forget The noble Duke of Bedford, late deceas'd, But see his exequies fulfill'd in Rouen. A braver soldier never couched lance, A gentler heart did never sway in court; But kings and mightiest potentates must die, For that's the end of human misery. Exeunt ----------ACT 3, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. The plains near Rouen Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD, ALENCON, LA PUCELLE, and forces PUCELLE. Dismay not, Princes, at this accident, Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered. Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied. Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while And like a peacock sweep along his tail; We'll pull his plumes and take away his train, If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul'd. CHARLES. We have guided by thee hitherto, And of thy cunning had no diffidence; One sudden foil shall never breed distrust BASTARD. Search out thy wit for secret policies, And we will make thee famous through the world. ALENCON. We'll set thy statue in some holy place, And have thee reverenc'd like a blessed saint. Employ thee, then, sweet virgin, for our good. PUCELLE. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise: By fair persuasions, mix'd with sug'red words, We will entice the Duke of Burgundy To leave the Talbot and to follow us. CHARLES. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that, France were no place for Henry's warriors; Nor should that nation boast it so with us, But be extirped from our provinces. ALENCON. For ever should they be expuls'd from France, And not have tide of an earldom here. PUCELLE. Your honours shall perceive how I will work To bring this matter to the wished end. [Drum sounds afar off] Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over at a distance, TALBOT and his forces There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread, And all the troops of English after him. French march. Enter the DUKE OF BURGUNDY and his forces Now in the rearward comes the Duke and his. Fortune in favour makes him lag behind. Summon a parley; we will talk with him. [Trumpets sound a parley] CHARLES. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy! BURGUNDY. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy? PUCELLE. The princely Charles of France, thy countryman. BURGUNDY. What say'st thou, Charles? for I am marching hence. CHARLES. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words. PUCELLE. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France! Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee. BURGUNDY. Speak on; but be not over-tedious. PUCELLE. Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns defac'd By wasting ruin of the cruel foe; As looks the mother on her lowly babe When death doth close his tender dying eyes, See, see the pining malady of France; Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, Which thou thyself hast given her woeful breast. O, turn thy edged sword another way; Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help! One drop of blood drawn from thy country's bosom Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore. Return thee therefore with a flood of tears, And wash away thy country's stained spots. BURGUNDY. Either she hath bewitch'd me with her words, Or nature makes me suddenly relent. PUCELLE. Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee, Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. Who join'st thou with but with a lordly nation That will not trust thee but for profit's sake? When Talbot hath set footing once in France, And fashion'd thee that instrument of ill, Who then but English Henry will be lord, And thou be thrust out like a fugitive? Call we to mind-and mark but this for proof: Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe? And was he not in England prisoner? But when they heard he was thine enemy They set him free without his ransom paid, In spite of Burgundy and all his friends. See then, thou fight'st against thy countrymen, And join'st with them will be thy slaughtermen. Come, come, return; return, thou wandering lord; Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms. BURGUNDY. I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers Have batt'red me like roaring cannon-shot And made me almost yield upon my knees. Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace. My forces and my power of men are yours; So, farewell, Talbot; I'll no longer trust thee. PUCELLE. Done like a Frenchman- [Aside] turn and turn again. CHARLES. Welcome, brave Duke! Thy friendship makes us fresh. BASTARD. And doth beget new courage in our breasts. ALENCON. Pucelle hath bravely play'd her part in this, And doth deserve a coronet of gold. CHARLES. Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers, And seek how we may prejudice the foe. Exeunt ----------ACT 3, SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. Paris. The palace Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, WINCHESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, EXETER, VERNON, BASSET, and others. To them, with his soldiers, TALBOT TALBOT. My gracious Prince, and honourable peers, Hearing of your arrival in this realm, I have awhile given truce unto my wars To do my duty to my sovereign; In sign whereof, this arm that hath reclaim'd To your obedience fifty fortresses, Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength, Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, Lets fall his sword before your Highness' feet, And with submissive loyalty of heart Ascribes the glory of his conquest got First to my God and next unto your Grace. [Kneels] KING HENRY. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester, That hath so long been resident in France? GLOUCESTER. Yes, if it please your Majesty, my liege. KING HENRY. Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! When I was young, as yet I am not old, I do remember how my father said A stouter champion never handled sword. Long since we were resolved of your truth, Your faithful service, and your toil in war; Yet never have you tasted our reward, Or been reguerdon'd with so much as thanks, Because till now we never saw your face. Therefore stand up; and for these good deserts We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury; And in our coronation take your place. Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but VERNON and BASSET VERNON. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea, Disgracing of these colours that I wear In honour of my noble Lord of York Dar'st thou maintain the former words thou spak'st? BASSET. Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage The envious barking of your saucy tongue Against my lord the Duke of Somerset. VERNON. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. BASSET. Why, what is he? As good a man as York! VERNON. Hark ye: not so. In witness, take ye that. [Strikes him] BASSET. Villain, thou knowest the law of arms is such That whoso draws a sword 'tis present death, Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. But I'll unto his Majesty and crave I may have liberty to venge this wrong; When thou shalt see I'll meet thee to thy cost. VERNON. Well, miscreant, I'll be there as soon as you; And, after, meet you sooner than you would. Exeunt

Henry VI Part 1.act 4.sce

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 4, scene 3 based on the provided context.

act 4, scene 1|act 4, scene 2|act 4, scene 3|act 4, scene 4|act 4, scenes 2-4

Talbot might get help, if York and Somerset could just agree. Messengers keep trying to convince them to help Talbot, and each says he can't and blames the other. We find out that Talbot's son has come out to help his father, and they may die together if York and Somerset don't find a way to help. One of the messengers, Sir William Lucy, says the feud between Somerset and York is betraying the memory of Henry V, because it's causing the English to lose what he won. Somerset finally says he'll send some horsemen, but Sir William Lucy fears it will be too late, since they will take six hours to get there. Lucy tells Somerset if Talbot is dead "His fame lives in the world, his shame in you" , likely meaning that Talbot's courage will be remembered, but that Talbot would have been ashamed of Somerset's behavior.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- ACT IV. SCENE 1. Park. The palace Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, WINCHESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, TALBOT, EXETER, the GOVERNOR OF PARIS, and others GLOUCESTER. Lord Bishop, set the crown upon his head. WINCHESTER. God save King Henry, of that name the Sixth! GLOUCESTER. Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath [GOVERNOR kneels] That you elect no other king but him, Esteem none friends but such as are his friends, And none your foes but such as shall pretend Malicious practices against his state. This shall ye do, so help you righteous God! Exeunt GOVERNOR and his train Enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE FASTOLFE. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais, To haste unto your coronation, A letter was deliver'd to my hands, Writ to your Grace from th' Duke of Burgundy. TALBOT. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! I vow'd, base knight, when I did meet thee next To tear the Garter from thy craven's leg, [Plucking it off] Which I have done, because unworthily Thou wast installed in that high degree. Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest: This dastard, at the battle of Patay, When but in all I was six thousand strong, And that the French were almost ten to one, Before we met or that a stroke was given, Like to a trusty squire did run away; In which assault we lost twelve hundred men; Myself and divers gentlemen beside Were there surpris'd and taken prisoners. Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss, Or whether that such cowards ought to wear This ornament of knighthood--yea or no. GLOUCESTER. To say the truth, this fact was infamous And ill beseeming any common man, Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader. TALBOT. When first this order was ordain'd, my lords, Knights of the Garter were of noble birth, Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage, Such as were grown to credit by the wars; Not fearing death nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in most extremes. He then that is not furnish'd in this sort Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, Profaning this most honourable order, And should, if I were worthy to be judge, Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain That doth presume to boast of gentle blood. KING HENRY. Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear'st thy doom. Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight; Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death. Exit FASTOLFE And now, my Lord Protector, view the letter Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy. GLOUCESTER. [Viewing the superscription] What means his Grace, that he hath chang'd his style? No more but plain and bluntly 'To the King!' Hath he forgot he is his sovereign? Or doth this churlish superscription Pretend some alteration in good-will? What's here? [Reads] 'I have, upon especial cause, Mov'd with compassion of my country's wreck, Together with the pitiful complaints Of such as your oppression feeds upon, Forsaken your pernicious faction, And join'd with Charles, the rightful King of France.' O monstrous treachery! Can this be so That in alliance, amity, and oaths, There should be found such false dissembling guile? KING HENRY. What! Doth my uncle Burgundy revolt? GLOUCESTER. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe. KING HENRY. Is that the worst this letter doth contain? GLOUCESTER. It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes. KING HENRY. Why then Lord Talbot there shall talk with him And give him chastisement for this abuse. How say you, my lord, are you not content? TALBOT. Content, my liege! Yes; but that I am prevented, I should have begg'd I might have been employ'd. KING HENRY. Then gather strength and march unto him straight; Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason. And what offence it is to flout his friends. TALBOT. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still You may behold confusion of your foes. Exit Enter VERNON and BASSET VERNON. Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign. BASSET. And me, my lord, grant me the combat too. YORK. This is my servant: hear him, noble Prince. SOMERSET. And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him. KING HENRY. Be patient, lords, and give them leave to speak. Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim, And wherefore crave you combat, or with whom? VERNON. With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong. BASSET. And I with him; for he hath done me wrong. KING HENRY. What is that wrong whereof you both complain? First let me know, and then I'll answer you. BASSET. Crossing the sea from England into France, This fellow here, with envious carping tongue, Upbraided me about the rose I wear, Saying the sanguine colour of the leaves Did represent my master's blushing cheeks When stubbornly he did repugn the truth About a certain question in the law Argu'd betwixt the Duke of York and him; With other vile and ignominious terms In confutation of which rude reproach And in defence of my lord's worthiness, I crave the benefit of law of arms. VERNON. And that is my petition, noble lord; For though he seem with forged quaint conceit To set a gloss upon his bold intent, Yet know, my lord, I was provok'd by him, And he first took exceptions at this badge, Pronouncing that the paleness of this flower Bewray'd the faintness of my master's heart. YORK. Will not this malice, Somerset, be left? SOMERSET. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out, Though ne'er so cunningly you smother it. KING HENRY. Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men, When for so slight and frivolous a cause Such factious emulations shall arise! Good cousins both, of York and Somerset, Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. YORK. Let this dissension first be tried by fight, And then your Highness shall command a peace. SOMERSET. The quarrel toucheth none but us alone; Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then. YORK. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. VERNON. Nay, let it rest where it began at first. BASSET. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. GLOUCESTER. Confirm it so? Confounded be your strife; And perish ye, with your audacious prate! Presumptuous vassals, are you not asham'd With this immodest clamorous outrage To trouble and disturb the King and us? And you, my lords--methinks you do not well To bear with their perverse objections, Much less to take occasion from their mouths To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves. Let me persuade you take a better course. EXETER. It grieves his Highness. Good my lords, be friends. KING HENRY. Come hither, you that would be combatants: Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour, Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause. And you, my lords, remember where we are: In France, amongst a fickle wavering nation; If they perceive dissension in our looks And that within ourselves we disagree, How will their grudging stomachs be provok'd To wilful disobedience, and rebel! Beside, what infamy will there arise When foreign princes shall be certified That for a toy, a thing of no regard, King Henry's peers and chief nobility Destroy'd themselves and lost the realm of France! O, think upon the conquest of my father, My tender years; and let us not forgo That for a trifle that was bought with blood! Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. I see no reason, if I wear this rose, [Putting on a red rose] That any one should therefore be suspicious I more incline to Somerset than York: Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both. As well they may upbraid me with my crown, Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown'd. But your discretions better can persuade Than I am able to instruct or teach; And, therefore, as we hither came in peace, So let us still continue peace and love. Cousin of York, we institute your Grace To be our Regent in these parts of France. And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot; And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, Go cheerfully together and digest Your angry choler on your enemies. Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest, After some respite will return to Calais; From thence to England, where I hope ere long To be presented by your victories With Charles, Alencon, and that traitorous rout. Flourish. Exeunt all but YORK, WARWICK, EXETER, VERNON WARWICK. My Lord of York, I promise you, the King Prettily, methought, did play the orator. YORK. And so he did; but yet I like it not, In that he wears the badge of Somerset. WARWICK. Tush, that was but his fancy; blame him not; I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm. YORK. An if I wist he did-but let it rest; Other affairs must now be managed. Exeunt all but EXETER EXETER. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice; For had the passions of thy heart burst out, I fear we should have seen decipher'd there More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils, Than yet can be imagin'd or suppos'd. But howsoe'er, no simple man that sees This jarring discord of nobility, This shouldering of each other in the court, This factious bandying of their favourites, But that it doth presage some ill event. 'Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands; But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. Exit ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. France. Before Bordeaux Enter TALBOT, with trump and drum TALBOT. Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter; Summon their general unto the wall. Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, aloft, the GENERAL OF THE FRENCH, and others English John Talbot, Captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England; And thus he would open your city gates, Be humble to us, call my sovereign yours And do him homage as obedient subjects, And I'll withdraw me and my bloody power; But if you frown upon this proffer'd peace, You tempt the fury of my three attendants, Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. GENERAL OF THE FRENCH. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified, And strong enough to issue out and fight. If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee. On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd To wall thee from the liberty of flight, And no way canst thou turn thee for redress But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass that now begins to run Finish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes that see thee now well coloured Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead. [Drum afar off] Hark! hark! The Dauphin's drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. Exit TALBOT. He fables not; I hear the enemy. Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How are we park'd and bounded in a pale A little herd of England's timorous deer, Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in blood; Not rascal-like to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay. Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! Exeunt ----------ACT 4, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. Plains in Gascony Enter YORK, with trumpet and many soldiers. A MESSENGER meets him YORK. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin? MESSENGER. They are return'd, my lord, and give it out That he is march'd to Bordeaux with his power To fight with Talbot; as he march'd along, By your espials were discovered Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led, Which join'd with him and made their march for Bordeaux. YORK. A plague upon that villain Somerset That thus delays my promised supply Of horsemen that were levied for this siege! Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, And I am louted by a traitor villain And cannot help the noble chevalier. God comfort him in this necessity! If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY LUCY. Thou princely leader of our English strength, Never so needful on the earth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, Who now is girdled with a waist of iron And hemm'd about with grim destruction. To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! to Bordeaux, York! Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England's honour. YORK. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place! So should we save a valiant gentleman By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep That thus we die while remiss traitors sleep. LUCY. O, send some succour to the distress'd lord! YORK. He dies; we lose; I break my warlike word. We mourn: France smiles. We lose: they daily get- All long of this vile traitor Somerset. LUCY. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul, And on his son, young John, who two hours since I met in travel toward his warlike father. This seven years did not Talbot see his son; And now they meet where both their lives are done. YORK. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have To bid his young son welcome to his grave? Away! vexation almost stops my breath, That sund'red friends greet in the hour of death. Lucy, farewell; no more my fortune can But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away Long all of Somerset and his delay. Exit with forces LUCY. Thus, while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror, That ever-living man of memory, Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each other cross, Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. Exit ----------ACT 4, SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. Other plains of Gascony Enter SOMERSET, With his forces; an OFFICER of TALBOT'S with him SOMERSET. It is too late; I cannot send them now. This expedition was by York and Talbot Too rashly plotted; all our general force Might with a sally of the very town Be buckled with. The over daring Talbot Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure. York set him on to fight and die in shame. That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. OFFICER. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me Set from our o'er-match'd forces forth for aid. Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY SOMERSET. How now, Sir William! Whither were you sent? LUCY. Whither, my lord! From bought and sold Lord Talbot, Who, ring'd about with bold adversity, Cries out for noble York and Somerset To beat assailing death from his weak legions; And whiles the honourable captain there Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs And, in advantage ling'ring, looks for rescue, You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour, Keep off aloof with worthless emulation. Let not your private discord keep away The levied succours that should lend him aid, While he, renowned noble gentleman, Yield up his life unto a world of odds. Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, Alencon, Reignier, compass him about, And Talbot perisheth by your default. SOMERSET. York set him on; York should have sent him aid. LUCY. And York as fast upon your Grace exclaims, Swearing that you withhold his levied host, Collected for this expedition. SOMERSET. York lies; he might have sent and had the horse. I owe him little duty and less love, And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. LUCY. The fraud of England, not the force of France, Hath now entrapp'd the noble minded Talbot. Never to England shall he bear his life, But dies betray'd to fortune by your strife. SOMERSET. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight; Within six hours they will be at his aid. LUCY. Too late comes rescue; he is ta'en or slain, For fly he could not if he would have fled; And fly would Talbot never, though he might. SOMERSET. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then, adieu! LUCY. His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. Exeunt ----------ACT 4, SCENES 2-4--------- SCENE 2. France. Before Bordeaux Enter TALBOT, with trump and drum TALBOT. Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter; Summon their general unto the wall. Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, aloft, the GENERAL OF THE FRENCH, and others English John Talbot, Captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England; And thus he would open your city gates, Be humble to us, call my sovereign yours And do him homage as obedient subjects, And I'll withdraw me and my bloody power; But if you frown upon this proffer'd peace, You tempt the fury of my three attendants, Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. GENERAL OF THE FRENCH. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified, And strong enough to issue out and fight. If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee. On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd To wall thee from the liberty of flight, And no way canst thou turn thee for redress But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass that now begins to run Finish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes that see thee now well coloured Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead. [Drum afar off] Hark! hark! The Dauphin's drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. Exit TALBOT. He fables not; I hear the enemy. Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How are we park'd and bounded in a pale A little herd of England's timorous deer, Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in blood; Not rascal-like to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay. Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! Exeunt SCENE 3. Plains in Gascony Enter YORK, with trumpet and many soldiers. A MESSENGER meets him YORK. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin? MESSENGER. They are return'd, my lord, and give it out That he is march'd to Bordeaux with his power To fight with Talbot; as he march'd along, By your espials were discovered Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led, Which join'd with him and made their march for Bordeaux. YORK. A plague upon that villain Somerset That thus delays my promised supply Of horsemen that were levied for this siege! Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid, And I am louted by a traitor villain And cannot help the noble chevalier. God comfort him in this necessity! If he miscarry, farewell wars in France. Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY LUCY. Thou princely leader of our English strength, Never so needful on the earth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot, Who now is girdled with a waist of iron And hemm'd about with grim destruction. To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! to Bordeaux, York! Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England's honour. YORK. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place! So should we save a valiant gentleman By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep That thus we die while remiss traitors sleep. LUCY. O, send some succour to the distress'd lord! YORK. He dies; we lose; I break my warlike word. We mourn: France smiles. We lose: they daily get- All long of this vile traitor Somerset. LUCY. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul, And on his son, young John, who two hours since I met in travel toward his warlike father. This seven years did not Talbot see his son; And now they meet where both their lives are done. YORK. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have To bid his young son welcome to his grave? Away! vexation almost stops my breath, That sund'red friends greet in the hour of death. Lucy, farewell; no more my fortune can But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away Long all of Somerset and his delay. Exit with forces LUCY. Thus, while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror, That ever-living man of memory, Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each other cross, Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. Exit SCENE 4. Other plains of Gascony Enter SOMERSET, With his forces; an OFFICER of TALBOT'S with him SOMERSET. It is too late; I cannot send them now. This expedition was by York and Talbot Too rashly plotted; all our general force Might with a sally of the very town Be buckled with. The over daring Talbot Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure. York set him on to fight and die in shame. That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. OFFICER. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me Set from our o'er-match'd forces forth for aid. Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY SOMERSET. How now, Sir William! Whither were you sent? LUCY. Whither, my lord! From bought and sold Lord Talbot, Who, ring'd about with bold adversity, Cries out for noble York and Somerset To beat assailing death from his weak legions; And whiles the honourable captain there Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs And, in advantage ling'ring, looks for rescue, You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour, Keep off aloof with worthless emulation. Let not your private discord keep away The levied succours that should lend him aid, While he, renowned noble gentleman, Yield up his life unto a world of odds. Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy, Alencon, Reignier, compass him about, And Talbot perisheth by your default. SOMERSET. York set him on; York should have sent him aid. LUCY. And York as fast upon your Grace exclaims, Swearing that you withhold his levied host, Collected for this expedition. SOMERSET. York lies; he might have sent and had the horse. I owe him little duty and less love, And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending. LUCY. The fraud of England, not the force of France, Hath now entrapp'd the noble minded Talbot. Never to England shall he bear his life, But dies betray'd to fortune by your strife. SOMERSET. Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight; Within six hours they will be at his aid. LUCY. Too late comes rescue; he is ta'en or slain, For fly he could not if he would have fled; And fly would Talbot never, though he might. SOMERSET. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then, adieu! LUCY. His fame lives in the world, his shame in you. Exeunt

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 4, scene 5 based on the provided context.

Talbot enters with his son, John. He had planned to use the siege of Bordeaux to teach his son the art of war, so that John could take over from his father after the latter's death. But now Talbot knows that John will certainly be killed if he stays for the battle, so he tells him to flee. John refuses to desert his father. Talbot says if they both stay, they will both die. John tells his father to flee and says he himself will stay, since his own death would be no great loss to the English and would not be significant enough for the French to boast about. John adds that he prefers an honorable death than a life lived in shame. Talbot worries that his wife, the boy's mother, will be left without husband or son, but John replies that his mother would not want to be shamed by a cowardly son. They argue further, but eventually Talbot agrees that they will live or die together. .

----------ACT 4, SCENES 5-7--------- SCENE 5. The English camp near Bordeaux Enter TALBOT and JOHN his son TALBOT. O young John Talbot! I did send for thee To tutor thee in stratagems of war, That Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd When sapless age and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. But, O malignant and ill-boding stars! Now thou art come unto a feast of death, A terrible and unavoided danger; Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse, And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape By sudden flight. Come, dally not, be gone. JOHN. Is my name Talbot, and am I your son? And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother, Dishonour not her honourable name, To make a bastard and a slave of me! The world will say he is not Talbot's blood That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. TALBOT. Fly to revenge my death, if I be slain. JOHN. He that flies so will ne'er return again. TALBOT. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. JOHN. Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly. Your loss is great, so your regard should be; My worth unknown, no loss is known in me; Upon my death the French can little boast; In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot stain the honour you have won; But mine it will, that no exploit have done; You fled for vantage, every one will swear; But if I bow, they'll say it was for fear. There is no hope that ever I will stay If the first hour I shrink and run away. Here, on my knee, I beg mortality, Rather than life preserv'd with infamy. TALBOT. Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb? JOHN. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb. TALBOT. Upon my blessing I command thee go. JOHN. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. TALBOT. Part of thy father may be sav'd in thee. JOHN. No part of him but will be shame in me. TALBOT. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it. JOHN. Yes, your renowned name; shall flight abuse it? TALBOT. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain. JOHN. You cannot witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. TALBOT. And leave my followers here to fight and die? My age was never tainted with such shame. JOHN. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be severed from your side Than can yourself yourself yourself in twain divide. Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not if my father die. TALBOT. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die; And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. Exeunt SCENE 6. A field of battle Alarum: excursions wherein JOHN TALBOT is hemm'd about, and TALBOT rescues him TALBOT. Saint George and victory! Fight, soldiers, fight. The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot? Pause and take thy breath; I gave thee life and rescu'd thee from death. JOHN. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gav'st me first was lost and done Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, To my determin'd time thou gav'st new date. TALBOT. When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire, It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire Of bold-fac'd victory. Then leaden age, Quicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage, Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace Bespoke him thus: 'Contaminated, base, And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy.' Here purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care; Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art seal'd the son of chivalry? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead: The help of one stands me in little stead. O, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our lives in one small boat! If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage, To-morrow I shall die with mickle age. By me they nothing gain an if I stay: 'Tis but the short'ning of my life one day. In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame. All these and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are sav'd if thou wilt fly away. JOHN. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart. On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fall and die! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame's scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the glory you have won, An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son; Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot. TALBOT. Then follow thou thy desp'rate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet. If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side; And, commendable prov'd, let's die in pride. Exeunt SCENE 7. Another part of the field Alarum; excursions. Enter old TALBOT led by a SERVANT TALBOT. Where is my other life? Mine own is gone. O, where's young Talbot? Where is valiant John? Triumphant death, smear'd with captivity, Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee. When he perceiv'd me shrink and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish'd over me, And like a hungry lion did commence Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tend'ring my ruin and assail'd of none, Dizzy-ey'd fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clust'ring battle of the French; And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His overmounting spirit; and there died, My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. Enter soldiers, bearing the body of JOHN TALBOT SERVANT. O my dear lord, lo where your son is borne! TALBOT. Thou antic Death, which laugh'st us here to scorn, Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall scape mortality. O thou whose wounds become hard-favoured Death, Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! Brave Death by speaking, whether he will or no; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had Death been French, then Death had died to-day. Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms. My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave. [Dies] Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD, LA PUCELLE, and forces CHARLES. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, We should have found a bloody day of this. BASTARD. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging wood, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood! PUCELLE. Once I encount'red him, and thus I said: 'Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid.' But with a proud majestical high scorn He answer'd thus: 'Young Talbot was not born To be the pillage of a giglot wench.' So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. BURGUNDY. Doubtless he would have made a noble knight. See where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! BASTARD. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder, Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder. CHARLES. O, no; forbear! For that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter SIR WILLIAM Lucy, attended; a FRENCH HERALD preceding LUCY. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent, To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day. CHARLES. On what submissive message art thou sent? LUCY. Submission, Dauphin! 'Tis a mere French word: We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en, And to survey the bodies of the dead. CHARLES. For prisoners ask'st thou? Hell our prison is. But tell me whom thou seek'st. LUCY. But where's the great Alcides of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created for his rare success in arms Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France? PUCELLE. Here's a silly-stately style indeed! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as this. Him that thou magnifi'st with all these tides, Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. LUCY. Is Talbot slain--the Frenchmen's only scourge, Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis? O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! O that I could but call these dead to life! It were enough to fright the realm of France. Were but his picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their worth. PUCELLE. I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost, He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. For God's sake, let him have them; to keep them here, They would but stink, and putrefy the air. CHARLES. Go, take their bodies hence. LUCY. I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear'd A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. CHARLES. So we be rid of them, do with them what thou wilt. And now to Paris in this conquering vein! All will be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain. Exeunt ----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. France. Before Bordeaux Enter TALBOT, with trump and drum TALBOT. Go to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter; Summon their general unto the wall. Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, aloft, the GENERAL OF THE FRENCH, and others English John Talbot, Captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King of England; And thus he would open your city gates, Be humble to us, call my sovereign yours And do him homage as obedient subjects, And I'll withdraw me and my bloody power; But if you frown upon this proffer'd peace, You tempt the fury of my three attendants, Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire; Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air braving towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. GENERAL OF THE FRENCH. Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified, And strong enough to issue out and fight. If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee. On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd To wall thee from the liberty of flight, And no way canst thou turn thee for redress But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament To rive their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit! This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For ere the glass that now begins to run Finish the process of his sandy hour, These eyes that see thee now well coloured Shall see thee withered, bloody, pale, and dead. [Drum afar off] Hark! hark! The Dauphin's drum, a warning bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; And mine shall ring thy dire departure out. Exit TALBOT. He fables not; I hear the enemy. Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How are we park'd and bounded in a pale A little herd of England's timorous deer, Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in blood; Not rascal-like to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the cowards stand aloof at bay. Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and England's right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! Exeunt ----------ACT 4, SCENE 5--------- SCENE 5. The English camp near Bordeaux Enter TALBOT and JOHN his son TALBOT. O young John Talbot! I did send for thee To tutor thee in stratagems of war, That Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd When sapless age and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. But, O malignant and ill-boding stars! Now thou art come unto a feast of death, A terrible and unavoided danger; Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse, And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape By sudden flight. Come, dally not, be gone. JOHN. Is my name Talbot, and am I your son? And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother, Dishonour not her honourable name, To make a bastard and a slave of me! The world will say he is not Talbot's blood That basely fled when noble Talbot stood. TALBOT. Fly to revenge my death, if I be slain. JOHN. He that flies so will ne'er return again. TALBOT. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. JOHN. Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly. Your loss is great, so your regard should be; My worth unknown, no loss is known in me; Upon my death the French can little boast; In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot stain the honour you have won; But mine it will, that no exploit have done; You fled for vantage, every one will swear; But if I bow, they'll say it was for fear. There is no hope that ever I will stay If the first hour I shrink and run away. Here, on my knee, I beg mortality, Rather than life preserv'd with infamy. TALBOT. Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb? JOHN. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb. TALBOT. Upon my blessing I command thee go. JOHN. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. TALBOT. Part of thy father may be sav'd in thee. JOHN. No part of him but will be shame in me. TALBOT. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it. JOHN. Yes, your renowned name; shall flight abuse it? TALBOT. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain. JOHN. You cannot witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. TALBOT. And leave my followers here to fight and die? My age was never tainted with such shame. JOHN. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be severed from your side Than can yourself yourself yourself in twain divide. Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not if my father die. TALBOT. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die; And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. Exeunt ----------ACT 4, SCENE 6--------- SCENE 6. A field of battle Alarum: excursions wherein JOHN TALBOT is hemm'd about, and TALBOT rescues him TALBOT. Saint George and victory! Fight, soldiers, fight. The Regent hath with Talbot broke his word And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot? Pause and take thy breath; I gave thee life and rescu'd thee from death. JOHN. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gav'st me first was lost and done Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, To my determin'd time thou gav'st new date. TALBOT. When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire, It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire Of bold-fac'd victory. Then leaden age, Quicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage, Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace Bespoke him thus: 'Contaminated, base, And misbegotten blood I spill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy.' Here purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care; Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art seal'd the son of chivalry? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead: The help of one stands me in little stead. O, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our lives in one small boat! If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage, To-morrow I shall die with mickle age. By me they nothing gain an if I stay: 'Tis but the short'ning of my life one day. In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame. All these and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are sav'd if thou wilt fly away. JOHN. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart. On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fall and die! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame's scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the glory you have won, An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son; Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot. TALBOT. Then follow thou thy desp'rate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet. If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side; And, commendable prov'd, let's die in pride. Exeunt ----------ACT 4, SCENE 7--------- SCENE 7. Another part of the field Alarum; excursions. Enter old TALBOT led by a SERVANT TALBOT. Where is my other life? Mine own is gone. O, where's young Talbot? Where is valiant John? Triumphant death, smear'd with captivity, Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee. When he perceiv'd me shrink and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish'd over me, And like a hungry lion did commence Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience; But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tend'ring my ruin and assail'd of none, Dizzy-ey'd fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clust'ring battle of the French; And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His overmounting spirit; and there died, My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. Enter soldiers, bearing the body of JOHN TALBOT SERVANT. O my dear lord, lo where your son is borne! TALBOT. Thou antic Death, which laugh'st us here to scorn, Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite shall scape mortality. O thou whose wounds become hard-favoured Death, Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! Brave Death by speaking, whether he will or no; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had Death been French, then Death had died to-day. Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms. My spirit can no longer bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave. [Dies] Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY, BASTARD, LA PUCELLE, and forces CHARLES. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, We should have found a bloody day of this. BASTARD. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging wood, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood! PUCELLE. Once I encount'red him, and thus I said: 'Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid.' But with a proud majestical high scorn He answer'd thus: 'Young Talbot was not born To be the pillage of a giglot wench.' So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. BURGUNDY. Doubtless he would have made a noble knight. See where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! BASTARD. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder, Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder. CHARLES. O, no; forbear! For that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead. Enter SIR WILLIAM Lucy, attended; a FRENCH HERALD preceding LUCY. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent, To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day. CHARLES. On what submissive message art thou sent? LUCY. Submission, Dauphin! 'Tis a mere French word: We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en, And to survey the bodies of the dead. CHARLES. For prisoners ask'st thou? Hell our prison is. But tell me whom thou seek'st. LUCY. But where's the great Alcides of the field, Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created for his rare success in arms Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his wars within the realm of France? PUCELLE. Here's a silly-stately style indeed! The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as this. Him that thou magnifi'st with all these tides, Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet. LUCY. Is Talbot slain--the Frenchmen's only scourge, Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis? O, were mine eye-balls into bullets turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! O that I could but call these dead to life! It were enough to fright the realm of France. Were but his picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their worth. PUCELLE. I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost, He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit. For God's sake, let him have them; to keep them here, They would but stink, and putrefy the air. CHARLES. Go, take their bodies hence. LUCY. I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear'd A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. CHARLES. So we be rid of them, do with them what thou wilt. And now to Paris in this conquering vein! All will be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain. Exeunt

Henry VI Part 1.act 5.sce

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 5, scene 4 using the context provided.

act 5, scene 1|act 5, scene 2|act 5, scene 3|act 5, scene 4

Where was the King during that peace negotiation? Not there. He's not there a lot, Henry VI. Now we see him having a conference with Suffolk, who's trying to convince him to marry Margaret. It seems to be going well. Possibly forgetting that he's already agreed to marry a noblewoman with a big dowry, Henry VI seems pretty convinced by Suffolk's speeches about Margaret. Suffolk says there's lots more to tell about how great she is, and on top of that she's happy to obey Henry and be his wife. The King asks Gloucester to give consent to the marriage, but Gloucester points out, inconveniently, that the King is already engaged. Suffolk says that's no problem--the other girl is only an earl's daughter, so it's fine to break a promise to her. But Gloucester says that Margaret's father might have more impressive titles, but he's really no higher up than an earl. Suffolk and Gloucester then debate whether Margaret's father or the father of Henry's current fiancee is likely to do them more good as an ally. Exeter points out that the father of the current fiancee, Armagnac, is wealthy and likely to give a great dowry, which is not so likely with Margaret's father. Sounds like he might be poor and stingy, which is not so good from the perspective of the English nobles looking to fill the crown's pockets. Suffolk says the king doesn't need a dowry, and can marry whomever he likes for love. He gives a really long speech arguing that Margaret is a better match for the King, the King is really in love with her, and so on. This is pretty ludicrous, because the King hasn't even met either woman, so he's not actually in love with either of them. It's kind of like saying, "I read two profiles on Match.com, and I'm sure I'm in love with this one." All the same, the King seems convinced. He's not sure whether it's Suffolk's praise or the fact that he's never been in love before, but he's sick with hope and fear until he can marry Margaret. He even tells Suffolk he can levy a special extra tax for expenses. You know how much people like extra taxes. Henry asks his uncle to remember what young love was like and not be offended. Gloucester mutters that this will likely cause grief, and we can just see how unconvinced he is. Suffolk ends the play with a little speech where he describes himself as being like Paris, the Trojan prince who married the most beautiful woman in the world. He also hopes that he will be able to influence the king by influencing Margaret, thus ruling the realm behind the scenes. There are so many ominous things about this six line speech it's hard to know where to start. For one, Paris didn't really have great success. Yes, he did marry the most beautiful woman in the world, but only after stealing her from her husband, who came and besieged Paris's city of Troy for ten years. And that's just the beginning. Paris was also widely scorned by his countrymen for causing so much trouble, and he was eventually killed in the fighting over Troy. Not to mention that Troy fell completely to the Greeks and was obliterated. Suffolk sort of recognizes this--he says he hopes to prosper more than Paris--but it's still a really bad comparison. He's saying, "Sure this character steals someone else's wife, is hated by most of his friends, causes the downfall of his entire homeland, and dies in the process. But I think I can emulate him and have better luck." And that's the end of the play. This play begins with the funeral of one of England's greatest heroes and ends with a rash nobleman hoping he can run the kingdom by having an affair with the queen and influencing the king through her. Not so good. It's all looming, kind of the way the threat of Darth Vader is looming when you see that cute kid Anakin.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE 1. London. The palace Sennet. Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER KING HENRY. Have you perus'd the letters from the Pope, The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac? GLOUCESTER. I have, my lord; and their intent is this: They humbly sue unto your Excellence To have a godly peace concluded of Between the realms of England and of France. KING HENRY. How doth your Grace affect their motion? GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, and as the only means To stop effusion of our Christian blood And stablish quietness on every side. KING HENRY. Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. GLOUCESTER. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect And surer bind this knot of amity, The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in France, Proffers his only daughter to your Grace In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. KING HENRY. Marriage, uncle! Alas, my years are young And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet call th' ambassadors, and, as you please, So let them have their answers every one. I shall be well content with any choice Tends to God's glory and my country's weal. Enter in Cardinal's habit BEAUFORT, the PAPAL LEGATE, and two AMBASSADORS EXETER. What! Is my Lord of Winchester install'd And call'd unto a cardinal's degree? Then I perceive that will be verified Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy: 'If once he come to be a cardinal, He'll make his cap co-equal with the crown.' KING HENRY. My Lords Ambassadors, your several suits Have been consider'd and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable, And therefore are we certainly resolv'd To draw conditions of a friendly peace, Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean Shall be transported presently to France. GLOUCESTER. And for the proffer of my lord your master, I have inform'd his Highness so at large, As, liking of the lady's virtuous gifts, Her beauty, and the value of her dower, He doth intend she shall be England's Queen. KING HENRY. [To AMBASSADOR] In argument and proof of which contract, Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. And so, my Lord Protector, see them guarded And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp'd, Commit them to the fortune of the sea. Exeunt all but WINCHESTER and the LEGATE WINCHESTER. Stay, my Lord Legate; you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised Should be delivered to his Holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments. LEGATE. I will attend upon your lordship's leisure. WINCHESTER. [Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow, Or be inferior to the proudest peer. Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That neither in birth or for authority The Bishop will be overborne by thee. I'll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, Or sack this country with a mutiny. Exeunt ----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. France. Plains in Anjou Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, BASTARD, REIGNIER, LA PUCELLE, and forces CHARLES. These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping spirits: 'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt And turn again unto the warlike French. ALENCON. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France, And keep not back your powers in dalliance. PUCELLE. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; Else ruin combat with their palaces! Enter a SCOUT SCOUT. Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices! CHARLES. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak. SCOUT. The English army, that divided was Into two parties, is now conjoin'd in one, And means to give you battle presently. CHARLES. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is; But we will presently provide for them. BURGUNDY. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there. Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. PUCELLE. Of all base passions fear is most accurs'd. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine, Let Henry fret and all the world repine. CHARLES. Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate! Exeunt ----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. Before Angiers Alarum, excursions. Enter LA PUCELLE PUCELLE. The Regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly. Now help, ye charming spells and periapts; And ye choice spirits that admonish me And give me signs of future accidents; [Thunder] You speedy helpers that are substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north, Appear and aid me in this enterprise! Enter FIENDS This speedy and quick appearance argues proof Of your accustom'd diligence to me. Now, ye familiar spirits that are cull'd Out of the powerful regions under earth, Help me this once, that France may get the field. [They walk and speak not] O, hold me not with silence over-long! Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, I'll lop a member off and give it you In earnest of a further benefit, So you do condescend to help me now. [They hang their heads] No hope to have redress? My body shall Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit. [They shake their heads] Cannot my body nor blood sacrifice Entreat you to your wonted furtherance? Then take my soul-my body, soul, and all, Before that England give the French the foil. [They depart] See! they forsake me. Now the time is come That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest And let her head fall into England's lap. My ancient incantations are too weak, And hell too strong for me to buckle with. Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. Exit Excursions. Enter French and English, fighting. LA PUCELLE and YORK fight hand to hand; LA PUCELLE is taken. The French fly YORK. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast. Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms, And try if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace! See how the ugly witch doth bend her brows As if, with Circe, she would change my shape! PUCELLE. Chang'd to a worser shape thou canst not be. YORK. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man: No shape but his can please your dainty eye. PUCELLE. A plaguing mischief fight on Charles and thee! And may ye both be suddenly surpris'd By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds! YORK. Fell banning hag; enchantress, hold thy tongue. PUCELLE. I prithee give me leave to curse awhile. YORK. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake. Exeunt Alarum. Enter SUFFOLK, with MARGARET in his hand SUFFOLK. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. [Gazes on her] O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly! For I will touch thee but with reverent hands; I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, And lay them gently on thy tender side. Who art thou? Say, that I may honour thee. MARGARET. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, The King of Naples--whosoe'er thou art. SUFFOLK. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd. Be not offended, nature's miracle, Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me. So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once offend, Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend. [She is going] O, stay! [Aside] I have no power to let her pass; My hand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak. I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself; Hast not a tongue? Is she not here thy prisoner? Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight? Ay, beauty's princely majesty is such Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. MARGARET. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so, What ransom must I pay before I pass? For I perceive I am thy prisoner. SUFFOLK. [Aside] How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love? MARGARET. Why speak'st thou not? What ransom must I pay? SUFFOLK. [Aside] She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore to be won. MARGARET. Wilt thou accept of ransom--yea or no? SUFFOLK. [Aside] Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour? MARGARET. I were best leave him, for he will not hear. SUFFOLK. [Aside] There all is marr'd; there lies a cooling card. MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad. SUFFOLK. [Aside] And yet a dispensation may be had. MARGARET. And yet I would that you would answer me. SUFFOLK. [Aside] I'll win this Lady Margaret. For whom? Why, for my King! Tush, that's a wooden thing! MARGARET. He talks of wood. It is some carpenter. SUFFOLK. [Aside] Yet so my fancy may be satisfied, And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too; For though her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. MARGARET. Hear ye, Captain--are you not at leisure? SUFFOLK. [Aside] It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much. Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield. Madam, I have a secret to reveal. MARGARET. [Aside] What though I be enthrall'd? He seems a knight, And will not any way dishonour me. SUFFOLK. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. MARGARET. [Aside] Perhaps I shall be rescu'd by the French; And then I need not crave his courtesy. SUFFOLK. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause-- MARGARET. [Aside] Tush! women have been captivate ere now. SUFFOLK. Lady, wherefore talk you so? MARGARET. I cry you mercy, 'tis but quid for quo. SUFFOLK. Say, gentle Princess, would you not suppose Your bondage happy, to be made a queen? MARGARET. To be a queen in bondage is more vile Than is a slave in base servility; For princes should be free. SUFFOLK. And so shall you, If happy England's royal king be free. MARGARET. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me? SUFFOLK. I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen, To put a golden sceptre in thy hand And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt condescend to be my-- MARGARET. What? SUFFOLK. His love. MARGARET. I am unworthy to be Henry's wife. SUFFOLK. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife And have no portion in the choice myself. How say you, madam? Are ye so content? MARGARET. An if my father please, I am content. SUFFOLK. Then call our captains and our colours forth! And, madam, at your father's castle walls We'll crave a parley to confer with him. Sound a parley. Enter REIGNIER on the walls See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner! REIGNIER. To whom? SUFFOLK. To me. REIGNIER. Suffolk, what remedy? I am a soldier and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness. SUFFOLK. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord. Consent, and for thy honour give consent, Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king, Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto; And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain'd thy daughter princely liberty. REIGNIER. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks? SUFFOLK. Fair Margaret knows That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. REIGNIER. Upon thy princely warrant I descend To give thee answer of thy just demand. Exit REIGNIER from the walls SUFFOLK. And here I will expect thy coming. Trumpets sound. Enter REIGNIER below REIGNIER. Welcome, brave Earl, into our territories; Command in Anjou what your Honour pleases. SUFFOLK. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, Fit to be made companion with a king. What answer makes your Grace unto my suit? REIGNIER. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth To be the princely bride of such a lord, Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war, My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please. SUFFOLK. That is her ransom; I deliver her. And those two counties I will undertake Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy. REIGNIER. And I again, in Henry's royal name, As deputy unto that gracious king, Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith. SUFFOLK. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, Because this is in traffic of a king. [Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content To be mine own attorney in this case. I'll over then to England with this news, And make this marriage to be solemniz'd. So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe In golden palaces, as it becomes. REIGNIER. I do embrace thee as I would embrace The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. MARGARET. Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and prayers, Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [She is going] SUFFOLK. Farewell, sweet madam. But hark you, Margaret No princely commendations to my king? MARGARET. Such commendations as becomes a maid, A virgin, and his servant, say to him. SUFFOLK. Words sweetly plac'd and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again No loving token to his Majesty? MARGARET. Yes, my good lord: a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I send the King. SUFFOLK. And this withal. [Kisses her] MARGARET. That for thyself, I will not so presume To send such peevish tokens to a king. Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay; Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth: There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise. Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art; Repeat their semblance often on the seas, That, when thou com'st to kneel at Henry's feet, Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder. Exit ----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- SCENE 4. Camp of the DUKE OF YORK in Anjou Enter YORK, WARWICK, and others YORK. Bring forth that sorceress, condemn'd to burn. Enter LA PUCELLE, guarded, and a SHEPHERD SHEPHERD. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart outright! Have I sought every country far and near, And, now it is my chance to find thee out, Must I behold thy timeless cruel death? Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I'll die with thee! PUCELLE. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch! I am descended of a gentler blood; Thou art no father nor no friend of mine. SHEPHERD. Out, out! My lords, an please you, 'tis not so; I did beget her, all the parish knows. Her mother liveth yet, can testify She was the first fruit of my bach'lorship. WARWICK. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage? YORK. This argues what her kind of life hath been-- Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. SHEPHERD. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle! God knows thou art a collop of my flesh; And for thy sake have I shed many a tear. Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan. PUCELLE. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn'd this man Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. SHEPHERD. 'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest The morn that I was wedded to her mother. Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl. Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity. I would the milk Thy mother gave thee when thou suck'dst her breast Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake. Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs afield, I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee. Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab? O, burn her, burn her! Hanging is too good. Exit YORK. Take her away; for she hath liv'd too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities. PUCELLE. First let me tell you whom you have condemn'd: Not me begotten of a shepherd swain, But issued from the progeny of kings; Virtuous and holy, chosen from above By inspiration of celestial grace, To work exceeding miracles on earth. I never had to do with wicked spirits. But you, that are polluted with your lusts, Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, Because you want the grace that others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders but by help of devils. No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been A virgin from her tender infancy, Chaste and immaculate in very thought; Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus'd, Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. YORK. Ay, ay. Away with her to execution! WARWICK. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid, Spare for no fagots, let there be enow. Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, That so her torture may be shortened. PUCELLE. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts? Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity That warranteth by law to be thy privilege: I am with child, ye bloody homicides; Murder not then the fruit within my womb, Although ye hale me to a violent death. YORK. Now heaven forfend! The holy maid with child! WARWICK. The greatest miracle that e'er ye wrought: Is all your strict preciseness come to this? YORK. She and the Dauphin have been juggling. I did imagine what would be her refuge. WARWICK. Well, go to; we'll have no bastards live; Especially since Charles must father it. PUCELLE. You are deceiv'd; my child is none of his: It was Alencon that enjoy'd my love. YORK. Alencon, that notorious Machiavel! It dies, an if it had a thousand lives. PUCELLE. O, give me leave, I have deluded you. 'Twas neither Charles nor yet the Duke I nam'd, But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail'd. WARWICK. A married man! That's most intolerable. YORK. Why, here's a girl! I think she knows not well There were so many--whom she may accuse. WARWICK. It's sign she hath been liberal and free. YORK. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure. Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee. Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. PUCELLE. Then lead me hence--with whom I leave my curse: May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode; But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves! Exit, guarded YORK. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes, Thou foul accursed minister of hell! Enter CARDINAL BEAUFORT, attended CARDINAL. Lord Regent, I do greet your Excellence With letters of commission from the King. For know, my lords, the states of Christendom, Mov'd with remorse of these outrageous broils, Have earnestly implor'd a general peace Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French; And here at hand the Dauphin and his train Approacheth, to confer about some matter. YORK. Is all our travail turn'd to this effect? After the slaughter of so many peers, So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers, That in this quarrel have been overthrown And sold their bodies for their country's benefit, Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace? Have we not lost most part of all the towns, By treason, falsehood, and by treachery, Our great progenitors had conquered? O Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief The utter loss of all the realm of France. WARWICK. Be patient, York. If we conclude a peace, It shall be with such strict and severe covenants As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby. Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BASTARD, REIGNIER, and others CHARLES. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed That peaceful truce shall be proclaim'd in France, We come to be informed by yourselves What the conditions of that league must be. YORK. Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes The hollow passage of my poison'd voice, By sight of these our baleful enemies. CARDINAL. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus: That, in regard King Henry gives consent, Of mere compassion and of lenity, To ease your country of distressful war, An suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace, You shall become true liegemen to his crown; And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear To pay him tribute and submit thyself, Thou shalt be plac'd as viceroy under him, And still enjoy thy regal dignity. ALENCON. Must he be then as shadow of himself? Adorn his temples with a coronet And yet, in substance and authority, Retain but privilege of a private man? This proffer is absurd and reasonless. CHARLES. 'Tis known already that I am possess'd With more than half the Gallian territories, And therein reverenc'd for their lawful king. Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish'd, Detract so much from that prerogative As to be call'd but viceroy of the whole? No, Lord Ambassador; I'll rather keep That which I have than, coveting for more, Be cast from possibility of all. YORK. Insulting Charles! Hast thou by secret means Us'd intercession to obtain a league, And now the matter grows to compromise Stand'st thou aloof upon comparison? Either accept the title thou usurp'st, Of benefit proceeding from our king And not of any challenge of desert, Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. REIGNIER. [To CHARLES] My lord, you do not well in obstinacy To cavil in the course of this contract. If once it be neglected, ten to one We shall not find like opportunity. ALENCON. [To CHARLES] To say the truth, it is your policy To save your subjects from such massacre And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen By our proceeding in hostility; And therefore take this compact of a truce, Although you break it when your pleasure serves. WARWICK. How say'st thou, Charles? Shall our condition stand? CHARLES. It shall; Only reserv'd, you claim no interest In any of our towns of garrison. YORK. Then swear allegiance to his Majesty: As thou art knight, never to disobey Nor be rebellious to the crown of England Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. [CHARLES and the rest give tokens of fealty] So, now dismiss your army when ye please; Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still, For here we entertain a solemn peace. Exeunt ----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- ACT V. SCENE 1. London. The palace Sennet. Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER KING HENRY. Have you perus'd the letters from the Pope, The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac? GLOUCESTER. I have, my lord; and their intent is this: They humbly sue unto your Excellence To have a godly peace concluded of Between the realms of England and of France. KING HENRY. How doth your Grace affect their motion? GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, and as the only means To stop effusion of our Christian blood And stablish quietness on every side. KING HENRY. Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. GLOUCESTER. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect And surer bind this knot of amity, The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in France, Proffers his only daughter to your Grace In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. KING HENRY. Marriage, uncle! Alas, my years are young And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet call th' ambassadors, and, as you please, So let them have their answers every one. I shall be well content with any choice Tends to God's glory and my country's weal. Enter in Cardinal's habit BEAUFORT, the PAPAL LEGATE, and two AMBASSADORS EXETER. What! Is my Lord of Winchester install'd And call'd unto a cardinal's degree? Then I perceive that will be verified Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy: 'If once he come to be a cardinal, He'll make his cap co-equal with the crown.' KING HENRY. My Lords Ambassadors, your several suits Have been consider'd and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable, And therefore are we certainly resolv'd To draw conditions of a friendly peace, Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean Shall be transported presently to France. GLOUCESTER. And for the proffer of my lord your master, I have inform'd his Highness so at large, As, liking of the lady's virtuous gifts, Her beauty, and the value of her dower, He doth intend she shall be England's Queen. KING HENRY. [To AMBASSADOR] In argument and proof of which contract, Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. And so, my Lord Protector, see them guarded And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp'd, Commit them to the fortune of the sea. Exeunt all but WINCHESTER and the LEGATE WINCHESTER. Stay, my Lord Legate; you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised Should be delivered to his Holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments. LEGATE. I will attend upon your lordship's leisure. WINCHESTER. [Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I trow, Or be inferior to the proudest peer. Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That neither in birth or for authority The Bishop will be overborne by thee. I'll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, Or sack this country with a mutiny. Exeunt ----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- SCENE 2. France. Plains in Anjou Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, BASTARD, REIGNIER, LA PUCELLE, and forces CHARLES. These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping spirits: 'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt And turn again unto the warlike French. ALENCON. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France, And keep not back your powers in dalliance. PUCELLE. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; Else ruin combat with their palaces! Enter a SCOUT SCOUT. Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices! CHARLES. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak. SCOUT. The English army, that divided was Into two parties, is now conjoin'd in one, And means to give you battle presently. CHARLES. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is; But we will presently provide for them. BURGUNDY. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there. Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. PUCELLE. Of all base passions fear is most accurs'd. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine, Let Henry fret and all the world repine. CHARLES. Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate! Exeunt

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 5, scene 3 based on the provided context.

The French flee from the forces of Richard, Duke of York. Joan calls upon spells and evil spirits to help her. Evil spirits enter. Joan reveals that she has made blood sacrifices to them and even offers them her soul in exchange for a French victory, but they leave, unwilling or unable to help her. Joan sees that the time has come when France will fall to the English. Burgundy and Richard, Duke of York fight hand-to-hand. The French enter with Joan and then flee. Richard captures Joan as his prisoner and challenges her to invoke her spirits to set her free. He accuses her of being sexually attracted to Charles. Joan curses both Charles and Richard. Richard says she will have plenty of time to curse when she is burnt at the stake. .

----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- SCENE 3. Before Angiers Alarum, excursions. Enter LA PUCELLE PUCELLE. The Regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly. Now help, ye charming spells and periapts; And ye choice spirits that admonish me And give me signs of future accidents; [Thunder] You speedy helpers that are substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north, Appear and aid me in this enterprise! Enter FIENDS This speedy and quick appearance argues proof Of your accustom'd diligence to me. Now, ye familiar spirits that are cull'd Out of the powerful regions under earth, Help me this once, that France may get the field. [They walk and speak not] O, hold me not with silence over-long! Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, I'll lop a member off and give it you In earnest of a further benefit, So you do condescend to help me now. [They hang their heads] No hope to have redress? My body shall Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit. [They shake their heads] Cannot my body nor blood sacrifice Entreat you to your wonted furtherance? Then take my soul-my body, soul, and all, Before that England give the French the foil. [They depart] See! they forsake me. Now the time is come That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest And let her head fall into England's lap. My ancient incantations are too weak, And hell too strong for me to buckle with. Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. Exit Excursions. Enter French and English, fighting. LA PUCELLE and YORK fight hand to hand; LA PUCELLE is taken. The French fly YORK. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast. Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms, And try if they can gain your liberty. A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace! See how the ugly witch doth bend her brows As if, with Circe, she would change my shape! PUCELLE. Chang'd to a worser shape thou canst not be. YORK. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man: No shape but his can please your dainty eye. PUCELLE. A plaguing mischief fight on Charles and thee! And may ye both be suddenly surpris'd By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds! YORK. Fell banning hag; enchantress, hold thy tongue. PUCELLE. I prithee give me leave to curse awhile. YORK. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake. Exeunt Alarum. Enter SUFFOLK, with MARGARET in his hand SUFFOLK. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. [Gazes on her] O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly! For I will touch thee but with reverent hands; I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, And lay them gently on thy tender side. Who art thou? Say, that I may honour thee. MARGARET. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, The King of Naples--whosoe'er thou art. SUFFOLK. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd. Be not offended, nature's miracle, Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me. So doth the swan her downy cygnets save, Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once offend, Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend. [She is going] O, stay! [Aside] I have no power to let her pass; My hand would free her, but my heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak. I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself; Hast not a tongue? Is she not here thy prisoner? Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight? Ay, beauty's princely majesty is such Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. MARGARET. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so, What ransom must I pay before I pass? For I perceive I am thy prisoner. SUFFOLK. [Aside] How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love? MARGARET. Why speak'st thou not? What ransom must I pay? SUFFOLK. [Aside] She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore to be won. MARGARET. Wilt thou accept of ransom--yea or no? SUFFOLK. [Aside] Fond man, remember that thou hast a wife; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour? MARGARET. I were best leave him, for he will not hear. SUFFOLK. [Aside] There all is marr'd; there lies a cooling card. MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad. SUFFOLK. [Aside] And yet a dispensation may be had. MARGARET. And yet I would that you would answer me. SUFFOLK. [Aside] I'll win this Lady Margaret. For whom? Why, for my King! Tush, that's a wooden thing! MARGARET. He talks of wood. It is some carpenter. SUFFOLK. [Aside] Yet so my fancy may be satisfied, And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too; For though her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. MARGARET. Hear ye, Captain--are you not at leisure? SUFFOLK. [Aside] It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much. Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield. Madam, I have a secret to reveal. MARGARET. [Aside] What though I be enthrall'd? He seems a knight, And will not any way dishonour me. SUFFOLK. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. MARGARET. [Aside] Perhaps I shall be rescu'd by the French; And then I need not crave his courtesy. SUFFOLK. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause-- MARGARET. [Aside] Tush! women have been captivate ere now. SUFFOLK. Lady, wherefore talk you so? MARGARET. I cry you mercy, 'tis but quid for quo. SUFFOLK. Say, gentle Princess, would you not suppose Your bondage happy, to be made a queen? MARGARET. To be a queen in bondage is more vile Than is a slave in base servility; For princes should be free. SUFFOLK. And so shall you, If happy England's royal king be free. MARGARET. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me? SUFFOLK. I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen, To put a golden sceptre in thy hand And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt condescend to be my-- MARGARET. What? SUFFOLK. His love. MARGARET. I am unworthy to be Henry's wife. SUFFOLK. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife And have no portion in the choice myself. How say you, madam? Are ye so content? MARGARET. An if my father please, I am content. SUFFOLK. Then call our captains and our colours forth! And, madam, at your father's castle walls We'll crave a parley to confer with him. Sound a parley. Enter REIGNIER on the walls See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner! REIGNIER. To whom? SUFFOLK. To me. REIGNIER. Suffolk, what remedy? I am a soldier and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness. SUFFOLK. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord. Consent, and for thy honour give consent, Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king, Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto; And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain'd thy daughter princely liberty. REIGNIER. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks? SUFFOLK. Fair Margaret knows That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. REIGNIER. Upon thy princely warrant I descend To give thee answer of thy just demand. Exit REIGNIER from the walls SUFFOLK. And here I will expect thy coming. Trumpets sound. Enter REIGNIER below REIGNIER. Welcome, brave Earl, into our territories; Command in Anjou what your Honour pleases. SUFFOLK. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, Fit to be made companion with a king. What answer makes your Grace unto my suit? REIGNIER. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth To be the princely bride of such a lord, Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war, My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please. SUFFOLK. That is her ransom; I deliver her. And those two counties I will undertake Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy. REIGNIER. And I again, in Henry's royal name, As deputy unto that gracious king, Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith. SUFFOLK. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, Because this is in traffic of a king. [Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content To be mine own attorney in this case. I'll over then to England with this news, And make this marriage to be solemniz'd. So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe In golden palaces, as it becomes. REIGNIER. I do embrace thee as I would embrace The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. MARGARET. Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and prayers, Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [She is going] SUFFOLK. Farewell, sweet madam. But hark you, Margaret No princely commendations to my king? MARGARET. Such commendations as becomes a maid, A virgin, and his servant, say to him. SUFFOLK. Words sweetly plac'd and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again No loving token to his Majesty? MARGARET. Yes, my good lord: a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint with love, I send the King. SUFFOLK. And this withal. [Kisses her] MARGARET. That for thyself, I will not so presume To send such peevish tokens to a king. Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay; Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth: There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise. Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art; Repeat their semblance often on the seas, That, when thou com'st to kneel at Henry's feet, Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder. Exit ----------ACT 5, SCENE 5--------- SCENE 5. London. The palace Enter SUFFOLK, in conference with the KING, GLOUCESTER and EXETER KING HENRY. Your wondrous rare description, noble Earl, Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish'd me. Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart; And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love. SUFFOLK. Tush, my good lord! This superficial tale Is but a preface of her worthy praise. The chief perfections of that lovely dame, Had I sufficient skill to utter them, Would make a volume of enticing lines, Able to ravish any dull conceit; And, which is more, she is not so divine, So full-replete with choice of all delights, But with as humble lowliness of mind She is content to be at your command Command, I mean, of virtuous intents, To love and honour Henry as her lord. KING HENRY. And otherwise will Henry ne'er presume. Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent That Margaret may be England's royal Queen. GLOUCESTER. So should I give consent to flatter sin. You know, my lord, your Highness is betroth'd Unto another lady of esteem. How shall we then dispense with that contract, And not deface your honour with reproach? SUFFOLK. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths; Or one that at a triumph, having vow'd To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists By reason of his adversary's odds: A poor earl's daughter is unequal odds, And therefore may be broke without offence. GLOUCESTER. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that? Her father is no better than an earl, Although in glorious titles he excel. SUFFOLK. Yes, my lord, her father is a king, The King of Naples and Jerusalem; And of such great authority in France As his alliance will confirm our peace, And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance. GLOUCESTER. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, Because he is near kinsman unto Charles. EXETER. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower; Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. SUFFOLK. A dow'r, my lords! Disgrace not so your king, That he should be so abject, base, and poor, To choose for wealth and not for perfect love. Henry is able to enrich his queen, And not to seek a queen to make him rich. So worthless peasants bargain for their wives, As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. Marriage is a matter of more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship; Not whom we will, but whom his Grace affects, Must be companion of his nuptial bed. And therefore, lords, since he affects her most, It most of all these reasons bindeth us In our opinions she should be preferr'd; For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace. Whom should we match with Henry, being a king, But Margaret, that is daughter to a king? Her peerless feature, joined with her birth, Approves her fit for none but for a king; Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit, More than in women commonly is seen, Will answer our hope in issue of a king; For Henry, son unto a conqueror, Is likely to beget more conquerors, If with a lady of so high resolve As is fair Margaret he be link'd in love. Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me That Margaret shall be Queen, and none but she. KING HENRY. Whether it be through force of your report, My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that My tender youth was never yet attaint With any passion of inflaming love, I cannot tell; but this I am assur'd, I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear, As I am sick with working of my thoughts. Take therefore shipping; post, my lord, to France; Agree to any covenants; and procure That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come To cross the seas to England, and be crown'd King Henry's faithful and anointed queen. For your expenses and sufficient charge, Among the people gather up a tenth. Be gone, I say; for till you do return I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. And you, good uncle, banish all offence: If you do censure me by what you were, Not what you are, I know it will excuse This sudden execution of my will. And so conduct me where, from company, I may revolve and ruminate my grief. Exit GLOUCESTER. Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EXETER SUFFOLK. Thus Suffolk hath prevail'd; and thus he goes, As did the youthful Paris once to Greece, With hope to find the like event in love But prosper better than the Troyan did. Margaret shall now be Queen, and rule the King; But I will rule both her, the King, and realm. Exit THE END

Henry VIII.act 1.scene 1

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1, scene 1 with the given context.

act 1, scene 1|scene 1

Norfolk, Buckingham, and Abergavenny all greet one another. Buckingham asks Norfolk how he's been since they last saw each other in France. Last time they hung out, Buckingham had a fever and had to stay in his tent while everyone else was partying. The king of England and the king of France put on a show for everyone. It was a-freakin'-mazing. Naturally, Buckingham wants to know the party planner's name. It sounds so cool. Norfolk tells him it was Cardinal Wolsey who planned the whole thing. He did what? Buckingham goes off the handle at this news. He thinks Wolsey is "ambitious" and a "devil," and he wants nothing to do with the guy. Norfolk doesn't agree. He defends Wolsey and thinks the dude was just planning a fun time. But Abergavenny takes Buckingham's side: Wolsey is way too extravagant with money, he says. In fact, his lavish ways have cost a lot of nobles... literally. People have to sell their homes to keep up with Wolsey. It's not fair. Why is Wolsey so hell-bent on burning through the dough? He wants to make sure England stays on par with France, so he's spending money left and right to keep up appearances--and, more importantly, to keep the peace with them. If France thinks they have more money and resources than England, then who knows what could happen? After listening to his two pals, Norfolk agrees that peace with France is coming at a pretty penny... but he also warns them not to go against the Cardinal: he's dangerous and malicious. Don't say they weren't warned. Just then, Wolsey enters and gets right to business. He wants to know if Buckingham's land surveyor is ready to witness against Buckingham. With that, Wolsey leaves as quickly as he arrived. This doesn't sit too well with Buckingham: he thinks Wolsey is up to something. He does have the king's ear, so he's probably off talking smack about Buckingham to the king. Norfolk tells Buckingham to cool it. He doesn't want to act out of anger. When Buckingham calms down, he still thinks Wolsey is bad news. He then goes through a laundry list of Wolsey's mistakes: he's just out to help himself; he deals with Charles V behind the king's back; he's clumsy and unfair; oh, and did Buckingham mention that Wolsey sells honor to the highest bidder? Norfolk thinks there must be some mistake. How could Wolsey do all those things? Still, Buckingham insists that that's what's going down. Before the men can talk any further, Brandon enters with orders to arrest Buckingham. The change? High treason. Buckingham knows it's a waste of his breath to plead innocent and promises to follow God's will instead. Buckingham says goodbye to Abergavenny, but Brandon arrests Abergavenny, too. And he's only getting started--he's got a list of names to get through by lunch. Buckingham tells Norfolk that this is Wolsey's doing and bids him farewell. He's already his own shadow.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- Enter the Duke of Norfolke at one doore. At the other, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Lord Aburgauenny. Buckingham. Good morrow, and well met. How haue ye done Since last we saw in France? Norf. I thanke your Grace: Healthfull, and euer since a fresh Admirer Of what I saw there Buck. An vntimely Ague Staid me a Prisoner in my Chamber, when Those Sunnes of Glory, those two Lights of Men Met in the vale of Andren Nor. 'Twixt Guynes and Arde, I was then present, saw them salute on Horsebacke, Beheld them when they lighted, how they clung In their Embracement, as they grew together, Which had they, What foure Thron'd ones could haue weigh'd Such a compounded one? Buck. All the whole time I was my Chambers Prisoner Nor. Then you lost The view of earthly glory: Men might say Till this time Pompe was single, but now married To one aboue it selfe. Each following day Became the next dayes master, till the last Made former Wonders, it's. To day the French, All Clinquant all in Gold, like Heathen Gods Shone downe the English; and to morrow, they Made Britaine, India: Euery man that stood, Shew'd like a Mine. Their Dwarfish Pages were As Cherubins, all gilt: the Madams too, Not vs'd to toyle, did almost sweat to beare The Pride vpon them, that their very labour Was to them, as a Painting. Now this Maske Was cry'de incompareable; and th' ensuing night Made it a Foole, and Begger. The two Kings Equall in lustre, were now best, now worst As presence did present them: Him in eye, Still him in praise, and being present both, 'Twas said they saw but one, and no Discerner Durst wagge his Tongue in censure, when these Sunnes (For so they phrase 'em) by their Heralds challeng'd The Noble Spirits to Armes, they did performe Beyond thoughts Compasse, that former fabulous Storie Being now seene, possible enough, got credit That Beuis was beleeu'd Buc. Oh you go farre Nor. As I belong to worship, and affect In Honor, Honesty, the tract of eu'ry thing, Would by a good Discourser loose some life, Which Actions selfe, was tongue too Buc. All was Royall, To the disposing of it nought rebell'd, Order gaue each thing view. The Office did Distinctly his full Function: who did guide, I meane who set the Body, and the Limbes Of this great Sport together? Nor. As you guesse: One certes, that promises no Element In such a businesse Buc. I pray you who, my Lord? Nor. All this was ordred by the good Discretion Of the right Reuerend Cardinall of Yorke Buc. The diuell speed him: No mans Pye is freed From his Ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce Vanities? I wonder, That such a Keech can with his very bulke Take vp the Rayes o'th' beneficiall Sun, And keepe it from the Earth Nor. Surely Sir, There's in him stuffe, that put's him to these ends: For being not propt by Auncestry, whose grace Chalkes Successors their way; nor call'd vpon For high feats done to'th' Crowne; neither Allied To eminent Assistants; but Spider-like Out of his Selfe-drawing Web. O giues vs note, The force of his owne merit makes his way A guift that heauen giues for him, which buyes A place next to the King Abur. I cannot tell What Heauen hath giuen him: let some Grauer eye Pierce into that, but I can see his Pride Peepe through each part of him: whence ha's he that, If not from Hell? The Diuell is a Niggard, Or ha's giuen all before, and he begins A new Hell in himselfe Buc. Why the Diuell, Vpon this French going out, tooke he vpon him (Without the priuity o'th' King) t' appoint Who should attend on him? He makes vp the File Of all the Gentry; for the most part such To whom as great a Charge, as little Honor He meant to lay vpon: and his owne Letter The Honourable Boord of Councell, out Must fetch him in, he Papers Abur. I do know Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that haue By this, so sicken'd their Estates, that neuer They shall abound as formerly Buc. O many Haue broke their backes with laying Mannors on 'em For this great Iourney. What did this vanity But minister communication of A most poore issue Nor. Greeuingly I thinke, The Peace betweene the French and vs, not valewes The Cost that did conclude it Buc. Euery man, After the hideous storme that follow'd, was A thing Inspir'd, and not consulting, broke Into a generall Prophesie; That this Tempest Dashing the Garment of this Peace, aboaded The sodaine breach on't Nor. Which is budded out, For France hath flaw'd the League, and hath attach'd Our Merchants goods at Burdeux Abur. Is it therefore Th' Ambassador is silenc'd? Nor. Marry is't Abur. A proper Title of a Peace, and purchas'd At a superfluous rate Buc. Why all this Businesse Our Reuerend Cardinall carried Nor. Like it your Grace, The State takes notice of the priuate difference Betwixt you, and the Cardinall. I aduise you (And take it from a heart, that wishes towards you Honor, and plenteous safety) that you reade The Cardinals Malice, and his Potency Together; To consider further, that What his high Hatred would effect, wants not A Minister in his Power. You know his Nature, That he's Reuengefull; and I know, his Sword Hath a sharpe edge: It's long, and't may be saide It reaches farre, and where 'twill not extend, Thither he darts it. Bosome vp my counsell, You'l finde it wholesome. Loe, where comes that Rock That I aduice your shunning. Enter Cardinall Wolsey, the Purse borne before him, certaine of the Guard, and two Secretaries with Papers: The Cardinall in his passage, fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdaine. Car. The Duke of Buckinghams Surueyor? Ha? Where's his Examination? Secr. Heere so please you Car. Is he in person, ready? Secr. I, please your Grace Car. Well, we shall then know more, & Buckingham Shall lessen this bigge looke. Exeunt. Cardinall, and his Traine. Buc. This Butchers Curre is venom'd-mouth'd, and I Haue not the power to muzzle him, therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A Beggers booke, Out-worths a Nobles blood Nor. What are you chaff'd? Aske God for Temp'rance, that's th' appliance onely Which your disease requires Buc. I read in's looks Matter against me, and his eye reuil'd Me as his abiect obiect, at this instant He bores me with some tricke; He's gone to'th' King: Ile follow, and out-stare him Nor. Stay my Lord, And let your Reason with your Choller question What 'tis you go about: to climbe steepe hilles Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot Horse, who being allow'd his way Selfe-mettle tyres him: Not a man in England Can aduise me like you: Be to your selfe, As you would to your Friend Buc. Ile to the King, And from a mouth of Honor, quite cry downe This Ipswich fellowes insolence; or proclaime, There's difference in no persons Norf. Be aduis'd; Heat not a Furnace for your foe so hot That it do sindge your selfe. We may out-runne By violent swiftnesse that which we run at; And lose by ouer-running: know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor til't run ore, In seeming to augment it, wasts it: be aduis'd; I say againe there is no English Soule More stronger to direct you then your selfe; If with the sap of reason you would quench, Or but allay the fire of passion Buck. Sir, I am thankfull to you, and Ile goe along By your prescription: but this top-proud fellow, Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but From sincere motions, by Intelligence, And proofes as cleere as Founts in Iuly, when Wee see each graine of grauell; I doe know To be corrupt and treasonous Norf. Say not treasonous Buck. To th' King Ile say't, & make my vouch as strong As shore of Rocke: attend. This holy Foxe, Or Wolfe, or both (for he is equall rau'nous As he is subtile, and as prone to mischiefe, As able to perform't) his minde, and place Infecting one another, yea reciprocally, Only to shew his pompe, as well in France, As here at home, suggests the King our Master To this last costly Treaty: Th' enteruiew, That swallowed so much treasure, and like a glasse Did breake ith' wrenching Norf. Faith, and so it did Buck. Pray giue me fauour Sir: This cunning Cardinall The Articles o'th' Combination drew As himselfe pleas'd; and they were ratified As he cride thus let be, to as much end, As giue a Crutch to th' dead. But our Count-Cardinall Has done this, and tis well: for worthy Wolsey (Who cannot erre) he did it. Now this followes, (Which as I take it, is a kinde of Puppie To th' old dam Treason) Charles the Emperour, Vnder pretence to see the Queene his Aunt, (For twas indeed his colour, but he came To whisper Wolsey) here makes visitation, His feares were that the Interview betwixt England and France, might through their amity Breed him some preiudice; for from this League, Peep'd harmes that menac'd him. Priuily Deales with our Cardinal, and as I troa Which I doe well; for I am sure the Emperour Paid ere he promis'd, whereby his Suit was granted Ere it was ask'd. But when the way was made And pau'd with gold: the Emperor thus desir'd, That he would please to alter the Kings course, And breake the foresaid peace. Let the King know (As soone he shall by me) that thus the Cardinall Does buy and sell his Honour as he pleases, And for his owne aduantage Norf. I am sorry To heare this of him; and could wish he were Somthing mistaken in't Buck. No, not a sillable: I doe pronounce him in that very shape He shall appeare in proofe. Enter Brandon, a Sergeant at Armes before him, and two or three of the Guard. Brandon. Your Office Sergeant: execute it Sergeant. Sir, My Lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earle Of Hertford, Stafford and Northampton, I Arrest thee of High Treason, in the name Of our most Soueraigne King Buck. Lo you my Lord, The net has falne vpon me, I shall perish Vnder deuice, and practise Bran. I am sorry, To see you tane from liberty, to looke on The busines present. Tis his Highnes pleasure You shall to th' Tower Buck. It will helpe me nothing To plead mine Innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes my whit'st part, black. The will of Heau'n Be done in this and all things: I obey. O my Lord Aburgany: Fare you well Bran. Nay, he must beare you company. The King Is pleas'd you shall to th' Tower, till you know How he determines further Abur. As the Duke said, The will of Heauen be done, and the Kings pleasure By me obey'd Bran. Here is a warrant from The King, t' attach Lord Mountacute, and the Bodies Of the Dukes Confessor, Iohn de la Car, One Gilbert Pecke, his Councellour Buck. So, so; These are the limbs o'th' Plot: no more I hope Bra. A Monke o'th' Chartreux Buck. O Michaell Hopkins? Bra. He Buck. My Surueyor is falce: The oregreat Cardinall Hath shew'd him gold; my life is spand already: I am the shadow of poore Buckingham, Whose Figure euen this instant Clowd puts on, By Darkning my cleere Sunne. My Lords farewell. Exe. ----------SCENE 1--------- Enter the Duke of Norfolke at one doore. At the other, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Lord Aburgauenny. Buckingham. Good morrow, and well met. How haue ye done Since last we saw in France? Norf. I thanke your Grace: Healthfull, and euer since a fresh Admirer Of what I saw there Buck. An vntimely Ague Staid me a Prisoner in my Chamber, when Those Sunnes of Glory, those two Lights of Men Met in the vale of Andren Nor. 'Twixt Guynes and Arde, I was then present, saw them salute on Horsebacke, Beheld them when they lighted, how they clung In their Embracement, as they grew together, Which had they, What foure Thron'd ones could haue weigh'd Such a compounded one? Buck. All the whole time I was my Chambers Prisoner Nor. Then you lost The view of earthly glory: Men might say Till this time Pompe was single, but now married To one aboue it selfe. Each following day Became the next dayes master, till the last Made former Wonders, it's. To day the French, All Clinquant all in Gold, like Heathen Gods Shone downe the English; and to morrow, they Made Britaine, India: Euery man that stood, Shew'd like a Mine. Their Dwarfish Pages were As Cherubins, all gilt: the Madams too, Not vs'd to toyle, did almost sweat to beare The Pride vpon them, that their very labour Was to them, as a Painting. Now this Maske Was cry'de incompareable; and th' ensuing night Made it a Foole, and Begger. The two Kings Equall in lustre, were now best, now worst As presence did present them: Him in eye, Still him in praise, and being present both, 'Twas said they saw but one, and no Discerner Durst wagge his Tongue in censure, when these Sunnes (For so they phrase 'em) by their Heralds challeng'd The Noble Spirits to Armes, they did performe Beyond thoughts Compasse, that former fabulous Storie Being now seene, possible enough, got credit That Beuis was beleeu'd Buc. Oh you go farre Nor. As I belong to worship, and affect In Honor, Honesty, the tract of eu'ry thing, Would by a good Discourser loose some life, Which Actions selfe, was tongue too Buc. All was Royall, To the disposing of it nought rebell'd, Order gaue each thing view. The Office did Distinctly his full Function: who did guide, I meane who set the Body, and the Limbes Of this great Sport together? Nor. As you guesse: One certes, that promises no Element In such a businesse Buc. I pray you who, my Lord? Nor. All this was ordred by the good Discretion Of the right Reuerend Cardinall of Yorke Buc. The diuell speed him: No mans Pye is freed From his Ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce Vanities? I wonder, That such a Keech can with his very bulke Take vp the Rayes o'th' beneficiall Sun, And keepe it from the Earth Nor. Surely Sir, There's in him stuffe, that put's him to these ends: For being not propt by Auncestry, whose grace Chalkes Successors their way; nor call'd vpon For high feats done to'th' Crowne; neither Allied To eminent Assistants; but Spider-like Out of his Selfe-drawing Web. O giues vs note, The force of his owne merit makes his way A guift that heauen giues for him, which buyes A place next to the King Abur. I cannot tell What Heauen hath giuen him: let some Grauer eye Pierce into that, but I can see his Pride Peepe through each part of him: whence ha's he that, If not from Hell? The Diuell is a Niggard, Or ha's giuen all before, and he begins A new Hell in himselfe Buc. Why the Diuell, Vpon this French going out, tooke he vpon him (Without the priuity o'th' King) t' appoint Who should attend on him? He makes vp the File Of all the Gentry; for the most part such To whom as great a Charge, as little Honor He meant to lay vpon: and his owne Letter The Honourable Boord of Councell, out Must fetch him in, he Papers Abur. I do know Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that haue By this, so sicken'd their Estates, that neuer They shall abound as formerly Buc. O many Haue broke their backes with laying Mannors on 'em For this great Iourney. What did this vanity But minister communication of A most poore issue Nor. Greeuingly I thinke, The Peace betweene the French and vs, not valewes The Cost that did conclude it Buc. Euery man, After the hideous storme that follow'd, was A thing Inspir'd, and not consulting, broke Into a generall Prophesie; That this Tempest Dashing the Garment of this Peace, aboaded The sodaine breach on't Nor. Which is budded out, For France hath flaw'd the League, and hath attach'd Our Merchants goods at Burdeux Abur. Is it therefore Th' Ambassador is silenc'd? Nor. Marry is't Abur. A proper Title of a Peace, and purchas'd At a superfluous rate Buc. Why all this Businesse Our Reuerend Cardinall carried Nor. Like it your Grace, The State takes notice of the priuate difference Betwixt you, and the Cardinall. I aduise you (And take it from a heart, that wishes towards you Honor, and plenteous safety) that you reade The Cardinals Malice, and his Potency Together; To consider further, that What his high Hatred would effect, wants not A Minister in his Power. You know his Nature, That he's Reuengefull; and I know, his Sword Hath a sharpe edge: It's long, and't may be saide It reaches farre, and where 'twill not extend, Thither he darts it. Bosome vp my counsell, You'l finde it wholesome. Loe, where comes that Rock That I aduice your shunning. Enter Cardinall Wolsey, the Purse borne before him, certaine of the Guard, and two Secretaries with Papers: The Cardinall in his passage, fixeth his eye on Buckingham, and Buckingham on him, both full of disdaine. Car. The Duke of Buckinghams Surueyor? Ha? Where's his Examination? Secr. Heere so please you Car. Is he in person, ready? Secr. I, please your Grace Car. Well, we shall then know more, & Buckingham Shall lessen this bigge looke. Exeunt. Cardinall, and his Traine. Buc. This Butchers Curre is venom'd-mouth'd, and I Haue not the power to muzzle him, therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A Beggers booke, Out-worths a Nobles blood Nor. What are you chaff'd? Aske God for Temp'rance, that's th' appliance onely Which your disease requires Buc. I read in's looks Matter against me, and his eye reuil'd Me as his abiect obiect, at this instant He bores me with some tricke; He's gone to'th' King: Ile follow, and out-stare him Nor. Stay my Lord, And let your Reason with your Choller question What 'tis you go about: to climbe steepe hilles Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot Horse, who being allow'd his way Selfe-mettle tyres him: Not a man in England Can aduise me like you: Be to your selfe, As you would to your Friend Buc. Ile to the King, And from a mouth of Honor, quite cry downe This Ipswich fellowes insolence; or proclaime, There's difference in no persons Norf. Be aduis'd; Heat not a Furnace for your foe so hot That it do sindge your selfe. We may out-runne By violent swiftnesse that which we run at; And lose by ouer-running: know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor til't run ore, In seeming to augment it, wasts it: be aduis'd; I say againe there is no English Soule More stronger to direct you then your selfe; If with the sap of reason you would quench, Or but allay the fire of passion Buck. Sir, I am thankfull to you, and Ile goe along By your prescription: but this top-proud fellow, Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but From sincere motions, by Intelligence, And proofes as cleere as Founts in Iuly, when Wee see each graine of grauell; I doe know To be corrupt and treasonous Norf. Say not treasonous Buck. To th' King Ile say't, & make my vouch as strong As shore of Rocke: attend. This holy Foxe, Or Wolfe, or both (for he is equall rau'nous As he is subtile, and as prone to mischiefe, As able to perform't) his minde, and place Infecting one another, yea reciprocally, Only to shew his pompe, as well in France, As here at home, suggests the King our Master To this last costly Treaty: Th' enteruiew, That swallowed so much treasure, and like a glasse Did breake ith' wrenching Norf. Faith, and so it did Buck. Pray giue me fauour Sir: This cunning Cardinall The Articles o'th' Combination drew As himselfe pleas'd; and they were ratified As he cride thus let be, to as much end, As giue a Crutch to th' dead. But our Count-Cardinall Has done this, and tis well: for worthy Wolsey (Who cannot erre) he did it. Now this followes, (Which as I take it, is a kinde of Puppie To th' old dam Treason) Charles the Emperour, Vnder pretence to see the Queene his Aunt, (For twas indeed his colour, but he came To whisper Wolsey) here makes visitation, His feares were that the Interview betwixt England and France, might through their amity Breed him some preiudice; for from this League, Peep'd harmes that menac'd him. Priuily Deales with our Cardinal, and as I troa Which I doe well; for I am sure the Emperour Paid ere he promis'd, whereby his Suit was granted Ere it was ask'd. But when the way was made And pau'd with gold: the Emperor thus desir'd, That he would please to alter the Kings course, And breake the foresaid peace. Let the King know (As soone he shall by me) that thus the Cardinall Does buy and sell his Honour as he pleases, And for his owne aduantage Norf. I am sorry To heare this of him; and could wish he were Somthing mistaken in't Buck. No, not a sillable: I doe pronounce him in that very shape He shall appeare in proofe. Enter Brandon, a Sergeant at Armes before him, and two or three of the Guard. Brandon. Your Office Sergeant: execute it Sergeant. Sir, My Lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earle Of Hertford, Stafford and Northampton, I Arrest thee of High Treason, in the name Of our most Soueraigne King Buck. Lo you my Lord, The net has falne vpon me, I shall perish Vnder deuice, and practise Bran. I am sorry, To see you tane from liberty, to looke on The busines present. Tis his Highnes pleasure You shall to th' Tower Buck. It will helpe me nothing To plead mine Innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes my whit'st part, black. The will of Heau'n Be done in this and all things: I obey. O my Lord Aburgany: Fare you well Bran. Nay, he must beare you company. The King Is pleas'd you shall to th' Tower, till you know How he determines further Abur. As the Duke said, The will of Heauen be done, and the Kings pleasure By me obey'd Bran. Here is a warrant from The King, t' attach Lord Mountacute, and the Bodies Of the Dukes Confessor, Iohn de la Car, One Gilbert Pecke, his Councellour Buck. So, so; These are the limbs o'th' Plot: no more I hope Bra. A Monke o'th' Chartreux Buck. O Michaell Hopkins? Bra. He Buck. My Surueyor is falce: The oregreat Cardinall Hath shew'd him gold; my life is spand already: I am the shadow of poore Buckingham, Whose Figure euen this instant Clowd puts on, By Darkning my cleere Sunne. My Lords farewell. Exe.

Henry VIII.act 1.scene 2

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 2, utilizing the provided context.

act 1, scene 2|scene 2

The King his nobles and other dignitaries are gathered in the council chamber to carry out the proceedings of Buckinghams trial. The King expresses his gratitude to Wolsey for saving him from a conspiracy. The Queen enters with a petition for the King. She informs him of a new tax that is being levied on the people under Wolseys direction. It has led the people to revolt against King. On learning about it, the King expresses his disapproval and grants pardon to people who rebelled against it. Wolsey manipulates the situation so that it appears that he is responsible for the King pandering the rebels. The Queen expresses her sorrow at Buckinghams arrest. The Surveyor is brought to testify against Buckingham. And on the basis of this testimony the King is convinced of his intended betrayal.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- Cornets. Enter King Henry, leaning on the Cardinals shoulder, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Louell: the Cardinall places himselfe vnder the Kings feete on his right side. King. My life it selfe, and the best heart of it, Thankes you for this great care: I stood i'th' leuell Of a full-charg'd confederacie, and giue thankes To you that choak'd it. Let be cald before vs That Gentleman of Buckinghams, in person, Ile heare him his confessions iustifie, And point by point the Treasons of his Maister, He shall againe relate. A noyse within crying roome for the Queene, vsher'd by the Duke of Norfolke. Enter the Queene, Norfolke and Suffolke: she kneels. King riseth from his State, takes her vp, kisses and placeth her by him. Queen. Nay, we must longer kneele; I am a Suitor King. Arise, and take place by vs; halfe your Suit Neuer name to vs; you haue halfe our power: The other moity ere you aske is giuen, Repeat your will, and take it Queen. Thanke your Maiesty That you would loue your selfe, and in that loue Not vnconsidered leaue your Honour, nor The dignity of your Office; is the poynt Of my Petition Kin. Lady mine proceed Queen. I am solicited not by a few, And those of true condition; That your Subiects Are in great grieuance: There haue beene Commissions Sent downe among 'em, which hath flaw'd the heart Of all their Loyalties; wherein, although My good Lord Cardinall, they vent reproches Most bitterly on you, as putter on Of these exactions: yet the King, our Maister Whose Honor Heauen shield from soile; euen he escapes not Language vnmannerly; yea, such which breakes The sides of loyalty, and almost appeares In lowd Rebellion Norf. Not almost appeares, It doth appeare; for, vpon these Taxations, The Clothiers all not able to maintaine The many to them longing, haue put off The Spinsters, Carders, Fullers, Weauers, who Vnfit for other life, compeld by hunger And lack of other meanes, in desperate manner Daring th' euent too th' teeth, are all in vprore, And danger serues among them Kin. Taxation? Wherein? and what Taxation? My Lord Cardinall, You that are blam'd for it alike with vs, Know you of this Taxation? Card. Please you Sir, I know but of a single part in ought Pertaines to th' State; and front but in that File Where others tell steps with me Queen. No, my Lord? You know no more then others? But you frame Things that are knowne alike, which are not wholsome To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions (Whereof my Soueraigne would haue note) they are Most pestilent to th' hearing, and to beare 'em, The Backe is Sacrifice to th' load; They say They are deuis'd by you, or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation Kin. Still Exaction: The nature of it, in what kinde let's know, Is this Exaction? Queen. I am much too venturous In tempting of your patience, but am boldned Vnder your promis'd pardon. The Subiects griefe Comes through Commissions, which compels from each The sixt part of his Substance, to be leuied Without delay; and the pretence for this Is nam'd, your warres in France: this makes bold mouths, Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze Allegeance in them; their curses now Liue where their prayers did: and it's come to passe, This tractable obedience is a Slaue To each incensed Will: I would your Highnesse Would giue it quicke consideration; for There is no primer basenesse Kin. By my life, This is against our pleasure Card. And for me, I haue no further gone in this, then by A single voice, and that not past me, but By learned approbation of the Iudges: If I am Traduc'd by ignorant Tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be The Chronicles of my doing: Let me say, 'Tis but the fate of Place, and the rough Brake That Vertue must goe through: we must not stint Our necessary actions, in the feare To cope malicious Censurers, which euer, As rau'nous Fishes doe a Vessell follow That is new trim'd; but benefit no further Then vainly longing. What we oft doe best, By sicke Interpreters (once weake ones) is Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft Hitting a grosser quality, is cride vp For our best Act: if we shall stand still, In feare our motion will be mock'd, or carp'd at, We should take roote here, where we sit; Or sit State-Statues onely Kin. Things done well, And with a care, exempt themselues from feare: Things done without example, in their issue Are to be fear'd. Haue you a President Of this Commission? I beleeue, not any. We must not rend our Subiects from our Lawes, And sticke them in our Will. Sixt part of each? A trembling Contribution; why we take From euery Tree, lop, barke, and part o'th' Timber: And though we leaue it with a roote thus hackt, The Ayre will drinke the Sap. To euery County Where this is question'd, send our Letters, with Free pardon to each man that has deny'de The force of this Commission: pray looke too't; I put it to your care Card. A word with you. Let there be Letters writ to euery Shire, Of the Kings grace and pardon: the greeued Commons Hardly conceiue of me. Let it be nois'd, That through our Intercession, this Reuokement And pardon comes: I shall anon aduise you Further in the proceeding. Exit Secret[ary]. Enter Surueyor. Queen. I am sorry, that the Duke of Buckingham Is run in your displeasure Kin. It grieues many: The Gentleman is Learn'd, and a most rare Speaker, To Nature none more bound; his trayning such, That he may furnish and instruct great Teachers, And neuer seeke for ayd out of himselfe: yet see, When these so Noble benefits shall proue Not well dispos'd, the minde growing once corrupt, They turne to vicious formes, ten times more vgly Then euer they were faire. This man so compleat, Who was enrold 'mongst wonders; and when we Almost with rauish'd listning, could not finde His houre of speech, a minute: He, (my Lady) Hath into monstrous habits put the Graces That once were his, and is become as blacke, As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by Vs, you shall heare (This was his Gentleman in trust) of him Things to strike Honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practises, whereof We cannot feele too little, heare too much Card. Stand forth, & with bold spirit relate what you Most like a carefull Subiect haue collected Out of the Duke of Buckingham Kin. Speake freely Sur. First, it was vsuall with him; euery day It would infect his Speech: That if the King Should without issue dye; hee'l carry it so To make the Scepter his. These very words I'ue heard him vtter to his Sonne in Law, Lord Aburgany, to whom by oth he menac'd Reuenge vpon the Cardinall Card. Please your Highnesse note This dangerous conception in this point, Not frended by his wish to your High person; His will is most malignant, and it stretches Beyond you to your friends Queen. My learn'd Lord Cardinall, Deliuer all with Charity Kin. Speake on; How grounded hee his Title to the Crowne Vpon our faile; to this poynt hast thou heard him, At any time speake ought? Sur. He was brought to this, By a vaine Prophesie of Nicholas Henton Kin. What was that Henton? Sur. Sir, a Chartreux Fryer, His Confessor, who fed him euery minute With words of Soueraignty Kin. How know'st thou this? Sur. Not long before your Highnesse sped to France, The Duke being at the Rose, within the Parish Saint Laurence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners, Concerning the French Iourney. I replide, Men feare the French would proue perfidious To the Kings danger: presently, the Duke Said, 'twas the feare indeed, and that he doubted 'Twould proue the verity of certaine words Spoke by a holy Monke, that oft, sayes he, Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit Iohn de la Car, my Chaplaine, a choyce howre To heare from him a matter of some moment: Whom after vnder the Commissions Seale, He sollemnly had sworne, that what he spoke My Chaplaine to no Creature liuing, but To me, should vtter, with demure Confidence, This pausingly ensu'de; neither the King, nor's Heyres (Tell you the Duke) shall prosper, bid him striue To the loue o'th' Commonalty, the Duke Shall gouerne England Queen. If I know you well, You were the Dukes Surueyor, and lost your Office On the complaint o'th' Tenants; take good heed You charge not in your spleene a Noble person, And spoyle your nobler Soule; I say, take heed; Yes, heartily beseech you Kin. Let him on: Goe forward Sur. On my Soule, Ile speake but truth. I told my Lord the Duke, by th' Diuels illusions The Monke might be deceiu'd, and that 'twas dangerous For this to ruminate on this so farre, vntill It forg'd him some designe, which being beleeu'd It was much like to doe: He answer'd, Tush, It can do me no damage; adding further, That had the King in his last Sicknesse faild, The Cardinals and Sir Thomas Louels heads Should haue gone off Kin. Ha? What, so rancke? Ah, ha, There's mischiefe in this man; canst thou say further? Sur. I can my Liedge Kin. Proceed Sur. Being at Greenwich, After your Highnesse had reprou'd the Duke About Sir William Blumer Kin. I remember of such a time, being my sworn seruant, The Duke retein'd him his. But on: what hence? Sur. If (quoth he) I for this had beene committed, As to the Tower, I thought; I would haue plaid The Part my Father meant to act vpon Th' Vsurper Richard, who being at Salsbury, Made suit to come in's presence; which if granted, (As he made semblance of his duty) would Haue put his knife into him Kin. A Gyant Traytor Card. Now Madam, may his Highnes liue in freedome, And this man out of Prison Queen. God mend all Kin. Ther's somthing more would out of thee; what say'st? Sur. After the Duke his Father, with the knife He stretch'd him, and with one hand on his dagger, Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a horrible Oath, whose tenor Was, were he euill vs'd, he would outgoe His Father, by as much as a performance Do's an irresolute purpose Kin. There's his period, To sheath his knife in vs: he is attach'd, Call him to present tryall: if he may Finde mercy in the Law, 'tis his; if none, Let him not seek't of vs: By day and night Hee's Traytor to th' height. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 2--------- Cornets. Enter King Henry, leaning on the Cardinals shoulder, the Nobles, and Sir Thomas Louell: the Cardinall places himselfe vnder the Kings feete on his right side. King. My life it selfe, and the best heart of it, Thankes you for this great care: I stood i'th' leuell Of a full-charg'd confederacie, and giue thankes To you that choak'd it. Let be cald before vs That Gentleman of Buckinghams, in person, Ile heare him his confessions iustifie, And point by point the Treasons of his Maister, He shall againe relate. A noyse within crying roome for the Queene, vsher'd by the Duke of Norfolke. Enter the Queene, Norfolke and Suffolke: she kneels. King riseth from his State, takes her vp, kisses and placeth her by him. Queen. Nay, we must longer kneele; I am a Suitor King. Arise, and take place by vs; halfe your Suit Neuer name to vs; you haue halfe our power: The other moity ere you aske is giuen, Repeat your will, and take it Queen. Thanke your Maiesty That you would loue your selfe, and in that loue Not vnconsidered leaue your Honour, nor The dignity of your Office; is the poynt Of my Petition Kin. Lady mine proceed Queen. I am solicited not by a few, And those of true condition; That your Subiects Are in great grieuance: There haue beene Commissions Sent downe among 'em, which hath flaw'd the heart Of all their Loyalties; wherein, although My good Lord Cardinall, they vent reproches Most bitterly on you, as putter on Of these exactions: yet the King, our Maister Whose Honor Heauen shield from soile; euen he escapes not Language vnmannerly; yea, such which breakes The sides of loyalty, and almost appeares In lowd Rebellion Norf. Not almost appeares, It doth appeare; for, vpon these Taxations, The Clothiers all not able to maintaine The many to them longing, haue put off The Spinsters, Carders, Fullers, Weauers, who Vnfit for other life, compeld by hunger And lack of other meanes, in desperate manner Daring th' euent too th' teeth, are all in vprore, And danger serues among them Kin. Taxation? Wherein? and what Taxation? My Lord Cardinall, You that are blam'd for it alike with vs, Know you of this Taxation? Card. Please you Sir, I know but of a single part in ought Pertaines to th' State; and front but in that File Where others tell steps with me Queen. No, my Lord? You know no more then others? But you frame Things that are knowne alike, which are not wholsome To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions (Whereof my Soueraigne would haue note) they are Most pestilent to th' hearing, and to beare 'em, The Backe is Sacrifice to th' load; They say They are deuis'd by you, or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation Kin. Still Exaction: The nature of it, in what kinde let's know, Is this Exaction? Queen. I am much too venturous In tempting of your patience, but am boldned Vnder your promis'd pardon. The Subiects griefe Comes through Commissions, which compels from each The sixt part of his Substance, to be leuied Without delay; and the pretence for this Is nam'd, your warres in France: this makes bold mouths, Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze Allegeance in them; their curses now Liue where their prayers did: and it's come to passe, This tractable obedience is a Slaue To each incensed Will: I would your Highnesse Would giue it quicke consideration; for There is no primer basenesse Kin. By my life, This is against our pleasure Card. And for me, I haue no further gone in this, then by A single voice, and that not past me, but By learned approbation of the Iudges: If I am Traduc'd by ignorant Tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be The Chronicles of my doing: Let me say, 'Tis but the fate of Place, and the rough Brake That Vertue must goe through: we must not stint Our necessary actions, in the feare To cope malicious Censurers, which euer, As rau'nous Fishes doe a Vessell follow That is new trim'd; but benefit no further Then vainly longing. What we oft doe best, By sicke Interpreters (once weake ones) is Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft Hitting a grosser quality, is cride vp For our best Act: if we shall stand still, In feare our motion will be mock'd, or carp'd at, We should take roote here, where we sit; Or sit State-Statues onely Kin. Things done well, And with a care, exempt themselues from feare: Things done without example, in their issue Are to be fear'd. Haue you a President Of this Commission? I beleeue, not any. We must not rend our Subiects from our Lawes, And sticke them in our Will. Sixt part of each? A trembling Contribution; why we take From euery Tree, lop, barke, and part o'th' Timber: And though we leaue it with a roote thus hackt, The Ayre will drinke the Sap. To euery County Where this is question'd, send our Letters, with Free pardon to each man that has deny'de The force of this Commission: pray looke too't; I put it to your care Card. A word with you. Let there be Letters writ to euery Shire, Of the Kings grace and pardon: the greeued Commons Hardly conceiue of me. Let it be nois'd, That through our Intercession, this Reuokement And pardon comes: I shall anon aduise you Further in the proceeding. Exit Secret[ary]. Enter Surueyor. Queen. I am sorry, that the Duke of Buckingham Is run in your displeasure Kin. It grieues many: The Gentleman is Learn'd, and a most rare Speaker, To Nature none more bound; his trayning such, That he may furnish and instruct great Teachers, And neuer seeke for ayd out of himselfe: yet see, When these so Noble benefits shall proue Not well dispos'd, the minde growing once corrupt, They turne to vicious formes, ten times more vgly Then euer they were faire. This man so compleat, Who was enrold 'mongst wonders; and when we Almost with rauish'd listning, could not finde His houre of speech, a minute: He, (my Lady) Hath into monstrous habits put the Graces That once were his, and is become as blacke, As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by Vs, you shall heare (This was his Gentleman in trust) of him Things to strike Honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practises, whereof We cannot feele too little, heare too much Card. Stand forth, & with bold spirit relate what you Most like a carefull Subiect haue collected Out of the Duke of Buckingham Kin. Speake freely Sur. First, it was vsuall with him; euery day It would infect his Speech: That if the King Should without issue dye; hee'l carry it so To make the Scepter his. These very words I'ue heard him vtter to his Sonne in Law, Lord Aburgany, to whom by oth he menac'd Reuenge vpon the Cardinall Card. Please your Highnesse note This dangerous conception in this point, Not frended by his wish to your High person; His will is most malignant, and it stretches Beyond you to your friends Queen. My learn'd Lord Cardinall, Deliuer all with Charity Kin. Speake on; How grounded hee his Title to the Crowne Vpon our faile; to this poynt hast thou heard him, At any time speake ought? Sur. He was brought to this, By a vaine Prophesie of Nicholas Henton Kin. What was that Henton? Sur. Sir, a Chartreux Fryer, His Confessor, who fed him euery minute With words of Soueraignty Kin. How know'st thou this? Sur. Not long before your Highnesse sped to France, The Duke being at the Rose, within the Parish Saint Laurence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners, Concerning the French Iourney. I replide, Men feare the French would proue perfidious To the Kings danger: presently, the Duke Said, 'twas the feare indeed, and that he doubted 'Twould proue the verity of certaine words Spoke by a holy Monke, that oft, sayes he, Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit Iohn de la Car, my Chaplaine, a choyce howre To heare from him a matter of some moment: Whom after vnder the Commissions Seale, He sollemnly had sworne, that what he spoke My Chaplaine to no Creature liuing, but To me, should vtter, with demure Confidence, This pausingly ensu'de; neither the King, nor's Heyres (Tell you the Duke) shall prosper, bid him striue To the loue o'th' Commonalty, the Duke Shall gouerne England Queen. If I know you well, You were the Dukes Surueyor, and lost your Office On the complaint o'th' Tenants; take good heed You charge not in your spleene a Noble person, And spoyle your nobler Soule; I say, take heed; Yes, heartily beseech you Kin. Let him on: Goe forward Sur. On my Soule, Ile speake but truth. I told my Lord the Duke, by th' Diuels illusions The Monke might be deceiu'd, and that 'twas dangerous For this to ruminate on this so farre, vntill It forg'd him some designe, which being beleeu'd It was much like to doe: He answer'd, Tush, It can do me no damage; adding further, That had the King in his last Sicknesse faild, The Cardinals and Sir Thomas Louels heads Should haue gone off Kin. Ha? What, so rancke? Ah, ha, There's mischiefe in this man; canst thou say further? Sur. I can my Liedge Kin. Proceed Sur. Being at Greenwich, After your Highnesse had reprou'd the Duke About Sir William Blumer Kin. I remember of such a time, being my sworn seruant, The Duke retein'd him his. But on: what hence? Sur. If (quoth he) I for this had beene committed, As to the Tower, I thought; I would haue plaid The Part my Father meant to act vpon Th' Vsurper Richard, who being at Salsbury, Made suit to come in's presence; which if granted, (As he made semblance of his duty) would Haue put his knife into him Kin. A Gyant Traytor Card. Now Madam, may his Highnes liue in freedome, And this man out of Prison Queen. God mend all Kin. Ther's somthing more would out of thee; what say'st? Sur. After the Duke his Father, with the knife He stretch'd him, and with one hand on his dagger, Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a horrible Oath, whose tenor Was, were he euill vs'd, he would outgoe His Father, by as much as a performance Do's an irresolute purpose Kin. There's his period, To sheath his knife in vs: he is attach'd, Call him to present tryall: if he may Finde mercy in the Law, 'tis his; if none, Let him not seek't of vs: By day and night Hee's Traytor to th' height. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 1.scene 3

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of scene 3, utilizing the provided context.

Lord Chamberlain and Lords Sands are ridiculing the affectations acquired by the English nobles, who have just returned from France. Sir Thomas Lovell enters with the news that the noblemen who have been disrupting the court activities have been banished from it, by the Kings orders. Since these are the very men who have brought French customs to the English court, the three noblemen present hope that their disgrace will lead to the English manner again gaining popularity, especially with the noblemen. Lord Chamberlain invites the other two to aboard his barge as they are all heading for Wolseys supper-party.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- L.Ch. Is't possible the spels of France should iuggle Men into such strange mysteries? L.San. New customes, Though they be neuer so ridiculous, (Nay let 'em be vnmanly) yet are follow'd L.Ch. As farre as I see, all the good our English Haue got by the late Voyage, is but meerely A fit or two o'th' face, (but they are shrewd ones) For when they hold 'em, you would sweare directly Their very noses had been Councellours To Pepin or Clotharius, they keepe State so L.San. They haue all new legs, And lame ones; one would take it, That neuer see 'em pace before, the Spauen A Spring-halt rain'd among 'em L.Ch. Death my Lord, Their cloathes are after such a Pagan cut too't, That sure th'haue worne out Christendome: how now? What newes, Sir Thomas Louell? Enter Sir Thomas Louell. Louell. Faith my Lord, I heare of none but the new Proclamation, That's clapt vpon the Court Gate L.Cham. What is't for? Lou. The reformation of our trauel'd Gallants, That fill the Court with quarrels, talke, and Taylors L.Cham. I'm glad 'tis there; Now I would pray our Monsieurs To thinke an English Courtier may be wise, And neuer see the Louure Lou. They must either (For so run the Conditions) leaue those remnants Of Foole and Feather, that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto; as Fights and Fire-workes, Abusing better men then they can be Out of a forreigne wisedome, renouncing cleane The faith they haue in Tennis and tall Stockings, Short blistred Breeches, and those types of Trauell; And vnderstand againe like honest men, Or pack to their old Playfellowes; there, I take it, They may Cum Priuilegio, wee away The lag end of their lewdnesse, and be laugh'd at L.San. Tis time to giue 'em Physicke, their diseases Are growne so catching L.Cham. What a losse our Ladies Will haue of these trim vanities? Louell. I marry, There will be woe indeed Lords, the slye whorsons Haue got a speeding tricke to lay downe Ladies. A French Song, and a Fiddle, ha's no Fellow L.San. The Diuell fiddle 'em, I am glad they are going, For sure there's no conuerting of 'em: now An honest Country Lord as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plaine song, And haue an houre of hearing, and by'r Lady Held currant Musicke too L.Cham. Well said Lord Sands, Your Colts tooth is not cast yet? L.San. No my Lord, Nor shall not while I haue a stumpe L.Cham. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a going? Lou. To the Cardinals; Your Lordship is a guest too L.Cham. O, 'tis true; This night he makes a Supper, and a great one, To many Lords and Ladies; there will be The Beauty of this Kingdome Ile assure you Lou. That Churchman Beares a bounteous minde indeed, A hand as fruitfull as the Land that feeds vs, His dewes fall euery where L.Cham. No doubt hee's Noble; He had a blacke mouth that said other of him L.San. He may my Lord, Ha's wherewithall in him; Sparing would shew a worse sinne, then ill Doctrine, Men of his way, should be most liberall, They are set heere for examples L.Cham. True, they are so; But few now giue so great ones: My Barge stayes; Your Lordship shall along: Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be late else, which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guilford This night to be Comptrollers L.San. I am your Lordships. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 3--------- L.Ch. Is't possible the spels of France should iuggle Men into such strange mysteries? L.San. New customes, Though they be neuer so ridiculous, (Nay let 'em be vnmanly) yet are follow'd L.Ch. As farre as I see, all the good our English Haue got by the late Voyage, is but meerely A fit or two o'th' face, (but they are shrewd ones) For when they hold 'em, you would sweare directly Their very noses had been Councellours To Pepin or Clotharius, they keepe State so L.San. They haue all new legs, And lame ones; one would take it, That neuer see 'em pace before, the Spauen A Spring-halt rain'd among 'em L.Ch. Death my Lord, Their cloathes are after such a Pagan cut too't, That sure th'haue worne out Christendome: how now? What newes, Sir Thomas Louell? Enter Sir Thomas Louell. Louell. Faith my Lord, I heare of none but the new Proclamation, That's clapt vpon the Court Gate L.Cham. What is't for? Lou. The reformation of our trauel'd Gallants, That fill the Court with quarrels, talke, and Taylors L.Cham. I'm glad 'tis there; Now I would pray our Monsieurs To thinke an English Courtier may be wise, And neuer see the Louure Lou. They must either (For so run the Conditions) leaue those remnants Of Foole and Feather, that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto; as Fights and Fire-workes, Abusing better men then they can be Out of a forreigne wisedome, renouncing cleane The faith they haue in Tennis and tall Stockings, Short blistred Breeches, and those types of Trauell; And vnderstand againe like honest men, Or pack to their old Playfellowes; there, I take it, They may Cum Priuilegio, wee away The lag end of their lewdnesse, and be laugh'd at L.San. Tis time to giue 'em Physicke, their diseases Are growne so catching L.Cham. What a losse our Ladies Will haue of these trim vanities? Louell. I marry, There will be woe indeed Lords, the slye whorsons Haue got a speeding tricke to lay downe Ladies. A French Song, and a Fiddle, ha's no Fellow L.San. The Diuell fiddle 'em, I am glad they are going, For sure there's no conuerting of 'em: now An honest Country Lord as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plaine song, And haue an houre of hearing, and by'r Lady Held currant Musicke too L.Cham. Well said Lord Sands, Your Colts tooth is not cast yet? L.San. No my Lord, Nor shall not while I haue a stumpe L.Cham. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a going? Lou. To the Cardinals; Your Lordship is a guest too L.Cham. O, 'tis true; This night he makes a Supper, and a great one, To many Lords and Ladies; there will be The Beauty of this Kingdome Ile assure you Lou. That Churchman Beares a bounteous minde indeed, A hand as fruitfull as the Land that feeds vs, His dewes fall euery where L.Cham. No doubt hee's Noble; He had a blacke mouth that said other of him L.San. He may my Lord, Ha's wherewithall in him; Sparing would shew a worse sinne, then ill Doctrine, Men of his way, should be most liberall, They are set heere for examples L.Cham. True, they are so; But few now giue so great ones: My Barge stayes; Your Lordship shall along: Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be late else, which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guilford This night to be Comptrollers L.San. I am your Lordships. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 1.scene 4

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for scene 4 with the given context.

Lord Chamberlain and Lords Sands are ridiculing the affectations acquired by the English nobles, who have just returned from France. Sir Thomas Lovell enters with the news that the noblemen who have been disrupting the court activities have been banished from it, by the Kings orders. Since these are the very men who have brought French customs to the English court, the three noblemen present hope that their disgrace will lead to the English manner again gaining popularity, especially with the noblemen. Lord Chamberlain invites the other two to aboard his barge as they are all heading for Wolseys supper-party.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 4--------- Hoboies. A small Table vnder a State for the Cardinall, a longer Table for the Guests. Then Enter Anne Bullen, and diuers other Ladies, & Gentlemen, as Guests at one Doore; at an other Doore enter Sir Henry Guilford. S.Hen.Guilf. Ladyes, A generall welcome from his Grace Salutes ye all; This Night he dedicates To faire content, and you: None heere he hopes In all this Noble Beuy, has brought with her One care abroad: hee would haue all as merry: As first, good Company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. Enter L[ord]. Chamberlaine L[ord]. Sands, and Louell. O my Lord, y'are tardy; The very thought of this faire Company, Clapt wings to me Cham. You are young Sir Harry Guilford San. Sir Thomas Louell, had the Cardinall But halfe my Lay-thoughts in him, some of these Should finde a running Banket, ere they rested, I thinke would better please 'em: by my life, They are a sweet society of faire ones Lou. O that your Lordship were but now Confessor, To one or two of these San. I would I were, They should finde easie pennance Lou. Faith how easie? San. As easie as a downe bed would affoord it Cham. Sweet Ladies will it please you sit; Sir Harry Place you that side, Ile take the charge of this: His Grace is entring. Nay, you must not freeze, Two women plac'd together, makes cold weather: My Lord Sands, you are one will keepe 'em waking: Pray sit betweene these Ladies San. By my faith, And thanke your Lordship: by your leaue sweet Ladies, If I chance to talke a little wilde, forgiue me: I had it from my Father An.Bul. Was he mad Sir? San. O very mad, exceeding mad, in loue too; But he would bite none, iust as I doe now, He would Kisse you Twenty with a breath Cham. Well said my Lord: So now y'are fairely seated: Gentlemen, The pennance lyes on you; if these faire Ladies Passe away frowning San. For my little Cure, Let me alone. Hoboyes. Enter Cardinall Wolsey, and takes his State. Card. Y'are welcome my faire Guests; that noble Lady Or Gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my Friend. This to confirme my welcome, And to you all good health San. Your Grace is Noble, Let me haue such a Bowle may hold my thankes, And saue me so much talking Card. My Lord Sands, I am beholding to you: cheere your neighbours: Ladies you are not merry; Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? San. The red wine first must rise In their faire cheekes my Lord, then wee shall haue 'em, Talke vs to silence An.B. You are a merry Gamster My Lord Sands San. Yes, if I make my play: Heer's to your Ladiship, and pledge it Madam: For tis to such a thing An.B. You cannot shew me. Drum and Trumpet, Chambers dischargd. San. I told your Grace, they would talke anon Card. What's that? Cham. Looke out there, some of ye Card. What warlike voyce, And to what end is this? Nay, Ladies, feare not; By all the lawes of Warre y'are priuiledg'd. Enter a Seruant. Cham. How now, what is't? Seru. A noble troupe of Strangers, For so they seeme; th' haue left their Barge and landed, And hither make, as great Embassadors From forraigne Princes Card. Good Lord Chamberlaine, Go, giue 'em welcome; you can speake the French tongue And pray receiue 'em Nobly, and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this heauen of beauty Shall shine at full vpon them. Some attend him. All rise, and Tables remou'd. You haue now a broken Banket, but wee'l mend it. A good digestion to you all; and once more I showre a welcome on yee: welcome all. Hoboyes. Enter King and others as Maskers, habited like Shepheards, vsher'd by the Lord Chamberlaine. They passe directly before the Cardinall and gracefully salute him. A noble Company: what are their pleasures? Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they praid To tell your Grace: That hauing heard by fame Of this so Noble and so faire assembly, This night to meet heere they could doe no lesse, (Out of the great respect they beare to beauty) But leaue their Flockes, and vnder your faire Conduct Craue leaue to view these Ladies, and entreat An houre of Reuels with 'em Card. Say, Lord Chamberlaine, They haue done my poore house grace: For which I pay 'em a thousand thankes, And pray 'em take their pleasures. Choose Ladies, King and An Bullen. King. The fairest hand I euer touch'd: O Beauty, Till now I neuer knew thee. Musicke, Dance. Card. My Lord Cham. Your Grace Card. Pray tell 'em thus much from me: There should be one amongst 'em by his person More worthy this place then my selfe, to whom (If I but knew him) with my loue and duty I would surrender it. Whisper. Cham. I will my Lord Card. What say they? Cham. Such a one, they all confesse There is indeed, which they would haue your Grace Find out, and he will take it Card. Let me see then, By all your good leaues Gentlemen; heere Ile make My royall choyce Kin. Ye haue found him Cardinall, You hold a faire Assembly; you doe well Lord: You are a Churchman, or Ile tell you Cardinall, I should iudge now vnhappily Card. I am glad Your Grace is growne so pleasant Kin. My Lord Chamberlaine, Prethee come hither, what faire Ladie's that? Cham. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullens Daughter, the Viscount Rochford, One of her Highnesse women Kin. By Heauen she is a dainty one. Sweet heart, I were vnmannerly to take you out, And not to kisse you. A health Gentlemen, Let it goe round Card. Sir Thomas Louell, is the Banket ready I'th' Priuy Chamber? Lou. Yes, my Lord Card. Your Grace I feare, with dancing is a little heated Kin. I feare too much Card. There's fresher ayre my Lord, In the next Chamber Kin. Lead in your Ladies eu'ry one: Sweet Partner, I must not yet forsake you: Let's be merry, Good my Lord Cardinall: I haue halfe a dozen healths, To drinke to these faire Ladies, and a measure To lead 'em once againe, and then let's dreame Who's best in fauour. Let the Musicke knock it. Exeunt. with Trumpets. ----------SCENE 4--------- Hoboies. A small Table vnder a State for the Cardinall, a longer Table for the Guests. Then Enter Anne Bullen, and diuers other Ladies, & Gentlemen, as Guests at one Doore; at an other Doore enter Sir Henry Guilford. S.Hen.Guilf. Ladyes, A generall welcome from his Grace Salutes ye all; This Night he dedicates To faire content, and you: None heere he hopes In all this Noble Beuy, has brought with her One care abroad: hee would haue all as merry: As first, good Company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. Enter L[ord]. Chamberlaine L[ord]. Sands, and Louell. O my Lord, y'are tardy; The very thought of this faire Company, Clapt wings to me Cham. You are young Sir Harry Guilford San. Sir Thomas Louell, had the Cardinall But halfe my Lay-thoughts in him, some of these Should finde a running Banket, ere they rested, I thinke would better please 'em: by my life, They are a sweet society of faire ones Lou. O that your Lordship were but now Confessor, To one or two of these San. I would I were, They should finde easie pennance Lou. Faith how easie? San. As easie as a downe bed would affoord it Cham. Sweet Ladies will it please you sit; Sir Harry Place you that side, Ile take the charge of this: His Grace is entring. Nay, you must not freeze, Two women plac'd together, makes cold weather: My Lord Sands, you are one will keepe 'em waking: Pray sit betweene these Ladies San. By my faith, And thanke your Lordship: by your leaue sweet Ladies, If I chance to talke a little wilde, forgiue me: I had it from my Father An.Bul. Was he mad Sir? San. O very mad, exceeding mad, in loue too; But he would bite none, iust as I doe now, He would Kisse you Twenty with a breath Cham. Well said my Lord: So now y'are fairely seated: Gentlemen, The pennance lyes on you; if these faire Ladies Passe away frowning San. For my little Cure, Let me alone. Hoboyes. Enter Cardinall Wolsey, and takes his State. Card. Y'are welcome my faire Guests; that noble Lady Or Gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my Friend. This to confirme my welcome, And to you all good health San. Your Grace is Noble, Let me haue such a Bowle may hold my thankes, And saue me so much talking Card. My Lord Sands, I am beholding to you: cheere your neighbours: Ladies you are not merry; Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? San. The red wine first must rise In their faire cheekes my Lord, then wee shall haue 'em, Talke vs to silence An.B. You are a merry Gamster My Lord Sands San. Yes, if I make my play: Heer's to your Ladiship, and pledge it Madam: For tis to such a thing An.B. You cannot shew me. Drum and Trumpet, Chambers dischargd. San. I told your Grace, they would talke anon Card. What's that? Cham. Looke out there, some of ye Card. What warlike voyce, And to what end is this? Nay, Ladies, feare not; By all the lawes of Warre y'are priuiledg'd. Enter a Seruant. Cham. How now, what is't? Seru. A noble troupe of Strangers, For so they seeme; th' haue left their Barge and landed, And hither make, as great Embassadors From forraigne Princes Card. Good Lord Chamberlaine, Go, giue 'em welcome; you can speake the French tongue And pray receiue 'em Nobly, and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this heauen of beauty Shall shine at full vpon them. Some attend him. All rise, and Tables remou'd. You haue now a broken Banket, but wee'l mend it. A good digestion to you all; and once more I showre a welcome on yee: welcome all. Hoboyes. Enter King and others as Maskers, habited like Shepheards, vsher'd by the Lord Chamberlaine. They passe directly before the Cardinall and gracefully salute him. A noble Company: what are their pleasures? Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they praid To tell your Grace: That hauing heard by fame Of this so Noble and so faire assembly, This night to meet heere they could doe no lesse, (Out of the great respect they beare to beauty) But leaue their Flockes, and vnder your faire Conduct Craue leaue to view these Ladies, and entreat An houre of Reuels with 'em Card. Say, Lord Chamberlaine, They haue done my poore house grace: For which I pay 'em a thousand thankes, And pray 'em take their pleasures. Choose Ladies, King and An Bullen. King. The fairest hand I euer touch'd: O Beauty, Till now I neuer knew thee. Musicke, Dance. Card. My Lord Cham. Your Grace Card. Pray tell 'em thus much from me: There should be one amongst 'em by his person More worthy this place then my selfe, to whom (If I but knew him) with my loue and duty I would surrender it. Whisper. Cham. I will my Lord Card. What say they? Cham. Such a one, they all confesse There is indeed, which they would haue your Grace Find out, and he will take it Card. Let me see then, By all your good leaues Gentlemen; heere Ile make My royall choyce Kin. Ye haue found him Cardinall, You hold a faire Assembly; you doe well Lord: You are a Churchman, or Ile tell you Cardinall, I should iudge now vnhappily Card. I am glad Your Grace is growne so pleasant Kin. My Lord Chamberlaine, Prethee come hither, what faire Ladie's that? Cham. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullens Daughter, the Viscount Rochford, One of her Highnesse women Kin. By Heauen she is a dainty one. Sweet heart, I were vnmannerly to take you out, And not to kisse you. A health Gentlemen, Let it goe round Card. Sir Thomas Louell, is the Banket ready I'th' Priuy Chamber? Lou. Yes, my Lord Card. Your Grace I feare, with dancing is a little heated Kin. I feare too much Card. There's fresher ayre my Lord, In the next Chamber Kin. Lead in your Ladies eu'ry one: Sweet Partner, I must not yet forsake you: Let's be merry, Good my Lord Cardinall: I haue halfe a dozen healths, To drinke to these faire Ladies, and a measure To lead 'em once againe, and then let's dreame Who's best in fauour. Let the Musicke knock it. Exeunt. with Trumpets.

Henry VIII.act 1.scenes 3

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1, scenes 3-4 with the given context.

Lord Chamberlain and Lord Sands discuss the oddity of the nobles' behavior since they returned from the trip to France. New continental fashions taken up by these returning men from the French seem ridiculous, and the two lords make fun of their dandyish clothes and manners. Lovell enters, relating proposed reformations urging the returned nobles to give up French-influenced styles. The three agree that such reformations are the right idea. Lovell says he is on his way to a great dinner celebration at Wolsey's house, to which the Lords Chamberlain and Sands are also invited. They agree that Wolsey is generous, and they set out on their way to his home. Guildford says a dedication at the beginning of the events at Wolsey's house, welcoming the guests. Lord Chamberlain, Lovell, and Sands arrive, and Sands is seated at a table next to Anne Bullen. Sands flirts with Anne, and Wolsey enters the party. Hearing cannon fire, Wolsey discovers that new guests have arrived. Lord Chamberlain discovers that the strangers are shepherds apparently arrived from France, who had heard talk of Wolsey's party and were so impressed with the tales that they had to attend. Wolsey invites them in. The shepherds are in fact King Henry VIII and some of his men in disguise. The shepherds dance with the ladies, Henry with Anne. He is very taken by her beauty. Wolsey tells the shepherds that if one of them has a higher position than himself, then he will surrender his place. Wolsey strolls among the shepherds and sees through the king's disguise, unmasking him. Henry then asks Lord Chamberlain about Anne. Telling her it is bad manners to dance with her without kissing her, he kisses her. Then, he goes to a private banquet room with his men, promising Anne that he won't forget her.

----------ACT 1, SCENES 3-4--------- L.Ch. Is't possible the spels of France should iuggle Men into such strange mysteries? L.San. New customes, Though they be neuer so ridiculous, (Nay let 'em be vnmanly) yet are follow'd L.Ch. As farre as I see, all the good our English Haue got by the late Voyage, is but meerely A fit or two o'th' face, (but they are shrewd ones) For when they hold 'em, you would sweare directly Their very noses had been Councellours To Pepin or Clotharius, they keepe State so L.San. They haue all new legs, And lame ones; one would take it, That neuer see 'em pace before, the Spauen A Spring-halt rain'd among 'em L.Ch. Death my Lord, Their cloathes are after such a Pagan cut too't, That sure th'haue worne out Christendome: how now? What newes, Sir Thomas Louell? Enter Sir Thomas Louell. Louell. Faith my Lord, I heare of none but the new Proclamation, That's clapt vpon the Court Gate L.Cham. What is't for? Lou. The reformation of our trauel'd Gallants, That fill the Court with quarrels, talke, and Taylors L.Cham. I'm glad 'tis there; Now I would pray our Monsieurs To thinke an English Courtier may be wise, And neuer see the Louure Lou. They must either (For so run the Conditions) leaue those remnants Of Foole and Feather, that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto; as Fights and Fire-workes, Abusing better men then they can be Out of a forreigne wisedome, renouncing cleane The faith they haue in Tennis and tall Stockings, Short blistred Breeches, and those types of Trauell; And vnderstand againe like honest men, Or pack to their old Playfellowes; there, I take it, They may Cum Priuilegio, wee away The lag end of their lewdnesse, and be laugh'd at L.San. Tis time to giue 'em Physicke, their diseases Are growne so catching L.Cham. What a losse our Ladies Will haue of these trim vanities? Louell. I marry, There will be woe indeed Lords, the slye whorsons Haue got a speeding tricke to lay downe Ladies. A French Song, and a Fiddle, ha's no Fellow L.San. The Diuell fiddle 'em, I am glad they are going, For sure there's no conuerting of 'em: now An honest Country Lord as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plaine song, And haue an houre of hearing, and by'r Lady Held currant Musicke too L.Cham. Well said Lord Sands, Your Colts tooth is not cast yet? L.San. No my Lord, Nor shall not while I haue a stumpe L.Cham. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a going? Lou. To the Cardinals; Your Lordship is a guest too L.Cham. O, 'tis true; This night he makes a Supper, and a great one, To many Lords and Ladies; there will be The Beauty of this Kingdome Ile assure you Lou. That Churchman Beares a bounteous minde indeed, A hand as fruitfull as the Land that feeds vs, His dewes fall euery where L.Cham. No doubt hee's Noble; He had a blacke mouth that said other of him L.San. He may my Lord, Ha's wherewithall in him; Sparing would shew a worse sinne, then ill Doctrine, Men of his way, should be most liberall, They are set heere for examples L.Cham. True, they are so; But few now giue so great ones: My Barge stayes; Your Lordship shall along: Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be late else, which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guilford This night to be Comptrollers L.San. I am your Lordships. Exeunt. Hoboies. A small Table vnder a State for the Cardinall, a longer Table for the Guests. Then Enter Anne Bullen, and diuers other Ladies, & Gentlemen, as Guests at one Doore; at an other Doore enter Sir Henry Guilford. S.Hen.Guilf. Ladyes, A generall welcome from his Grace Salutes ye all; This Night he dedicates To faire content, and you: None heere he hopes In all this Noble Beuy, has brought with her One care abroad: hee would haue all as merry: As first, good Company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. Enter L[ord]. Chamberlaine L[ord]. Sands, and Louell. O my Lord, y'are tardy; The very thought of this faire Company, Clapt wings to me Cham. You are young Sir Harry Guilford San. Sir Thomas Louell, had the Cardinall But halfe my Lay-thoughts in him, some of these Should finde a running Banket, ere they rested, I thinke would better please 'em: by my life, They are a sweet society of faire ones Lou. O that your Lordship were but now Confessor, To one or two of these San. I would I were, They should finde easie pennance Lou. Faith how easie? San. As easie as a downe bed would affoord it Cham. Sweet Ladies will it please you sit; Sir Harry Place you that side, Ile take the charge of this: His Grace is entring. Nay, you must not freeze, Two women plac'd together, makes cold weather: My Lord Sands, you are one will keepe 'em waking: Pray sit betweene these Ladies San. By my faith, And thanke your Lordship: by your leaue sweet Ladies, If I chance to talke a little wilde, forgiue me: I had it from my Father An.Bul. Was he mad Sir? San. O very mad, exceeding mad, in loue too; But he would bite none, iust as I doe now, He would Kisse you Twenty with a breath Cham. Well said my Lord: So now y'are fairely seated: Gentlemen, The pennance lyes on you; if these faire Ladies Passe away frowning San. For my little Cure, Let me alone. Hoboyes. Enter Cardinall Wolsey, and takes his State. Card. Y'are welcome my faire Guests; that noble Lady Or Gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my Friend. This to confirme my welcome, And to you all good health San. Your Grace is Noble, Let me haue such a Bowle may hold my thankes, And saue me so much talking Card. My Lord Sands, I am beholding to you: cheere your neighbours: Ladies you are not merry; Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? San. The red wine first must rise In their faire cheekes my Lord, then wee shall haue 'em, Talke vs to silence An.B. You are a merry Gamster My Lord Sands San. Yes, if I make my play: Heer's to your Ladiship, and pledge it Madam: For tis to such a thing An.B. You cannot shew me. Drum and Trumpet, Chambers dischargd. San. I told your Grace, they would talke anon Card. What's that? Cham. Looke out there, some of ye Card. What warlike voyce, And to what end is this? Nay, Ladies, feare not; By all the lawes of Warre y'are priuiledg'd. Enter a Seruant. Cham. How now, what is't? Seru. A noble troupe of Strangers, For so they seeme; th' haue left their Barge and landed, And hither make, as great Embassadors From forraigne Princes Card. Good Lord Chamberlaine, Go, giue 'em welcome; you can speake the French tongue And pray receiue 'em Nobly, and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this heauen of beauty Shall shine at full vpon them. Some attend him. All rise, and Tables remou'd. You haue now a broken Banket, but wee'l mend it. A good digestion to you all; and once more I showre a welcome on yee: welcome all. Hoboyes. Enter King and others as Maskers, habited like Shepheards, vsher'd by the Lord Chamberlaine. They passe directly before the Cardinall and gracefully salute him. A noble Company: what are their pleasures? Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they praid To tell your Grace: That hauing heard by fame Of this so Noble and so faire assembly, This night to meet heere they could doe no lesse, (Out of the great respect they beare to beauty) But leaue their Flockes, and vnder your faire Conduct Craue leaue to view these Ladies, and entreat An houre of Reuels with 'em Card. Say, Lord Chamberlaine, They haue done my poore house grace: For which I pay 'em a thousand thankes, And pray 'em take their pleasures. Choose Ladies, King and An Bullen. King. The fairest hand I euer touch'd: O Beauty, Till now I neuer knew thee. Musicke, Dance. Card. My Lord Cham. Your Grace Card. Pray tell 'em thus much from me: There should be one amongst 'em by his person More worthy this place then my selfe, to whom (If I but knew him) with my loue and duty I would surrender it. Whisper. Cham. I will my Lord Card. What say they? Cham. Such a one, they all confesse There is indeed, which they would haue your Grace Find out, and he will take it Card. Let me see then, By all your good leaues Gentlemen; heere Ile make My royall choyce Kin. Ye haue found him Cardinall, You hold a faire Assembly; you doe well Lord: You are a Churchman, or Ile tell you Cardinall, I should iudge now vnhappily Card. I am glad Your Grace is growne so pleasant Kin. My Lord Chamberlaine, Prethee come hither, what faire Ladie's that? Cham. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullens Daughter, the Viscount Rochford, One of her Highnesse women Kin. By Heauen she is a dainty one. Sweet heart, I were vnmannerly to take you out, And not to kisse you. A health Gentlemen, Let it goe round Card. Sir Thomas Louell, is the Banket ready I'th' Priuy Chamber? Lou. Yes, my Lord Card. Your Grace I feare, with dancing is a little heated Kin. I feare too much Card. There's fresher ayre my Lord, In the next Chamber Kin. Lead in your Ladies eu'ry one: Sweet Partner, I must not yet forsake you: Let's be merry, Good my Lord Cardinall: I haue halfe a dozen healths, To drinke to these faire Ladies, and a measure To lead 'em once againe, and then let's dreame Who's best in fauour. Let the Musicke knock it. Exeunt. with Trumpets. ----------ACT 1 SCENE 3 - 4--------- L.Ch. Is't possible the spels of France should iuggle Men into such strange mysteries? L.San. New customes, Though they be neuer so ridiculous, (Nay let 'em be vnmanly) yet are follow'd L.Ch. As farre as I see, all the good our English Haue got by the late Voyage, is but meerely A fit or two o'th' face, (but they are shrewd ones) For when they hold 'em, you would sweare directly Their very noses had been Councellours To Pepin or Clotharius, they keepe State so L.San. They haue all new legs, And lame ones; one would take it, That neuer see 'em pace before, the Spauen A Spring-halt rain'd among 'em L.Ch. Death my Lord, Their cloathes are after such a Pagan cut too't, That sure th'haue worne out Christendome: how now? What newes, Sir Thomas Louell? Enter Sir Thomas Louell. Louell. Faith my Lord, I heare of none but the new Proclamation, That's clapt vpon the Court Gate L.Cham. What is't for? Lou. The reformation of our trauel'd Gallants, That fill the Court with quarrels, talke, and Taylors L.Cham. I'm glad 'tis there; Now I would pray our Monsieurs To thinke an English Courtier may be wise, And neuer see the Louure Lou. They must either (For so run the Conditions) leaue those remnants Of Foole and Feather, that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto; as Fights and Fire-workes, Abusing better men then they can be Out of a forreigne wisedome, renouncing cleane The faith they haue in Tennis and tall Stockings, Short blistred Breeches, and those types of Trauell; And vnderstand againe like honest men, Or pack to their old Playfellowes; there, I take it, They may Cum Priuilegio, wee away The lag end of their lewdnesse, and be laugh'd at L.San. Tis time to giue 'em Physicke, their diseases Are growne so catching L.Cham. What a losse our Ladies Will haue of these trim vanities? Louell. I marry, There will be woe indeed Lords, the slye whorsons Haue got a speeding tricke to lay downe Ladies. A French Song, and a Fiddle, ha's no Fellow L.San. The Diuell fiddle 'em, I am glad they are going, For sure there's no conuerting of 'em: now An honest Country Lord as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plaine song, And haue an houre of hearing, and by'r Lady Held currant Musicke too L.Cham. Well said Lord Sands, Your Colts tooth is not cast yet? L.San. No my Lord, Nor shall not while I haue a stumpe L.Cham. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a going? Lou. To the Cardinals; Your Lordship is a guest too L.Cham. O, 'tis true; This night he makes a Supper, and a great one, To many Lords and Ladies; there will be The Beauty of this Kingdome Ile assure you Lou. That Churchman Beares a bounteous minde indeed, A hand as fruitfull as the Land that feeds vs, His dewes fall euery where L.Cham. No doubt hee's Noble; He had a blacke mouth that said other of him L.San. He may my Lord, Ha's wherewithall in him; Sparing would shew a worse sinne, then ill Doctrine, Men of his way, should be most liberall, They are set heere for examples L.Cham. True, they are so; But few now giue so great ones: My Barge stayes; Your Lordship shall along: Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be late else, which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guilford This night to be Comptrollers L.San. I am your Lordships. Exeunt. Hoboies. A small Table vnder a State for the Cardinall, a longer Table for the Guests. Then Enter Anne Bullen, and diuers other Ladies, & Gentlemen, as Guests at one Doore; at an other Doore enter Sir Henry Guilford. S.Hen.Guilf. Ladyes, A generall welcome from his Grace Salutes ye all; This Night he dedicates To faire content, and you: None heere he hopes In all this Noble Beuy, has brought with her One care abroad: hee would haue all as merry: As first, good Company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. Enter L[ord]. Chamberlaine L[ord]. Sands, and Louell. O my Lord, y'are tardy; The very thought of this faire Company, Clapt wings to me Cham. You are young Sir Harry Guilford San. Sir Thomas Louell, had the Cardinall But halfe my Lay-thoughts in him, some of these Should finde a running Banket, ere they rested, I thinke would better please 'em: by my life, They are a sweet society of faire ones Lou. O that your Lordship were but now Confessor, To one or two of these San. I would I were, They should finde easie pennance Lou. Faith how easie? San. As easie as a downe bed would affoord it Cham. Sweet Ladies will it please you sit; Sir Harry Place you that side, Ile take the charge of this: His Grace is entring. Nay, you must not freeze, Two women plac'd together, makes cold weather: My Lord Sands, you are one will keepe 'em waking: Pray sit betweene these Ladies San. By my faith, And thanke your Lordship: by your leaue sweet Ladies, If I chance to talke a little wilde, forgiue me: I had it from my Father An.Bul. Was he mad Sir? San. O very mad, exceeding mad, in loue too; But he would bite none, iust as I doe now, He would Kisse you Twenty with a breath Cham. Well said my Lord: So now y'are fairely seated: Gentlemen, The pennance lyes on you; if these faire Ladies Passe away frowning San. For my little Cure, Let me alone. Hoboyes. Enter Cardinall Wolsey, and takes his State. Card. Y'are welcome my faire Guests; that noble Lady Or Gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my Friend. This to confirme my welcome, And to you all good health San. Your Grace is Noble, Let me haue such a Bowle may hold my thankes, And saue me so much talking Card. My Lord Sands, I am beholding to you: cheere your neighbours: Ladies you are not merry; Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? San. The red wine first must rise In their faire cheekes my Lord, then wee shall haue 'em, Talke vs to silence An.B. You are a merry Gamster My Lord Sands San. Yes, if I make my play: Heer's to your Ladiship, and pledge it Madam: For tis to such a thing An.B. You cannot shew me. Drum and Trumpet, Chambers dischargd. San. I told your Grace, they would talke anon Card. What's that? Cham. Looke out there, some of ye Card. What warlike voyce, And to what end is this? Nay, Ladies, feare not; By all the lawes of Warre y'are priuiledg'd. Enter a Seruant. Cham. How now, what is't? Seru. A noble troupe of Strangers, For so they seeme; th' haue left their Barge and landed, And hither make, as great Embassadors From forraigne Princes Card. Good Lord Chamberlaine, Go, giue 'em welcome; you can speake the French tongue And pray receiue 'em Nobly, and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this heauen of beauty Shall shine at full vpon them. Some attend him. All rise, and Tables remou'd. You haue now a broken Banket, but wee'l mend it. A good digestion to you all; and once more I showre a welcome on yee: welcome all. Hoboyes. Enter King and others as Maskers, habited like Shepheards, vsher'd by the Lord Chamberlaine. They passe directly before the Cardinall and gracefully salute him. A noble Company: what are their pleasures? Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they praid To tell your Grace: That hauing heard by fame Of this so Noble and so faire assembly, This night to meet heere they could doe no lesse, (Out of the great respect they beare to beauty) But leaue their Flockes, and vnder your faire Conduct Craue leaue to view these Ladies, and entreat An houre of Reuels with 'em Card. Say, Lord Chamberlaine, They haue done my poore house grace: For which I pay 'em a thousand thankes, And pray 'em take their pleasures. Choose Ladies, King and An Bullen. King. The fairest hand I euer touch'd: O Beauty, Till now I neuer knew thee. Musicke, Dance. Card. My Lord Cham. Your Grace Card. Pray tell 'em thus much from me: There should be one amongst 'em by his person More worthy this place then my selfe, to whom (If I but knew him) with my loue and duty I would surrender it. Whisper. Cham. I will my Lord Card. What say they? Cham. Such a one, they all confesse There is indeed, which they would haue your Grace Find out, and he will take it Card. Let me see then, By all your good leaues Gentlemen; heere Ile make My royall choyce Kin. Ye haue found him Cardinall, You hold a faire Assembly; you doe well Lord: You are a Churchman, or Ile tell you Cardinall, I should iudge now vnhappily Card. I am glad Your Grace is growne so pleasant Kin. My Lord Chamberlaine, Prethee come hither, what faire Ladie's that? Cham. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullens Daughter, the Viscount Rochford, One of her Highnesse women Kin. By Heauen she is a dainty one. Sweet heart, I were vnmannerly to take you out, And not to kisse you. A health Gentlemen, Let it goe round Card. Sir Thomas Louell, is the Banket ready I'th' Priuy Chamber? Lou. Yes, my Lord Card. Your Grace I feare, with dancing is a little heated Kin. I feare too much Card. There's fresher ayre my Lord, In the next Chamber Kin. Lead in your Ladies eu'ry one: Sweet Partner, I must not yet forsake you: Let's be merry, Good my Lord Cardinall: I haue halfe a dozen healths, To drinke to these faire Ladies, and a measure To lead 'em once againe, and then let's dreame Who's best in fauour. Let the Musicke knock it. Exeunt. with Trumpets.

Henry VIII.act 2.scene 1

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 2, scene 1 using the context provided.

Two guys meet on a street, rushing. Why so fast? Guy #2 is on his way to Buckingham's trial, but Guy #1 has just come from there and says it's finished already. Well, that was fast. What happened? Guy # 1 explains the trial: Buckingham pled not guilty, but he was found guilty and sentenced to death. It didn't matter that he was eloquent or that he stood up for himself rationally; he was found guilty, anyway. The gents agree that Wolsey is behind all this. This isn't the first time it's happened, either: Wolsey also kicked Earl Surrey, the Deputy of Ireland, and Kildare out of their positions... and the list goes on. Wait a minute, says Guy # 1: it seems like Wolsey gets rid of anyone the king likes. Maybe Guy #1 on to something... As the men are talking, Buckingham enters with Lovell, Vaux, Sands, and a bunch of commoners. Buckingham delivers a heartfelt speech about how he's been wrongly accused. But he's not calling for revenge; instead, he forgives the men who did this to him. Now he's off to heaven. There's not a dry eye in the house. Lovell asks for forgiveness, and Buckingham grants it--in fact, he forgives everyone. Vaux orders for a barge to be prepared to take them away. Oh, and it should be made nice enough for a duke, since Buckingham is a duke and all. Buckingham jumps in and stops Vaux: he might have come in as a duke, but he leaves as plain old Edward Bohun. He thinks back to his father's role in English history, and he thinks about the past few kings who ruled. Buckingham recognizes that he's repeated history in some ways: his dad thought his buddies were loyal to him, but they killed him. Now something similar is happening to Buckingham himself. At least he got a trial? Too bad it wasn't much of a trial. Buckingham warns everyone to be careful whom you trust, since not everyone is loyal. Then Buckingham's off. The gents think this is sad: a guiltless man taken away to execution is neither fair nor just. The gents pray that the angels keep them from wicked men who play in evil trickery and deceitful trials. Then Guy #2 asks Guys #1 if he's heard the latest rumor around the water cooler: Henry is splitting up with Katherine. The gents agree that this must all be Wolsey's doing. Katherine doesn't obey Wolsey blindly, and she's suspicious of him. On top of that, Katherine's dad didn't hire Wolsey for a job that one time. No wonder Wolsey's orchestrated the break-up. This isn't an ordinary rumor, though: Cardinal Campeius from Rome has arrived to talk to Henry about it. Married people can't just go and break up , so this is a really big deal. The gents think this means the rumor is true. Then the gents look around. They're out in the open, and they've been talking about a private matter. They don't want to get in trouble, so they hightail it right out of there.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- Enter two Gentlemen at seuerall Doores. 1. Whether away so fast? 2. O, God saue ye: Eu'n to the Hall, to heare what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham 1. Ile saue you That labour Sir. All's now done but the Ceremony Of bringing backe the Prisoner 2. Were you there ? 1. Yes indeed was I 2. Pray speake what ha's happen'd 1. You may guesse quickly what 2. Is he found guilty? 1. Yes truely is he, And condemn'd vpon't 2. I am sorry fort 1. So are a number more 2. But pray how past it? 1. Ile tell you in a little. The great Duke Came to the Bar; where, to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty, and alleadged Many sharpe reasons to defeat the Law. The Kings Atturney on the contrary, Vrg'd on the Examinations, proofes, confessions Of diuers witnesses, which the Duke desir'd To him brought viua voce to his face; At which appear'd against him, his Surueyor Sir Gilbert Pecke his Chancellour, and Iohn Car, Confessor to him, with that Diuell Monke, Hopkins, that made this mischiefe 2. That was hee That fed him with his Prophecies 1. The same, All these accus'd him strongly, which he faine Would haue flung from him; but indeed he could not; And so his Peeres vpon this euidence, Haue found him guilty of high Treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly for life: But all Was either pittied in him, or forgotten 2. After all this, how did he beare himselfe? 1. When he was brought agen to th' Bar, to heare His Knell rung out, his Iudgement, he was stir'd With such an Agony, he sweat extreamly, And somthing spoke in choller, ill, and hasty: But he fell to himselfe againe, and sweetly, In all the rest shew'd a most Noble patience 2. I doe not thinke he feares death 1. Sure he does not, He neuer was so womanish, the cause He may a little grieue at 2. Certainly, The Cardinall is the end of this 1. Tis likely, By all coniectures: First Kildares Attendure; Then Deputy of Ireland, who remou'd Earle Surrey, was sent thither, and in hast too, Least he should helpe his Father 2. That tricke of State Was a deepe enuious one, 1. At his returne, No doubt he will requite it; this is noted (And generally) who euer the King fauours, The Cardnall instantly will finde imployment, And farre enough from Court too 2. All the Commons Hate him perniciously, and o' my Conscience Wish him ten faddom deepe: This Duke as much They loue and doate on: call him bounteous Buckingham, The Mirror of all courtesie. Enter Buckingham from his Arraignment, Tipstaues before him, the Axe with the edge towards him, Halberds on each side, accompanied with Sir Thomas Louell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir Walter Sands, and common people, &c. 1. Stay there Sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speake of 2. Let's stand close and behold him Buck. All good people, You that thus farre haue come to pitty me; Heare what I say, and then goe home and lose me. I haue this day receiu'd a Traitors iudgement, And by that name must dye; yet Heauen beare witnes, And if I haue a Conscience, let it sincke me, Euen as the Axe falls, if I be not faithfull. The Law I beare no mallice for my death, T'has done vpon the premises, but Iustice: But those that sought it, I could wish more Christians: (Be what they will) I heartily forgiue 'em; Yet let 'em looke they glory not in mischiefe; Nor build their euils on the graues of great men; For then, my guiltlesse blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I ne're hope, Nor will I sue, although the King haue mercies More then I dare make faults. You few that lou'd me, And dare be bold to weepe for Buckingham, His Noble Friends and Fellowes; whom to leaue Is only bitter to him, only dying: Goe with me like good Angels to my end, And as the long diuorce of Steele fals on me, Make of your Prayers one sweet Sacrifice, And lift my Soule to Heauen. Lead on a Gods name Louell. I doe beseech your Grace, for charity If euer any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgiue me frankly Buck. Sir Thomas Louell, I as free forgiue you As I would be forgiuen: I forgiue all. There cannot be those numberlesse offences Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with: No blacke Enuy shall make my Graue. Commend mee to his Grace: And if he speake of Buckingham; pray tell him, You met him halfe in Heauen: my vowes and prayers Yet are the Kings; and till my Soule forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him. May he liue Longer then I haue time to tell his yeares; Euer belou'd and louing, may his Rule be; And when old Time shall lead him to his end, Goodnesse and he, fill vp one Monument Lou. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace; Then giue my Charge vp to Sir Nicholas Vaux, Who vndertakes you to your end Vaux. Prepare there, The Duke is comming: See the Barge be ready; And fit it with such furniture as suites The Greatnesse of his Person Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my State now will but mocke me. When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable, And Duke of Buckingham: now, poore Edward Bohun; Yet I am richer then my base Accusers, That neuer knew what Truth meant: I now seale it; And with that bloud will make 'em one day groane for't. My noble Father Henry of Buckingham, Who first rais'd head against Vsurping Richard, Flying for succour to his Seruant Banister, Being distrest; was by that wretch betraid, And without Tryall, fell; Gods peace be with him. Henry the Seauenth succeeding, truly pittying My Fathers losse; like a most Royall Prince Restor'd me to my Honours: and out of ruines Made my Name once more Noble. Now his Sonne, Henry the Eight, Life, Honour, Name and all That made me happy; at one stroake ha's taken For euer from the World. I had my Tryall, And must needs say a Noble one; which makes me A little happier then my wretched Father: Yet thus farre we are one in Fortunes; both Fell by our Seruants, by those Men we lou'd most: A most vnnaturall and faithlesse Seruice. Heauen ha's an end in all: yet, you that heare me, This from a dying man receiue as certaine: Where you are liberall of your loues and Councels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends, And giue your hearts to; when they once perceiue The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, neuer found againe But where they meane to sinke ye: all good people Pray for me, I must now forsake ye; the last houre Of my long weary life is come vpon me: Farewell; and when you would say somthing that is sad, Speake how I fell. I haue done; and God forgiue me. Exeunt. Duke and Traine. 1. O, this is full of pitty; Sir, it cals I feare, too many curses on their heads That were the Authors 2. If the Duke be guiltlesse, 'Tis full of woe: yet I can giue you inckling Of an ensuing euill, if it fall, Greater then this 1. Good Angels keepe it from vs: What may it be? you doe not doubt my faith Sir? 2. This Secret is so weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceale it 1. Let me haue it: I doe not talke much 2. I am confident; You shall Sir: Did you not of late dayes heare A buzzing of a Separation Betweene the King and Katherine? 1. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumor; and allay those tongues That durst disperse it 2. But that slander Sir, Is found a truth now: for it growes agen Fresher then e're it was; and held for certaine The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinall, Or some about him neere, haue out of malice To the good Queene, possest him with a scruple That will vndoe her: To confirme this too, Cardinall Campeius is arriu'd, and lately, As all thinke for this busines 1. Tis the Cardinall; And meerely to reuenge him on the Emperour, For not bestowing on him at his asking, The Archbishopricke of Toledo, this is purpos'd 2. I thinke You haue hit the marke; but is't not cruell, That she should feele the smart of this: the Cardinall Will haue his will, and she must fall 1. 'Tis wofull. Wee are too open heere to argue this: Let's thinke in priuate more. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 1--------- Enter two Gentlemen at seuerall Doores. 1. Whether away so fast? 2. O, God saue ye: Eu'n to the Hall, to heare what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham 1. Ile saue you That labour Sir. All's now done but the Ceremony Of bringing backe the Prisoner 2. Were you there ? 1. Yes indeed was I 2. Pray speake what ha's happen'd 1. You may guesse quickly what 2. Is he found guilty? 1. Yes truely is he, And condemn'd vpon't 2. I am sorry fort 1. So are a number more 2. But pray how past it? 1. Ile tell you in a little. The great Duke Came to the Bar; where, to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty, and alleadged Many sharpe reasons to defeat the Law. The Kings Atturney on the contrary, Vrg'd on the Examinations, proofes, confessions Of diuers witnesses, which the Duke desir'd To him brought viua voce to his face; At which appear'd against him, his Surueyor Sir Gilbert Pecke his Chancellour, and Iohn Car, Confessor to him, with that Diuell Monke, Hopkins, that made this mischiefe 2. That was hee That fed him with his Prophecies 1. The same, All these accus'd him strongly, which he faine Would haue flung from him; but indeed he could not; And so his Peeres vpon this euidence, Haue found him guilty of high Treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly for life: But all Was either pittied in him, or forgotten 2. After all this, how did he beare himselfe? 1. When he was brought agen to th' Bar, to heare His Knell rung out, his Iudgement, he was stir'd With such an Agony, he sweat extreamly, And somthing spoke in choller, ill, and hasty: But he fell to himselfe againe, and sweetly, In all the rest shew'd a most Noble patience 2. I doe not thinke he feares death 1. Sure he does not, He neuer was so womanish, the cause He may a little grieue at 2. Certainly, The Cardinall is the end of this 1. Tis likely, By all coniectures: First Kildares Attendure; Then Deputy of Ireland, who remou'd Earle Surrey, was sent thither, and in hast too, Least he should helpe his Father 2. That tricke of State Was a deepe enuious one, 1. At his returne, No doubt he will requite it; this is noted (And generally) who euer the King fauours, The Cardnall instantly will finde imployment, And farre enough from Court too 2. All the Commons Hate him perniciously, and o' my Conscience Wish him ten faddom deepe: This Duke as much They loue and doate on: call him bounteous Buckingham, The Mirror of all courtesie. Enter Buckingham from his Arraignment, Tipstaues before him, the Axe with the edge towards him, Halberds on each side, accompanied with Sir Thomas Louell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir Walter Sands, and common people, &c. 1. Stay there Sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speake of 2. Let's stand close and behold him Buck. All good people, You that thus farre haue come to pitty me; Heare what I say, and then goe home and lose me. I haue this day receiu'd a Traitors iudgement, And by that name must dye; yet Heauen beare witnes, And if I haue a Conscience, let it sincke me, Euen as the Axe falls, if I be not faithfull. The Law I beare no mallice for my death, T'has done vpon the premises, but Iustice: But those that sought it, I could wish more Christians: (Be what they will) I heartily forgiue 'em; Yet let 'em looke they glory not in mischiefe; Nor build their euils on the graues of great men; For then, my guiltlesse blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I ne're hope, Nor will I sue, although the King haue mercies More then I dare make faults. You few that lou'd me, And dare be bold to weepe for Buckingham, His Noble Friends and Fellowes; whom to leaue Is only bitter to him, only dying: Goe with me like good Angels to my end, And as the long diuorce of Steele fals on me, Make of your Prayers one sweet Sacrifice, And lift my Soule to Heauen. Lead on a Gods name Louell. I doe beseech your Grace, for charity If euer any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgiue me frankly Buck. Sir Thomas Louell, I as free forgiue you As I would be forgiuen: I forgiue all. There cannot be those numberlesse offences Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with: No blacke Enuy shall make my Graue. Commend mee to his Grace: And if he speake of Buckingham; pray tell him, You met him halfe in Heauen: my vowes and prayers Yet are the Kings; and till my Soule forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him. May he liue Longer then I haue time to tell his yeares; Euer belou'd and louing, may his Rule be; And when old Time shall lead him to his end, Goodnesse and he, fill vp one Monument Lou. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace; Then giue my Charge vp to Sir Nicholas Vaux, Who vndertakes you to your end Vaux. Prepare there, The Duke is comming: See the Barge be ready; And fit it with such furniture as suites The Greatnesse of his Person Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my State now will but mocke me. When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable, And Duke of Buckingham: now, poore Edward Bohun; Yet I am richer then my base Accusers, That neuer knew what Truth meant: I now seale it; And with that bloud will make 'em one day groane for't. My noble Father Henry of Buckingham, Who first rais'd head against Vsurping Richard, Flying for succour to his Seruant Banister, Being distrest; was by that wretch betraid, And without Tryall, fell; Gods peace be with him. Henry the Seauenth succeeding, truly pittying My Fathers losse; like a most Royall Prince Restor'd me to my Honours: and out of ruines Made my Name once more Noble. Now his Sonne, Henry the Eight, Life, Honour, Name and all That made me happy; at one stroake ha's taken For euer from the World. I had my Tryall, And must needs say a Noble one; which makes me A little happier then my wretched Father: Yet thus farre we are one in Fortunes; both Fell by our Seruants, by those Men we lou'd most: A most vnnaturall and faithlesse Seruice. Heauen ha's an end in all: yet, you that heare me, This from a dying man receiue as certaine: Where you are liberall of your loues and Councels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends, And giue your hearts to; when they once perceiue The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, neuer found againe But where they meane to sinke ye: all good people Pray for me, I must now forsake ye; the last houre Of my long weary life is come vpon me: Farewell; and when you would say somthing that is sad, Speake how I fell. I haue done; and God forgiue me. Exeunt. Duke and Traine. 1. O, this is full of pitty; Sir, it cals I feare, too many curses on their heads That were the Authors 2. If the Duke be guiltlesse, 'Tis full of woe: yet I can giue you inckling Of an ensuing euill, if it fall, Greater then this 1. Good Angels keepe it from vs: What may it be? you doe not doubt my faith Sir? 2. This Secret is so weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceale it 1. Let me haue it: I doe not talke much 2. I am confident; You shall Sir: Did you not of late dayes heare A buzzing of a Separation Betweene the King and Katherine? 1. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumor; and allay those tongues That durst disperse it 2. But that slander Sir, Is found a truth now: for it growes agen Fresher then e're it was; and held for certaine The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinall, Or some about him neere, haue out of malice To the good Queene, possest him with a scruple That will vndoe her: To confirme this too, Cardinall Campeius is arriu'd, and lately, As all thinke for this busines 1. Tis the Cardinall; And meerely to reuenge him on the Emperour, For not bestowing on him at his asking, The Archbishopricke of Toledo, this is purpos'd 2. I thinke You haue hit the marke; but is't not cruell, That she should feele the smart of this: the Cardinall Will haue his will, and she must fall 1. 'Tis wofull. Wee are too open heere to argue this: Let's thinke in priuate more. Exeunt. ----------ACT 2 SCENE 1--------- Enter two Gentlemen at seuerall Doores. 1. Whether away so fast? 2. O, God saue ye: Eu'n to the Hall, to heare what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham 1. Ile saue you That labour Sir. All's now done but the Ceremony Of bringing backe the Prisoner 2. Were you there ? 1. Yes indeed was I 2. Pray speake what ha's happen'd 1. You may guesse quickly what 2. Is he found guilty? 1. Yes truely is he, And condemn'd vpon't 2. I am sorry fort 1. So are a number more 2. But pray how past it? 1. Ile tell you in a little. The great Duke Came to the Bar; where, to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty, and alleadged Many sharpe reasons to defeat the Law. The Kings Atturney on the contrary, Vrg'd on the Examinations, proofes, confessions Of diuers witnesses, which the Duke desir'd To him brought viua voce to his face; At which appear'd against him, his Surueyor Sir Gilbert Pecke his Chancellour, and Iohn Car, Confessor to him, with that Diuell Monke, Hopkins, that made this mischiefe 2. That was hee That fed him with his Prophecies 1. The same, All these accus'd him strongly, which he faine Would haue flung from him; but indeed he could not; And so his Peeres vpon this euidence, Haue found him guilty of high Treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly for life: But all Was either pittied in him, or forgotten 2. After all this, how did he beare himselfe? 1. When he was brought agen to th' Bar, to heare His Knell rung out, his Iudgement, he was stir'd With such an Agony, he sweat extreamly, And somthing spoke in choller, ill, and hasty: But he fell to himselfe againe, and sweetly, In all the rest shew'd a most Noble patience 2. I doe not thinke he feares death 1. Sure he does not, He neuer was so womanish, the cause He may a little grieue at 2. Certainly, The Cardinall is the end of this 1. Tis likely, By all coniectures: First Kildares Attendure; Then Deputy of Ireland, who remou'd Earle Surrey, was sent thither, and in hast too, Least he should helpe his Father 2. That tricke of State Was a deepe enuious one, 1. At his returne, No doubt he will requite it; this is noted (And generally) who euer the King fauours, The Cardnall instantly will finde imployment, And farre enough from Court too 2. All the Commons Hate him perniciously, and o' my Conscience Wish him ten faddom deepe: This Duke as much They loue and doate on: call him bounteous Buckingham, The Mirror of all courtesie. Enter Buckingham from his Arraignment, Tipstaues before him, the Axe with the edge towards him, Halberds on each side, accompanied with Sir Thomas Louell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir Walter Sands, and common people, &c. 1. Stay there Sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speake of 2. Let's stand close and behold him Buck. All good people, You that thus farre haue come to pitty me; Heare what I say, and then goe home and lose me. I haue this day receiu'd a Traitors iudgement, And by that name must dye; yet Heauen beare witnes, And if I haue a Conscience, let it sincke me, Euen as the Axe falls, if I be not faithfull. The Law I beare no mallice for my death, T'has done vpon the premises, but Iustice: But those that sought it, I could wish more Christians: (Be what they will) I heartily forgiue 'em; Yet let 'em looke they glory not in mischiefe; Nor build their euils on the graues of great men; For then, my guiltlesse blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I ne're hope, Nor will I sue, although the King haue mercies More then I dare make faults. You few that lou'd me, And dare be bold to weepe for Buckingham, His Noble Friends and Fellowes; whom to leaue Is only bitter to him, only dying: Goe with me like good Angels to my end, And as the long diuorce of Steele fals on me, Make of your Prayers one sweet Sacrifice, And lift my Soule to Heauen. Lead on a Gods name Louell. I doe beseech your Grace, for charity If euer any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgiue me frankly Buck. Sir Thomas Louell, I as free forgiue you As I would be forgiuen: I forgiue all. There cannot be those numberlesse offences Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with: No blacke Enuy shall make my Graue. Commend mee to his Grace: And if he speake of Buckingham; pray tell him, You met him halfe in Heauen: my vowes and prayers Yet are the Kings; and till my Soule forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him. May he liue Longer then I haue time to tell his yeares; Euer belou'd and louing, may his Rule be; And when old Time shall lead him to his end, Goodnesse and he, fill vp one Monument Lou. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace; Then giue my Charge vp to Sir Nicholas Vaux, Who vndertakes you to your end Vaux. Prepare there, The Duke is comming: See the Barge be ready; And fit it with such furniture as suites The Greatnesse of his Person Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my State now will but mocke me. When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable, And Duke of Buckingham: now, poore Edward Bohun; Yet I am richer then my base Accusers, That neuer knew what Truth meant: I now seale it; And with that bloud will make 'em one day groane for't. My noble Father Henry of Buckingham, Who first rais'd head against Vsurping Richard, Flying for succour to his Seruant Banister, Being distrest; was by that wretch betraid, And without Tryall, fell; Gods peace be with him. Henry the Seauenth succeeding, truly pittying My Fathers losse; like a most Royall Prince Restor'd me to my Honours: and out of ruines Made my Name once more Noble. Now his Sonne, Henry the Eight, Life, Honour, Name and all That made me happy; at one stroake ha's taken For euer from the World. I had my Tryall, And must needs say a Noble one; which makes me A little happier then my wretched Father: Yet thus farre we are one in Fortunes; both Fell by our Seruants, by those Men we lou'd most: A most vnnaturall and faithlesse Seruice. Heauen ha's an end in all: yet, you that heare me, This from a dying man receiue as certaine: Where you are liberall of your loues and Councels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends, And giue your hearts to; when they once perceiue The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, neuer found againe But where they meane to sinke ye: all good people Pray for me, I must now forsake ye; the last houre Of my long weary life is come vpon me: Farewell; and when you would say somthing that is sad, Speake how I fell. I haue done; and God forgiue me. Exeunt. Duke and Traine. 1. O, this is full of pitty; Sir, it cals I feare, too many curses on their heads That were the Authors 2. If the Duke be guiltlesse, 'Tis full of woe: yet I can giue you inckling Of an ensuing euill, if it fall, Greater then this 1. Good Angels keepe it from vs: What may it be? you doe not doubt my faith Sir? 2. This Secret is so weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceale it 1. Let me haue it: I doe not talke much 2. I am confident; You shall Sir: Did you not of late dayes heare A buzzing of a Separation Betweene the King and Katherine? 1. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumor; and allay those tongues That durst disperse it 2. But that slander Sir, Is found a truth now: for it growes agen Fresher then e're it was; and held for certaine The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinall, Or some about him neere, haue out of malice To the good Queene, possest him with a scruple That will vndoe her: To confirme this too, Cardinall Campeius is arriu'd, and lately, As all thinke for this busines 1. Tis the Cardinall; And meerely to reuenge him on the Emperour, For not bestowing on him at his asking, The Archbishopricke of Toledo, this is purpos'd 2. I thinke You haue hit the marke; but is't not cruell, That she should feele the smart of this: the Cardinall Will haue his will, and she must fall 1. 'Tis wofull. Wee are too open heere to argue this: Let's thinke in priuate more. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 2.scene 2

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 2 scene 2 with the given context.

The Lord Chamberlain is reading a letter from one of his employees. The letter tells how Wolsey's man stole some horses from him that he had purchased on the Lord Chamberlain's behalf, declaring that his master should have them, rather than a mere subject, or even the king himself. The Lord Chamberlain believes that Wolsey will take everything from the nobles to enrich himself. The Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk enter. Suffolk asks after the king, and the Lord Chamberlain says he is troubled in his conscience because he married his brother's wife . Suffolk privately thinks that it is less a matter of conscience than the king's attraction to another woman . Norfolk says this is Wolsey's doing. He is amazed that Wolsey has so efficiently managed to break the alliance between Charles V and King Henry, and to make the King doubt the legality of his marriage of twenty years to his loving and virtuous wife, Katherine. The Lord Chamberlain says that people everywhere are talking of this, and that they are sad at the news. He says that Wolsey has engineered the situation in order to arrange a marriage between King Henry and the French king's sister. He predicts that one day, God will open the king's eyes so that he can see Wolsey for who he is. Norfolk and Suffolk agree that Wolsey is too proud. Norfolk and Suffolk visit the king, with the aim of distracting him from his sad thoughts. When they find him, he is angry at being disturbed. Then Wolsey comes in with Campeius. The king welcomes Wolsey as "The quiet of my wounded conscience" . Wolsey asks the king to give him and Campeius an hour of private conference. The king abruptly dismisses Norfolk and Suffolk. As they leave, they mutter threateningly about Wolsey. Wolsey tells the king that no one could object to his separating from Katherine because the king has consulted all the learned clergy of Christendom, including the Pope, who has sent Campeius as his envoy. The king agrees that Katherine should have the best scholars to argue for her. He asks for Gardiner, his new secretary, who was previously employed by Wolsey, to be sent in. As Gardiner enters, he assures Wolsey, in an aside, that his loyalty is still to him. Campeius asks Wolsey about Dr Pace, the man who occupied Gardiner's position before him. Campeius tells Wolsey that there are rumors that Wolsey was envious of him and kept him in foreign posts until he went mad with grief and died. Wolsey dismisses Pace as a virtuous fool. The king says that he will go to Blackfriars to announce his decision to leave Katherine. He is sorry to leave "so sweet a bedfellow," but his conscience demands it.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- Enter Lord Chamberlaine, reading this Letter. My Lord, the Horses your Lordship sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the North. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinalls, by Commission, and maine power tooke 'em from me, with this reason: his maister would bee seru'd before a Subiect, if not before the King, which stop'd our mouthes Sir. I feare he will indeede; well, let him haue them; hee will haue all I thinke. Enter to the Lord Chamberlaine, the Dukes of Norfolke and Suffolke. Norf. Well met my Lord Chamberlaine Cham. Good day to both your Graces Suff. How is the King imployd? Cham. I left him priuate, Full of sad thoughts and troubles Norf. What's the cause? Cham. It seemes the Marriage with his Brothers Wife Ha's crept too neere his Conscience Suff. No, his Conscience Ha's crept too neere another Ladie Norf. Tis so; This is the Cardinals doing: The King-Cardinall, That blinde Priest, like the eldest Sonne of Fortune, Turnes what he list. The King will know him one day Suff. Pray God he doe, Hee'l neuer know himselfe else Norf. How holily he workes in all his businesse, And with what zeale? For now he has crackt the League Between vs & the Emperor (the Queens great Nephew) He diues into the Kings Soule, and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the Conscience, Feares, and despaires, and all these for his Marriage. And out of all these, to restore the King, He counsels a Diuorce, a losse of her That like a Iewell, ha's hung twenty yeares About his necke, yet neuer lost her lustre; Of her that loues him with that excellence, That Angels loue good men with: Euen of her, That when the greatest stroake of Fortune falls Will blesse the King: and is not this course pious? Cham. Heauen keep me from such councel: tis most true These newes are euery where, euery tongue speaks 'em, And euery true heart weepes for't. All that dare Looke into these affaires, see this maine end, The French Kings Sister. Heauen will one day open The Kings eyes, that so long haue slept vpon This bold bad man Suff. And free vs from his slauery Norf. We had need pray, And heartily, for our deliuerance; Or this imperious man will worke vs all From Princes into Pages: all mens honours Lie like one lumpe before him, to be fashion'd Into what pitch he please Suff. For me, my Lords, I loue him not, nor feare him, there's my Creede: As I am made without him, so Ile stand, If the King please: his Curses and his blessings Touch me alike: th'are breath I not beleeue in. I knew him, and I know him: so I leaue him To him that made him proud; the Pope Norf. Let's in; And with some other busines, put the King From these sad thoughts, that work too much vpon him: My Lord, youle beare vs company? Cham. Excuse me, The King ha's sent me otherwhere: Besides You'l finde a most vnfit time to disturbe him: Health to your Lordships Norfolke. Thankes my good Lord Chamberlaine. Exit Lord Chamberlaine, and the King drawes the Curtaine and sits reading pensiuely. Suff. How sad he lookes; sure he is much afflicted Kin. Who's there? Ha? Norff. Pray God he be not angry Kin. Who's there I say? How dare you thrust your selues Into my priuate Meditations? Who am I? Ha? Norff. A gracious King, that pardons all offences Malice ne're meant: Our breach of Duty this way, Is businesse of Estate; in which, we come To know your Royall pleasure Kin. Ye are too bold: Go too; Ile make ye know your times of businesse: Is this an howre for temporall affaires? Ha? Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a Commission. Who's there? my good Lord Cardinall? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded Conscience; Thou art a cure fit for a King; you'r welcome Most learned Reuerend Sir, into our Kingdome, Vse vs, and it: My good Lord, haue great care, I be not found a Talker Wol. Sir, you cannot; I would your Grace would giue vs but an houre Of priuate conference Kin. We are busie; goe Norff. This Priest ha's no pride in him? Suff. Not to speake of: I would not be so sicke though for his place: But this cannot continue Norff. If it doe, Ile venture one; haue at him Suff. I another. Exeunt. Norfolke and Suffolke. Wol. Your Grace ha's giuen a President of wisedome Aboue all Princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voyce of Christendome: Who can be angry now? What Enuy reach you? The Spaniard tide by blood and fauour to her, Must now confesse, if they haue any goodnesse, The Tryall, iust and Noble. All the Clerkes, (I meane the learned ones in Christian Kingdomes) Haue their free voyces. Rome (the Nurse of Iudgement) Inuited by your Noble selfe, hath sent One generall Tongue vnto vs. This good man, This iust and learned Priest, Cardnall Campeius, Whom once more, I present vnto your Highnesse Kin. And once more in mine armes I bid him welcome, And thanke the holy Conclaue for their loues, They haue sent me such a Man, I would haue wish'd for Cam. Your Grace must needs deserue all strangers loues, You are so Noble: To your Highnesse hand I tender my Commission; by whose vertue, The Court of Rome commanding. You my Lord Cardinall of Yorke, are ioyn'd with me their Seruant, In the vnpartiall iudging of this Businesse Kin. Two equall men: The Queene shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? Wol. I know your Maiesty, ha's alwayes lou'd her So deare in heart, not to deny her that A Woman of lesse Place might aske by Law; Schollers allow'd freely to argue for her Kin. I, and the best she shall haue; and my fauour To him that does best, God forbid els: Cardinall, Prethee call Gardiner to me, my new Secretary. I find him a fit fellow. Enter Gardiner. Wol. Giue me your hand: much ioy & fauour to you; You are the Kings now Gard. But to be commanded For euer by your Grace, whose hand ha's rais'd me Kin. Come hither Gardiner. Walkes and whispers. Camp. My Lord of Yorke, was not one Doctor Pace In this mans place before him? Wol. Yes, he was Camp. Was he not held a learned man? Wol. Yes surely Camp. Beleeue me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Euen of your selfe Lord Cardinall Wol. How? of me? Camp. They will not sticke to say, you enuide him; And fearing he would rise (he was so vertuous) Kept him a forraigne man still, which so greeu'd him, That he ran mad, and dide Wol. Heau'ns peace be with him: That's Christian care enough: for liuing Murmurers, There's places of rebuke. He was a Foole; For he would needs be vertuous. That good Fellow, If I command him followes my appointment, I will haue none so neere els. Learne this Brother, We liue not to be grip'd by meaner persons Kin. Deliuer this with modesty to th' Queene. Exit Gardiner. The most conuenient place, that I can thinke of For such receipt of Learning, is Black-Fryers: There ye shall meete about this waighty busines. My Wolsey, see it furnish'd, O my Lord, Would it not grieue an able man to leaue So sweet a Bedfellow? But Conscience, Conscience; O 'tis a tender place, and I must leaue her. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 2--------- Enter Lord Chamberlaine, reading this Letter. My Lord, the Horses your Lordship sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the North. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinalls, by Commission, and maine power tooke 'em from me, with this reason: his maister would bee seru'd before a Subiect, if not before the King, which stop'd our mouthes Sir. I feare he will indeede; well, let him haue them; hee will haue all I thinke. Enter to the Lord Chamberlaine, the Dukes of Norfolke and Suffolke. Norf. Well met my Lord Chamberlaine Cham. Good day to both your Graces Suff. How is the King imployd? Cham. I left him priuate, Full of sad thoughts and troubles Norf. What's the cause? Cham. It seemes the Marriage with his Brothers Wife Ha's crept too neere his Conscience Suff. No, his Conscience Ha's crept too neere another Ladie Norf. Tis so; This is the Cardinals doing: The King-Cardinall, That blinde Priest, like the eldest Sonne of Fortune, Turnes what he list. The King will know him one day Suff. Pray God he doe, Hee'l neuer know himselfe else Norf. How holily he workes in all his businesse, And with what zeale? For now he has crackt the League Between vs & the Emperor (the Queens great Nephew) He diues into the Kings Soule, and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the Conscience, Feares, and despaires, and all these for his Marriage. And out of all these, to restore the King, He counsels a Diuorce, a losse of her That like a Iewell, ha's hung twenty yeares About his necke, yet neuer lost her lustre; Of her that loues him with that excellence, That Angels loue good men with: Euen of her, That when the greatest stroake of Fortune falls Will blesse the King: and is not this course pious? Cham. Heauen keep me from such councel: tis most true These newes are euery where, euery tongue speaks 'em, And euery true heart weepes for't. All that dare Looke into these affaires, see this maine end, The French Kings Sister. Heauen will one day open The Kings eyes, that so long haue slept vpon This bold bad man Suff. And free vs from his slauery Norf. We had need pray, And heartily, for our deliuerance; Or this imperious man will worke vs all From Princes into Pages: all mens honours Lie like one lumpe before him, to be fashion'd Into what pitch he please Suff. For me, my Lords, I loue him not, nor feare him, there's my Creede: As I am made without him, so Ile stand, If the King please: his Curses and his blessings Touch me alike: th'are breath I not beleeue in. I knew him, and I know him: so I leaue him To him that made him proud; the Pope Norf. Let's in; And with some other busines, put the King From these sad thoughts, that work too much vpon him: My Lord, youle beare vs company? Cham. Excuse me, The King ha's sent me otherwhere: Besides You'l finde a most vnfit time to disturbe him: Health to your Lordships Norfolke. Thankes my good Lord Chamberlaine. Exit Lord Chamberlaine, and the King drawes the Curtaine and sits reading pensiuely. Suff. How sad he lookes; sure he is much afflicted Kin. Who's there? Ha? Norff. Pray God he be not angry Kin. Who's there I say? How dare you thrust your selues Into my priuate Meditations? Who am I? Ha? Norff. A gracious King, that pardons all offences Malice ne're meant: Our breach of Duty this way, Is businesse of Estate; in which, we come To know your Royall pleasure Kin. Ye are too bold: Go too; Ile make ye know your times of businesse: Is this an howre for temporall affaires? Ha? Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a Commission. Who's there? my good Lord Cardinall? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded Conscience; Thou art a cure fit for a King; you'r welcome Most learned Reuerend Sir, into our Kingdome, Vse vs, and it: My good Lord, haue great care, I be not found a Talker Wol. Sir, you cannot; I would your Grace would giue vs but an houre Of priuate conference Kin. We are busie; goe Norff. This Priest ha's no pride in him? Suff. Not to speake of: I would not be so sicke though for his place: But this cannot continue Norff. If it doe, Ile venture one; haue at him Suff. I another. Exeunt. Norfolke and Suffolke. Wol. Your Grace ha's giuen a President of wisedome Aboue all Princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voyce of Christendome: Who can be angry now? What Enuy reach you? The Spaniard tide by blood and fauour to her, Must now confesse, if they haue any goodnesse, The Tryall, iust and Noble. All the Clerkes, (I meane the learned ones in Christian Kingdomes) Haue their free voyces. Rome (the Nurse of Iudgement) Inuited by your Noble selfe, hath sent One generall Tongue vnto vs. This good man, This iust and learned Priest, Cardnall Campeius, Whom once more, I present vnto your Highnesse Kin. And once more in mine armes I bid him welcome, And thanke the holy Conclaue for their loues, They haue sent me such a Man, I would haue wish'd for Cam. Your Grace must needs deserue all strangers loues, You are so Noble: To your Highnesse hand I tender my Commission; by whose vertue, The Court of Rome commanding. You my Lord Cardinall of Yorke, are ioyn'd with me their Seruant, In the vnpartiall iudging of this Businesse Kin. Two equall men: The Queene shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? Wol. I know your Maiesty, ha's alwayes lou'd her So deare in heart, not to deny her that A Woman of lesse Place might aske by Law; Schollers allow'd freely to argue for her Kin. I, and the best she shall haue; and my fauour To him that does best, God forbid els: Cardinall, Prethee call Gardiner to me, my new Secretary. I find him a fit fellow. Enter Gardiner. Wol. Giue me your hand: much ioy & fauour to you; You are the Kings now Gard. But to be commanded For euer by your Grace, whose hand ha's rais'd me Kin. Come hither Gardiner. Walkes and whispers. Camp. My Lord of Yorke, was not one Doctor Pace In this mans place before him? Wol. Yes, he was Camp. Was he not held a learned man? Wol. Yes surely Camp. Beleeue me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Euen of your selfe Lord Cardinall Wol. How? of me? Camp. They will not sticke to say, you enuide him; And fearing he would rise (he was so vertuous) Kept him a forraigne man still, which so greeu'd him, That he ran mad, and dide Wol. Heau'ns peace be with him: That's Christian care enough: for liuing Murmurers, There's places of rebuke. He was a Foole; For he would needs be vertuous. That good Fellow, If I command him followes my appointment, I will haue none so neere els. Learne this Brother, We liue not to be grip'd by meaner persons Kin. Deliuer this with modesty to th' Queene. Exit Gardiner. The most conuenient place, that I can thinke of For such receipt of Learning, is Black-Fryers: There ye shall meete about this waighty busines. My Wolsey, see it furnish'd, O my Lord, Would it not grieue an able man to leaue So sweet a Bedfellow? But Conscience, Conscience; O 'tis a tender place, and I must leaue her. Exeunt. ----------ACT 2 SCENE 2--------- Enter Lord Chamberlaine, reading this Letter. My Lord, the Horses your Lordship sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the North. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinalls, by Commission, and maine power tooke 'em from me, with this reason: his maister would bee seru'd before a Subiect, if not before the King, which stop'd our mouthes Sir. I feare he will indeede; well, let him haue them; hee will haue all I thinke. Enter to the Lord Chamberlaine, the Dukes of Norfolke and Suffolke. Norf. Well met my Lord Chamberlaine Cham. Good day to both your Graces Suff. How is the King imployd? Cham. I left him priuate, Full of sad thoughts and troubles Norf. What's the cause? Cham. It seemes the Marriage with his Brothers Wife Ha's crept too neere his Conscience Suff. No, his Conscience Ha's crept too neere another Ladie Norf. Tis so; This is the Cardinals doing: The King-Cardinall, That blinde Priest, like the eldest Sonne of Fortune, Turnes what he list. The King will know him one day Suff. Pray God he doe, Hee'l neuer know himselfe else Norf. How holily he workes in all his businesse, And with what zeale? For now he has crackt the League Between vs & the Emperor (the Queens great Nephew) He diues into the Kings Soule, and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the Conscience, Feares, and despaires, and all these for his Marriage. And out of all these, to restore the King, He counsels a Diuorce, a losse of her That like a Iewell, ha's hung twenty yeares About his necke, yet neuer lost her lustre; Of her that loues him with that excellence, That Angels loue good men with: Euen of her, That when the greatest stroake of Fortune falls Will blesse the King: and is not this course pious? Cham. Heauen keep me from such councel: tis most true These newes are euery where, euery tongue speaks 'em, And euery true heart weepes for't. All that dare Looke into these affaires, see this maine end, The French Kings Sister. Heauen will one day open The Kings eyes, that so long haue slept vpon This bold bad man Suff. And free vs from his slauery Norf. We had need pray, And heartily, for our deliuerance; Or this imperious man will worke vs all From Princes into Pages: all mens honours Lie like one lumpe before him, to be fashion'd Into what pitch he please Suff. For me, my Lords, I loue him not, nor feare him, there's my Creede: As I am made without him, so Ile stand, If the King please: his Curses and his blessings Touch me alike: th'are breath I not beleeue in. I knew him, and I know him: so I leaue him To him that made him proud; the Pope Norf. Let's in; And with some other busines, put the King From these sad thoughts, that work too much vpon him: My Lord, youle beare vs company? Cham. Excuse me, The King ha's sent me otherwhere: Besides You'l finde a most vnfit time to disturbe him: Health to your Lordships Norfolke. Thankes my good Lord Chamberlaine. Exit Lord Chamberlaine, and the King drawes the Curtaine and sits reading pensiuely. Suff. How sad he lookes; sure he is much afflicted Kin. Who's there? Ha? Norff. Pray God he be not angry Kin. Who's there I say? How dare you thrust your selues Into my priuate Meditations? Who am I? Ha? Norff. A gracious King, that pardons all offences Malice ne're meant: Our breach of Duty this way, Is businesse of Estate; in which, we come To know your Royall pleasure Kin. Ye are too bold: Go too; Ile make ye know your times of businesse: Is this an howre for temporall affaires? Ha? Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a Commission. Who's there? my good Lord Cardinall? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded Conscience; Thou art a cure fit for a King; you'r welcome Most learned Reuerend Sir, into our Kingdome, Vse vs, and it: My good Lord, haue great care, I be not found a Talker Wol. Sir, you cannot; I would your Grace would giue vs but an houre Of priuate conference Kin. We are busie; goe Norff. This Priest ha's no pride in him? Suff. Not to speake of: I would not be so sicke though for his place: But this cannot continue Norff. If it doe, Ile venture one; haue at him Suff. I another. Exeunt. Norfolke and Suffolke. Wol. Your Grace ha's giuen a President of wisedome Aboue all Princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voyce of Christendome: Who can be angry now? What Enuy reach you? The Spaniard tide by blood and fauour to her, Must now confesse, if they haue any goodnesse, The Tryall, iust and Noble. All the Clerkes, (I meane the learned ones in Christian Kingdomes) Haue their free voyces. Rome (the Nurse of Iudgement) Inuited by your Noble selfe, hath sent One generall Tongue vnto vs. This good man, This iust and learned Priest, Cardnall Campeius, Whom once more, I present vnto your Highnesse Kin. And once more in mine armes I bid him welcome, And thanke the holy Conclaue for their loues, They haue sent me such a Man, I would haue wish'd for Cam. Your Grace must needs deserue all strangers loues, You are so Noble: To your Highnesse hand I tender my Commission; by whose vertue, The Court of Rome commanding. You my Lord Cardinall of Yorke, are ioyn'd with me their Seruant, In the vnpartiall iudging of this Businesse Kin. Two equall men: The Queene shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? Wol. I know your Maiesty, ha's alwayes lou'd her So deare in heart, not to deny her that A Woman of lesse Place might aske by Law; Schollers allow'd freely to argue for her Kin. I, and the best she shall haue; and my fauour To him that does best, God forbid els: Cardinall, Prethee call Gardiner to me, my new Secretary. I find him a fit fellow. Enter Gardiner. Wol. Giue me your hand: much ioy & fauour to you; You are the Kings now Gard. But to be commanded For euer by your Grace, whose hand ha's rais'd me Kin. Come hither Gardiner. Walkes and whispers. Camp. My Lord of Yorke, was not one Doctor Pace In this mans place before him? Wol. Yes, he was Camp. Was he not held a learned man? Wol. Yes surely Camp. Beleeue me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Euen of your selfe Lord Cardinall Wol. How? of me? Camp. They will not sticke to say, you enuide him; And fearing he would rise (he was so vertuous) Kept him a forraigne man still, which so greeu'd him, That he ran mad, and dide Wol. Heau'ns peace be with him: That's Christian care enough: for liuing Murmurers, There's places of rebuke. He was a Foole; For he would needs be vertuous. That good Fellow, If I command him followes my appointment, I will haue none so neere els. Learne this Brother, We liue not to be grip'd by meaner persons Kin. Deliuer this with modesty to th' Queene. Exit Gardiner. The most conuenient place, that I can thinke of For such receipt of Learning, is Black-Fryers: There ye shall meete about this waighty busines. My Wolsey, see it furnish'd, O my Lord, Would it not grieue an able man to leaue So sweet a Bedfellow? But Conscience, Conscience; O 'tis a tender place, and I must leaue her. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 2.scene 3

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 2 scene 3 based on the provided context.

Anne Bullen tells the Old Lady how sad it is to think of so good a lady as Katherine being put aside after so many years as queen. She thinks it is better to be low-born and never to have known power than to lose it in this way. She says that she would not want to be a queen. The Old Lady says she is being hypocritical, as it is natural to enjoy wealth and power. While Anne insists that she would not be queen "for all the riches under heaven," the Old Lady says she herself would be queen for a few pennies. The Old Lady asks Anne if she would be strong enough to be a duchess. Anne says no. The Old Lady teases her by saying that in that case, she would not be strong enough to bear a male child. The Lord Chamberlain comes in and tells Anne that the king's high opinion of her has led him to make her Marchioness of Pembroke and give her a thousand pounds a year. Anne says that she can only offer her thanks in return, and that she prays for the king. As the Lord Chamberlain is leaving, he notes Anne's beauty and honor in an aside to the audience, and says that she may produce an heir for the king. The Old Lady says that she has been at court for sixteen years and never gained any advantage from it, whereas Anne has been given all she could wish for without having to try. The Old Lady reminds Anne that she did not want to be a queen. She is incredulous that the king is honoring Anne so highly just out of respect, and wonders if any other obligation is involved. She thinks that perhaps Anne feels strong enough now to be a duchess. Anne wonders what will happen next. She asks the Old Lady not to tell Katherine about her new title, and goes off to comfort her.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 3--------- Enter Anne Bullen, and an old Lady. An. Not for that neither; here's the pang that pinches. His Highnesse, hauing liu'd so long with her, and she So good a Lady, that no Tongue could euer Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, She neuer knew harme-doing: Oh, now after So many courses of the Sun enthroaned, Still growing in a Maiesty and pompe, the which To leaue, a thousand fold more bitter, then 'Tis sweet at first t' acquire. After this Processe. To giue her the auaunt, it is a pitty Would moue a Monster Old La. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her An. Oh Gods will, much better She ne're had knowne pompe; though't be temporall, Yet if that quarrell. Fortune, do diuorce It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging As soule and bodies seuering Old L. Alas poore Lady, Shee's a stranger now againe An. So much the more Must pitty drop vpon her; verily I sweare, tis better to be lowly borne, And range with humble liuers in Content, Then to be perk'd vp in a glistring griefe, And weare a golden sorrow Old L. Our content Is our best hauing Anne. By my troth, and Maidenhead, I would not be a Queene Old.L. Beshrew me, I would, And venture Maidenhead for't, and so would you For all this spice of your Hipocrisie: You that haue so faire parts of Woman on you, Haue (too) a Womans heart, which euer yet Affected Eminence, Wealth, Soueraignty; Which, to say sooth, are Blessings; and which guifts (Sauing your mincing) the capacity Of your soft Chiuerell Conscience, would receiue, If you might please to stretch it Anne. Nay, good troth Old L. Yes troth, & troth; you would not be a Queen? Anne. No, not for all the riches vnder Heauen Old.L. Tis strange; a threepence bow'd would hire me Old as I am, to Queene it: but I pray you, What thinke you of a Dutchesse? Haue you limbs To beare that load of Title? An. No in truth Old.L. Then you are weakly made; plucke off a little, I would not be a young Count in your way, For more then blushing comes to: If your backe Cannot vouchsafe this burthen, tis too weake Euer to get a Boy An. How you doe talke; I sweare againe, I would not be a Queene, For all the world Old.L. In faith, for little England You'ld venture an emballing: I my selfe Would for Carnaruanshire, although there long'd No more to th' Crowne but that: Lo, who comes here? Enter Lord Chamberlaine. L.Cham. Good morrow Ladies; what wer't worth to know The secret of your conference? An. My good Lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking: Our Mistris Sorrowes we were pittying Cham. It was a gentle businesse, and becomming The action of good women, there is hope All will be well An. Now I pray God, Amen Cham. You beare a gentle minde, & heau'nly blessings Follow such Creatures. That you may, faire Lady Perceiue I speake sincerely, and high notes Tane of your many vertues; the Kings Maiesty Commends his good opinion of you, to you; and Doe's purpose honour to you no lesse flowing, Then Marchionesse of Pembrooke; to which Title, A Thousand pound a yeare, Annuall support, Out of his Grace, he addes An. I doe not know What kinde of my obedience, I should tender; More then my All, is Nothing: Nor my Prayers Are not words duely hallowed; nor my Wishes More worth, then empty vanities: yet Prayers & Wishes Are all I can returne. 'Beseech your Lordship, Vouchsafe to speake my thankes, and my obedience, As from a blushing Handmaid, to his Highnesse; Whose health and Royalty I pray for Cham. Lady; I shall not faile t' approue the faire conceit The King hath of you. I haue perus'd her well, Beauty and Honour in her are so mingled, That they haue caught the King: and who knowes yet But from this Lady, may proceed a Iemme, To lighten all this Ile. I'le to the King, And say I spoke with you. Exit Lord Chamberlaine. An. My honour'd Lord Old.L. Why this it is: See, see, I haue beene begging sixteene yeares in Court (Am yet a Courtier beggerly) nor could Come pat betwixt too early, and too late For any suit of pounds: and you, (oh fate) A very fresh Fish heere; fye, fye, fye vpon This compel'd fortune: haue your mouth fild vp, Before you open it An. This is strange to me Old L. How tasts it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no: There was a Lady once (tis an old Story) That would not be a Queene, that would she not For all the mud in Egypt; haue you heard it? An. Come you are pleasant Old.L. With your Theame, I could O're-mount the Larke: The Marchionesse of Pembrooke? A thousand pounds a yeare, for pure respect? No other obligation? by my Life, That promises mo thousands: Honours traine Is longer then his fore-skirt; by this time I know your backe will beare a Dutchesse. Say, Are you not stronger then you were? An. Good Lady, Make your selfe mirth with your particular fancy, And leaue me out on't. Would I had no being If this salute my blood a iot; it faints me To thinke what followes. The Queene is comfortlesse, and wee forgetfull In our long absence: pray doe not deliuer, What heere y'haue heard to her Old L. What doe you thinke me - Exeunt. ----------SCENE 3--------- Enter Anne Bullen, and an old Lady. An. Not for that neither; here's the pang that pinches. His Highnesse, hauing liu'd so long with her, and she So good a Lady, that no Tongue could euer Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, She neuer knew harme-doing: Oh, now after So many courses of the Sun enthroaned, Still growing in a Maiesty and pompe, the which To leaue, a thousand fold more bitter, then 'Tis sweet at first t' acquire. After this Processe. To giue her the auaunt, it is a pitty Would moue a Monster Old La. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her An. Oh Gods will, much better She ne're had knowne pompe; though't be temporall, Yet if that quarrell. Fortune, do diuorce It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging As soule and bodies seuering Old L. Alas poore Lady, Shee's a stranger now againe An. So much the more Must pitty drop vpon her; verily I sweare, tis better to be lowly borne, And range with humble liuers in Content, Then to be perk'd vp in a glistring griefe, And weare a golden sorrow Old L. Our content Is our best hauing Anne. By my troth, and Maidenhead, I would not be a Queene Old.L. Beshrew me, I would, And venture Maidenhead for't, and so would you For all this spice of your Hipocrisie: You that haue so faire parts of Woman on you, Haue (too) a Womans heart, which euer yet Affected Eminence, Wealth, Soueraignty; Which, to say sooth, are Blessings; and which guifts (Sauing your mincing) the capacity Of your soft Chiuerell Conscience, would receiue, If you might please to stretch it Anne. Nay, good troth Old L. Yes troth, & troth; you would not be a Queen? Anne. No, not for all the riches vnder Heauen Old.L. Tis strange; a threepence bow'd would hire me Old as I am, to Queene it: but I pray you, What thinke you of a Dutchesse? Haue you limbs To beare that load of Title? An. No in truth Old.L. Then you are weakly made; plucke off a little, I would not be a young Count in your way, For more then blushing comes to: If your backe Cannot vouchsafe this burthen, tis too weake Euer to get a Boy An. How you doe talke; I sweare againe, I would not be a Queene, For all the world Old.L. In faith, for little England You'ld venture an emballing: I my selfe Would for Carnaruanshire, although there long'd No more to th' Crowne but that: Lo, who comes here? Enter Lord Chamberlaine. L.Cham. Good morrow Ladies; what wer't worth to know The secret of your conference? An. My good Lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking: Our Mistris Sorrowes we were pittying Cham. It was a gentle businesse, and becomming The action of good women, there is hope All will be well An. Now I pray God, Amen Cham. You beare a gentle minde, & heau'nly blessings Follow such Creatures. That you may, faire Lady Perceiue I speake sincerely, and high notes Tane of your many vertues; the Kings Maiesty Commends his good opinion of you, to you; and Doe's purpose honour to you no lesse flowing, Then Marchionesse of Pembrooke; to which Title, A Thousand pound a yeare, Annuall support, Out of his Grace, he addes An. I doe not know What kinde of my obedience, I should tender; More then my All, is Nothing: Nor my Prayers Are not words duely hallowed; nor my Wishes More worth, then empty vanities: yet Prayers & Wishes Are all I can returne. 'Beseech your Lordship, Vouchsafe to speake my thankes, and my obedience, As from a blushing Handmaid, to his Highnesse; Whose health and Royalty I pray for Cham. Lady; I shall not faile t' approue the faire conceit The King hath of you. I haue perus'd her well, Beauty and Honour in her are so mingled, That they haue caught the King: and who knowes yet But from this Lady, may proceed a Iemme, To lighten all this Ile. I'le to the King, And say I spoke with you. Exit Lord Chamberlaine. An. My honour'd Lord Old.L. Why this it is: See, see, I haue beene begging sixteene yeares in Court (Am yet a Courtier beggerly) nor could Come pat betwixt too early, and too late For any suit of pounds: and you, (oh fate) A very fresh Fish heere; fye, fye, fye vpon This compel'd fortune: haue your mouth fild vp, Before you open it An. This is strange to me Old L. How tasts it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no: There was a Lady once (tis an old Story) That would not be a Queene, that would she not For all the mud in Egypt; haue you heard it? An. Come you are pleasant Old.L. With your Theame, I could O're-mount the Larke: The Marchionesse of Pembrooke? A thousand pounds a yeare, for pure respect? No other obligation? by my Life, That promises mo thousands: Honours traine Is longer then his fore-skirt; by this time I know your backe will beare a Dutchesse. Say, Are you not stronger then you were? An. Good Lady, Make your selfe mirth with your particular fancy, And leaue me out on't. Would I had no being If this salute my blood a iot; it faints me To thinke what followes. The Queene is comfortlesse, and wee forgetfull In our long absence: pray doe not deliuer, What heere y'haue heard to her Old L. What doe you thinke me - Exeunt. ----------ACT 2 SCENE 3--------- Enter Anne Bullen, and an old Lady. An. Not for that neither; here's the pang that pinches. His Highnesse, hauing liu'd so long with her, and she So good a Lady, that no Tongue could euer Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life, She neuer knew harme-doing: Oh, now after So many courses of the Sun enthroaned, Still growing in a Maiesty and pompe, the which To leaue, a thousand fold more bitter, then 'Tis sweet at first t' acquire. After this Processe. To giue her the auaunt, it is a pitty Would moue a Monster Old La. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her An. Oh Gods will, much better She ne're had knowne pompe; though't be temporall, Yet if that quarrell. Fortune, do diuorce It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance, panging As soule and bodies seuering Old L. Alas poore Lady, Shee's a stranger now againe An. So much the more Must pitty drop vpon her; verily I sweare, tis better to be lowly borne, And range with humble liuers in Content, Then to be perk'd vp in a glistring griefe, And weare a golden sorrow Old L. Our content Is our best hauing Anne. By my troth, and Maidenhead, I would not be a Queene Old.L. Beshrew me, I would, And venture Maidenhead for't, and so would you For all this spice of your Hipocrisie: You that haue so faire parts of Woman on you, Haue (too) a Womans heart, which euer yet Affected Eminence, Wealth, Soueraignty; Which, to say sooth, are Blessings; and which guifts (Sauing your mincing) the capacity Of your soft Chiuerell Conscience, would receiue, If you might please to stretch it Anne. Nay, good troth Old L. Yes troth, & troth; you would not be a Queen? Anne. No, not for all the riches vnder Heauen Old.L. Tis strange; a threepence bow'd would hire me Old as I am, to Queene it: but I pray you, What thinke you of a Dutchesse? Haue you limbs To beare that load of Title? An. No in truth Old.L. Then you are weakly made; plucke off a little, I would not be a young Count in your way, For more then blushing comes to: If your backe Cannot vouchsafe this burthen, tis too weake Euer to get a Boy An. How you doe talke; I sweare againe, I would not be a Queene, For all the world Old.L. In faith, for little England You'ld venture an emballing: I my selfe Would for Carnaruanshire, although there long'd No more to th' Crowne but that: Lo, who comes here? Enter Lord Chamberlaine. L.Cham. Good morrow Ladies; what wer't worth to know The secret of your conference? An. My good Lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking: Our Mistris Sorrowes we were pittying Cham. It was a gentle businesse, and becomming The action of good women, there is hope All will be well An. Now I pray God, Amen Cham. You beare a gentle minde, & heau'nly blessings Follow such Creatures. That you may, faire Lady Perceiue I speake sincerely, and high notes Tane of your many vertues; the Kings Maiesty Commends his good opinion of you, to you; and Doe's purpose honour to you no lesse flowing, Then Marchionesse of Pembrooke; to which Title, A Thousand pound a yeare, Annuall support, Out of his Grace, he addes An. I doe not know What kinde of my obedience, I should tender; More then my All, is Nothing: Nor my Prayers Are not words duely hallowed; nor my Wishes More worth, then empty vanities: yet Prayers & Wishes Are all I can returne. 'Beseech your Lordship, Vouchsafe to speake my thankes, and my obedience, As from a blushing Handmaid, to his Highnesse; Whose health and Royalty I pray for Cham. Lady; I shall not faile t' approue the faire conceit The King hath of you. I haue perus'd her well, Beauty and Honour in her are so mingled, That they haue caught the King: and who knowes yet But from this Lady, may proceed a Iemme, To lighten all this Ile. I'le to the King, And say I spoke with you. Exit Lord Chamberlaine. An. My honour'd Lord Old.L. Why this it is: See, see, I haue beene begging sixteene yeares in Court (Am yet a Courtier beggerly) nor could Come pat betwixt too early, and too late For any suit of pounds: and you, (oh fate) A very fresh Fish heere; fye, fye, fye vpon This compel'd fortune: haue your mouth fild vp, Before you open it An. This is strange to me Old L. How tasts it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no: There was a Lady once (tis an old Story) That would not be a Queene, that would she not For all the mud in Egypt; haue you heard it? An. Come you are pleasant Old.L. With your Theame, I could O're-mount the Larke: The Marchionesse of Pembrooke? A thousand pounds a yeare, for pure respect? No other obligation? by my Life, That promises mo thousands: Honours traine Is longer then his fore-skirt; by this time I know your backe will beare a Dutchesse. Say, Are you not stronger then you were? An. Good Lady, Make your selfe mirth with your particular fancy, And leaue me out on't. Would I had no being If this salute my blood a iot; it faints me To thinke what followes. The Queene is comfortlesse, and wee forgetfull In our long absence: pray doe not deliuer, What heere y'haue heard to her Old L. What doe you thinke me - Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 2.scene 4

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for scene 4 based on the provided context.

act 2, scene 4|scene 4

The King, the Queen and the clergymen, who are going to preside over the divorce, are all gathered in the hall of the 2Black-Friars. Before the proceedings begin, Katherine interrupts, appealing directly to the King for justice. She has been an impeccable wife and asks the King to explain his desire for divorce. She ends by requesting a postponement of the proceeding till she has consulted with her friends in Spain. Wolsey points out that she is well represented in England. She accuses him of being responsible for the rift that has developed her and the King. She refuses to have Wolsey as the judge of the proceedings and walk out saying that she wants the Pope to preside over the matter. The King summons her back but she refuses to return, further adding that she will never again make her appearance in the court regarding this matter. The King absolves Wolsey of the change the Queen placed on him. Cardinal Campeius says that since the Queen is not present the court should be adjourned. This is done but the King suspects that the Cardinals are not Wholly on his side. He eagerly awaits the return of Cranmer on whose unstinting help and support he can count on.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 4--------- Trumpets, Sennet, and Cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short siluer wands; next them two Scribes in the habite of Doctors; after them, the Bishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincolne, Ely, Rochester, and S[aint]. Asaph: Next them, with some small distance, followes a Gentleman bearing the Purse, with the great Seale, and a Cardinals Hat: Then two Priests, bearing each a Siluer Crosse: Then a Gentleman Vsher bareheaded, accompanyed with a Sergeant at Armes, bearing a Siluer Mace: Then two Gentlemen bearing two great Siluer Pillers: After them, side by side, the two Cardinals, two Noblemen, with the Sword and Mace. The King takes place vnder the Cloth of State. The two Cardinalls sit vnder him as Iudges. The Queene takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselues on each side the Court in manner of a Consistory: Below them the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in conuenient order about the Stage. Car. Whil'st our Commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded King. What's the need? It hath already publiquely bene read, And on all sides th' Authority allow'd, You may then spare that time Car. Bee't so, proceed Scri. Say, Henry K[ing]. of England, come into the Court Crier. Henry King of England, &c King. Heere Scribe. Say, Katherine Queene of England, Come into the Court Crier. Katherine Queene of England, &c. The Queene makes no answer, rises out of her Chaire, goes about the Court, comes to the King, and kneeles at his Feete. Then speakes. Sir, I desire you do me Right and Iustice, And to bestow your pitty on me; for I am a most poore Woman, and a Stranger, Borne out of your Dominions: hauing heere No Iudge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equall Friendship and Proceeding. Alas Sir: In what haue I offended you? What cause Hath my behauiour giuen to your displeasure, That thus you should proceede to put me off, And take your good Grace from me? Heauen witnesse, I haue bene to you, a true and humble Wife, At all times to your will conformable: Euer in feare to kindle your Dislike, Yea, subiect to your Countenance: Glad, or sorry, As I saw it inclin'd? When was the houre I euer contradicted your Desire? Or made it not mine too? Or which of your Friends Haue I not stroue to loue, although I knew He were mine Enemy? What Friend of mine, That had to him deriu'd your Anger, did I Continue in my Liking? Nay, gaue notice He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call to minde, That I haue beene your Wife, in this Obedience, Vpward of twenty years, and haue bene blest With many Children by you. If in the course And processe of this time, you can report, And proue it too, against mine Honor, aught; My bond to Wedlocke, or my Loue and Dutie Against your Sacred Person; in Gods name Turne me away: and let the fowl'st Contempt Shut doore vpon me, and so giue me vp To the sharp'st kinde of Iustice. Please you, Sir, The King your Father, was reputed for A Prince most Prudent; of an excellent And vnmatch'd Wit, and Iudgement. Ferdinand My Father, King of Spaine, was reckon'd one The wisest Prince, that there had reign'd, by many A yeare before. It is not to be question'd, That they had gather'd a wise Councell to them Of euery Realme, that did debate this Businesse, Who deem'd our Marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you Sir, to spare me, till I may Be by my Friends in Spaine, aduis'd; whose Counsaile I will implore. If not, i'th' name of God Your pleasure be fulfill'd Wol. You haue heere Lady, (And of your choice) these Reuerend Fathers, men Of singular Integrity, and Learning; Yea, the elect o'th' Land, who are assembled To pleade your Cause. It shall be therefore bootlesse, That longer you desire the Court, as well For your owne quiet, as to rectifie What is vnsetled in the King Camp. His Grace Hath spoken well, and iustly: Therefore Madam, It's fit this Royall Session do proceed, And that (without delay) their Arguments Be now produc'd, and heard Qu. Lord Cardinall, to you I speake Wol. Your pleasure, Madam Qu. Sir, I am about to weepe; but thinking that We are a Queene (or long haue dream'd so) certaine The daughter of a King, my drops of teares, Ile turne to sparkes of fire Wol. Be patient yet Qu. I will, when you are humble; Nay before, Or God will punish me. I do beleeue (Induc'd by potent Circumstances) that You are mine Enemy, and make my Challenge, You shall not be my Iudge. For it is you Haue blowne this Coale, betwixt my Lord, and me; (Which Gods dew quench) therefore, I say againe, I vtterly abhorre; yea, from my Soule Refuse you for my Iudge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious Foe, and thinke not At all a Friend to truth Wol. I do professe You speake not like your selfe: who euer yet Haue stood to Charity, and displayd th' effects Of disposition gentle, and of wisedome, Ore-topping womans powre. Madam, you do me wrong I haue no Spleene against you, nor iniustice For you, or any: how farre I haue proceeded, Or how farre further (Shall) is warranted By a Commission from the Consistorie, Yea, the whole Consistorie of Rome. You charge me, That I haue blowne this Coale: I do deny it, The King is present: If it be knowne to him, That I gainsay my Deed, how may he wound, And worthily my Falsehood, yea, as much As you haue done my Truth. If he know That I am free of your Report, he knowes I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the Cure is to Remoue these Thoughts from you. The which before His Highnesse shall speake in, I do beseech You (gracious Madam) to vnthinke your speaking, And to say so no more Queen. My Lord, My Lord, I am a simple woman, much too weake T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek, & humble-mouth'd You signe your Place, and Calling, in full seeming, With Meekenesse and Humilitie: but your Heart Is cramm'd with Arrogancie, Spleene, and Pride. You haue by Fortune, and his Highnesse fauors, Gone slightly o're lowe steppes, and now are mounted Where Powres are your Retainers, and your words (Domestickes to you) serue your will, as't please Your selfe pronounce their Office. I must tell you, You tender more your persons Honor, then Your high profession Spirituall. That agen I do refuse you for my Iudge, and heere Before you all, Appeale vnto the Pope, To bring my whole Cause 'fore his Holinesse, And to be iudg'd by him. She Curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. Camp. The Queene is obstinate, Stubborne to Iustice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainfull to be tride by't; tis not well. Shee's going away Kin. Call her againe Crier. Katherine. Q[ueene]. of England, come into the Court Gent.Vsh. Madam, you are cald backe Que. What need you note it? pray you keep your way, When you are cald returne. Now the Lord helpe, They vexe me past my patience, pray you passe on; I will not tarry: no, nor euer more Vpon this businesse my appearance make, In any of their Courts. Exit Queene, and her Attendants. Kin. Goe thy wayes Kate, That man i'th' world, who shall report he ha's A better Wife, let him in naught be trusted, For speaking false in that; thou art alone (If thy rare qualities, sweet gentlenesse, Thy meeknesse Saint-like, Wife-like Gouernment, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Soueraigne and Pious els, could speake thee out) The Queene of earthly Queenes: Shee's Noble borne; And like her true Nobility, she ha's Carried her selfe towards me Wol. Most gracious Sir, In humblest manner I require your Highnes, That it shall please you to declare in hearing Of all these eares (for where I am rob'd and bound, There must I be vnloos'd, although not there At once, and fully satisfide) whether euer I Did broach this busines to your Highnes, or Laid any scruple in your way, which might Induce you to the question on't: or euer Haue to you, but with thankes to God for such A Royall Lady, spake one, the least word that might Be to the preiudice of her present State, Or touch of her good Person? Kin. My Lord Cardinall, I doe excuse you; yea, vpon mine Honour, I free you from't: You are not to be taught That you haue many enemies, that know not Why they are so; but like to Village Curres, Barke when their fellowes doe. By some of these The Queene is put in anger; y'are excus'd: But will you be more iustifi'de? You euer Haue wish'd the sleeping of this busines, neuer desir'd It to be stir'd; but oft haue hindred, oft The passages made toward it; on my Honour, I speake my good Lord Cardnall, to this point; And thus farre cleare him. Now, what mou'd me too't, I will be bold with time and your attention: Then marke th' inducement. Thus it came; giue heede too't: My Conscience first receiu'd a tendernes, Scruple, and pricke, on certaine Speeches vtter'd By th' Bishop of Bayon, then French Embassador, Who had beene hither sent on the debating And Marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleance, and Our Daughter Mary: I'th' Progresse of this busines, Ere a determinate resolution, hee (I meane the Bishop) did require a respite, Wherein he might the King his Lord aduertise, Whether our Daughter were legitimate, Respecting this our Marriage with the Dowager, Sometimes our Brothers Wife. This respite shooke The bosome of my Conscience, enter'd me; Yea, with a spitting power, and made to tremble The region of my Breast, which forc'd such way, That many maz'd considerings, did throng And prest in with this Caution. First, me thought I stood not in the smile of Heauen, who had Commanded Nature, that my Ladies wombe If it conceiu'd a male-child by me, should Doe no more Offices of life too't; then The Graue does to th' dead: For her Male Issue, Or di'de where they were made, or shortly after This world had ayr'd them. Hence I tooke a thought, This was a Iudgement on me, that my Kingdome (Well worthy the best Heyre o'th' World) should not Be gladded in't by me. Then followes, that I weigh'd the danger which my Realmes stood in By this my Issues faile, and that gaue to me Many a groaning throw: thus hulling in The wild Sea of my Conscience, I did steere Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present heere together: that's to say, I meant to rectifie my Conscience, which I then did feele full sicke, and yet not well, By all the Reuerend Fathers of the Land, And Doctors learn'd. First I began in priuate, With you my Lord of Lincolne; you remember How vnder my oppression I did reeke When I first mou'd you B.Lin. Very well my Liedge Kin. I haue spoke long, be pleas'd your selfe to say How farre you satisfide me Lin. So please your Highnes, The question did at first so stagger me, Bearing a State of mighty moment in't, And consequence of dread, that I committed The daringst Counsaile which I had to doubt, And did entreate your Highnes to this course, Which you are running heere Kin. I then mou'd you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leaue To make this present Summons vnsolicited. I left no Reuerend Person in this Court; But by particular consent proceeded Vnder your hands and Seales; therefore goe on, For no dislike i'th' world against the person Of the good Queene; but the sharpe thorny points Of my alleadged reasons, driues this forward: Proue but our Marriage lawfull, by my Life And Kingly Dignity, we are contented To weare our mortall State to come, with her, (Katherine our Queene) before the primest Creature That's Parragon'd o'th' World Camp. So please your Highnes, The Queene being absent, 'tis a needfull fitnesse, That we adiourne this Court till further day; Meane while, must be an earnest motion Made to the Queene to call backe her Appeale She intends vnto his Holinesse Kin. I may perceiue These Cardinals trifle with me: I abhorre This dilatory sloth, and trickes of Rome. My learn'd and welbeloued Seruant Cranmer, Prethee returne, with thy approch: I know, My comfort comes along: breake vp the Court; I say, set on. Exeunt., in manner as they enter'd. ----------SCENE 4--------- Trumpets, Sennet, and Cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short siluer wands; next them two Scribes in the habite of Doctors; after them, the Bishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincolne, Ely, Rochester, and S[aint]. Asaph: Next them, with some small distance, followes a Gentleman bearing the Purse, with the great Seale, and a Cardinals Hat: Then two Priests, bearing each a Siluer Crosse: Then a Gentleman Vsher bareheaded, accompanyed with a Sergeant at Armes, bearing a Siluer Mace: Then two Gentlemen bearing two great Siluer Pillers: After them, side by side, the two Cardinals, two Noblemen, with the Sword and Mace. The King takes place vnder the Cloth of State. The two Cardinalls sit vnder him as Iudges. The Queene takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselues on each side the Court in manner of a Consistory: Below them the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in conuenient order about the Stage. Car. Whil'st our Commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded King. What's the need? It hath already publiquely bene read, And on all sides th' Authority allow'd, You may then spare that time Car. Bee't so, proceed Scri. Say, Henry K[ing]. of England, come into the Court Crier. Henry King of England, &c King. Heere Scribe. Say, Katherine Queene of England, Come into the Court Crier. Katherine Queene of England, &c. The Queene makes no answer, rises out of her Chaire, goes about the Court, comes to the King, and kneeles at his Feete. Then speakes. Sir, I desire you do me Right and Iustice, And to bestow your pitty on me; for I am a most poore Woman, and a Stranger, Borne out of your Dominions: hauing heere No Iudge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equall Friendship and Proceeding. Alas Sir: In what haue I offended you? What cause Hath my behauiour giuen to your displeasure, That thus you should proceede to put me off, And take your good Grace from me? Heauen witnesse, I haue bene to you, a true and humble Wife, At all times to your will conformable: Euer in feare to kindle your Dislike, Yea, subiect to your Countenance: Glad, or sorry, As I saw it inclin'd? When was the houre I euer contradicted your Desire? Or made it not mine too? Or which of your Friends Haue I not stroue to loue, although I knew He were mine Enemy? What Friend of mine, That had to him deriu'd your Anger, did I Continue in my Liking? Nay, gaue notice He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call to minde, That I haue beene your Wife, in this Obedience, Vpward of twenty years, and haue bene blest With many Children by you. If in the course And processe of this time, you can report, And proue it too, against mine Honor, aught; My bond to Wedlocke, or my Loue and Dutie Against your Sacred Person; in Gods name Turne me away: and let the fowl'st Contempt Shut doore vpon me, and so giue me vp To the sharp'st kinde of Iustice. Please you, Sir, The King your Father, was reputed for A Prince most Prudent; of an excellent And vnmatch'd Wit, and Iudgement. Ferdinand My Father, King of Spaine, was reckon'd one The wisest Prince, that there had reign'd, by many A yeare before. It is not to be question'd, That they had gather'd a wise Councell to them Of euery Realme, that did debate this Businesse, Who deem'd our Marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you Sir, to spare me, till I may Be by my Friends in Spaine, aduis'd; whose Counsaile I will implore. If not, i'th' name of God Your pleasure be fulfill'd Wol. You haue heere Lady, (And of your choice) these Reuerend Fathers, men Of singular Integrity, and Learning; Yea, the elect o'th' Land, who are assembled To pleade your Cause. It shall be therefore bootlesse, That longer you desire the Court, as well For your owne quiet, as to rectifie What is vnsetled in the King Camp. His Grace Hath spoken well, and iustly: Therefore Madam, It's fit this Royall Session do proceed, And that (without delay) their Arguments Be now produc'd, and heard Qu. Lord Cardinall, to you I speake Wol. Your pleasure, Madam Qu. Sir, I am about to weepe; but thinking that We are a Queene (or long haue dream'd so) certaine The daughter of a King, my drops of teares, Ile turne to sparkes of fire Wol. Be patient yet Qu. I will, when you are humble; Nay before, Or God will punish me. I do beleeue (Induc'd by potent Circumstances) that You are mine Enemy, and make my Challenge, You shall not be my Iudge. For it is you Haue blowne this Coale, betwixt my Lord, and me; (Which Gods dew quench) therefore, I say againe, I vtterly abhorre; yea, from my Soule Refuse you for my Iudge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious Foe, and thinke not At all a Friend to truth Wol. I do professe You speake not like your selfe: who euer yet Haue stood to Charity, and displayd th' effects Of disposition gentle, and of wisedome, Ore-topping womans powre. Madam, you do me wrong I haue no Spleene against you, nor iniustice For you, or any: how farre I haue proceeded, Or how farre further (Shall) is warranted By a Commission from the Consistorie, Yea, the whole Consistorie of Rome. You charge me, That I haue blowne this Coale: I do deny it, The King is present: If it be knowne to him, That I gainsay my Deed, how may he wound, And worthily my Falsehood, yea, as much As you haue done my Truth. If he know That I am free of your Report, he knowes I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the Cure is to Remoue these Thoughts from you. The which before His Highnesse shall speake in, I do beseech You (gracious Madam) to vnthinke your speaking, And to say so no more Queen. My Lord, My Lord, I am a simple woman, much too weake T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek, & humble-mouth'd You signe your Place, and Calling, in full seeming, With Meekenesse and Humilitie: but your Heart Is cramm'd with Arrogancie, Spleene, and Pride. You haue by Fortune, and his Highnesse fauors, Gone slightly o're lowe steppes, and now are mounted Where Powres are your Retainers, and your words (Domestickes to you) serue your will, as't please Your selfe pronounce their Office. I must tell you, You tender more your persons Honor, then Your high profession Spirituall. That agen I do refuse you for my Iudge, and heere Before you all, Appeale vnto the Pope, To bring my whole Cause 'fore his Holinesse, And to be iudg'd by him. She Curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. Camp. The Queene is obstinate, Stubborne to Iustice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainfull to be tride by't; tis not well. Shee's going away Kin. Call her againe Crier. Katherine. Q[ueene]. of England, come into the Court Gent.Vsh. Madam, you are cald backe Que. What need you note it? pray you keep your way, When you are cald returne. Now the Lord helpe, They vexe me past my patience, pray you passe on; I will not tarry: no, nor euer more Vpon this businesse my appearance make, In any of their Courts. Exit Queene, and her Attendants. Kin. Goe thy wayes Kate, That man i'th' world, who shall report he ha's A better Wife, let him in naught be trusted, For speaking false in that; thou art alone (If thy rare qualities, sweet gentlenesse, Thy meeknesse Saint-like, Wife-like Gouernment, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Soueraigne and Pious els, could speake thee out) The Queene of earthly Queenes: Shee's Noble borne; And like her true Nobility, she ha's Carried her selfe towards me Wol. Most gracious Sir, In humblest manner I require your Highnes, That it shall please you to declare in hearing Of all these eares (for where I am rob'd and bound, There must I be vnloos'd, although not there At once, and fully satisfide) whether euer I Did broach this busines to your Highnes, or Laid any scruple in your way, which might Induce you to the question on't: or euer Haue to you, but with thankes to God for such A Royall Lady, spake one, the least word that might Be to the preiudice of her present State, Or touch of her good Person? Kin. My Lord Cardinall, I doe excuse you; yea, vpon mine Honour, I free you from't: You are not to be taught That you haue many enemies, that know not Why they are so; but like to Village Curres, Barke when their fellowes doe. By some of these The Queene is put in anger; y'are excus'd: But will you be more iustifi'de? You euer Haue wish'd the sleeping of this busines, neuer desir'd It to be stir'd; but oft haue hindred, oft The passages made toward it; on my Honour, I speake my good Lord Cardnall, to this point; And thus farre cleare him. Now, what mou'd me too't, I will be bold with time and your attention: Then marke th' inducement. Thus it came; giue heede too't: My Conscience first receiu'd a tendernes, Scruple, and pricke, on certaine Speeches vtter'd By th' Bishop of Bayon, then French Embassador, Who had beene hither sent on the debating And Marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleance, and Our Daughter Mary: I'th' Progresse of this busines, Ere a determinate resolution, hee (I meane the Bishop) did require a respite, Wherein he might the King his Lord aduertise, Whether our Daughter were legitimate, Respecting this our Marriage with the Dowager, Sometimes our Brothers Wife. This respite shooke The bosome of my Conscience, enter'd me; Yea, with a spitting power, and made to tremble The region of my Breast, which forc'd such way, That many maz'd considerings, did throng And prest in with this Caution. First, me thought I stood not in the smile of Heauen, who had Commanded Nature, that my Ladies wombe If it conceiu'd a male-child by me, should Doe no more Offices of life too't; then The Graue does to th' dead: For her Male Issue, Or di'de where they were made, or shortly after This world had ayr'd them. Hence I tooke a thought, This was a Iudgement on me, that my Kingdome (Well worthy the best Heyre o'th' World) should not Be gladded in't by me. Then followes, that I weigh'd the danger which my Realmes stood in By this my Issues faile, and that gaue to me Many a groaning throw: thus hulling in The wild Sea of my Conscience, I did steere Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present heere together: that's to say, I meant to rectifie my Conscience, which I then did feele full sicke, and yet not well, By all the Reuerend Fathers of the Land, And Doctors learn'd. First I began in priuate, With you my Lord of Lincolne; you remember How vnder my oppression I did reeke When I first mou'd you B.Lin. Very well my Liedge Kin. I haue spoke long, be pleas'd your selfe to say How farre you satisfide me Lin. So please your Highnes, The question did at first so stagger me, Bearing a State of mighty moment in't, And consequence of dread, that I committed The daringst Counsaile which I had to doubt, And did entreate your Highnes to this course, Which you are running heere Kin. I then mou'd you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leaue To make this present Summons vnsolicited. I left no Reuerend Person in this Court; But by particular consent proceeded Vnder your hands and Seales; therefore goe on, For no dislike i'th' world against the person Of the good Queene; but the sharpe thorny points Of my alleadged reasons, driues this forward: Proue but our Marriage lawfull, by my Life And Kingly Dignity, we are contented To weare our mortall State to come, with her, (Katherine our Queene) before the primest Creature That's Parragon'd o'th' World Camp. So please your Highnes, The Queene being absent, 'tis a needfull fitnesse, That we adiourne this Court till further day; Meane while, must be an earnest motion Made to the Queene to call backe her Appeale She intends vnto his Holinesse Kin. I may perceiue These Cardinals trifle with me: I abhorre This dilatory sloth, and trickes of Rome. My learn'd and welbeloued Seruant Cranmer, Prethee returne, with thy approch: I know, My comfort comes along: breake vp the Court; I say, set on. Exeunt., in manner as they enter'd.

Henry VIII.act 3.scene 1

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of scene 1 using the context provided.

The queen and her women are at work. The queen is depressed and asks one of her women to sing in the hope that it will uplift her spirit. Cardinal, Wolsey and Campeius come to the queen offering their counsels in her service. Katherine suspects their motives and at first doesnt accept their preferred help. She declares herself to be friendless in England and says that her only allies lie in Spain. Campeius advises her to put her fate in the Kings hands and trust his generosity. Provoked by Campeius words she orders them out of her apartments. After much effort, they convince her that they have her best interest at heart, and she agrees to accept their advice in the matter of her divorce.

----------ACT 3, SCENE 1--------- Enter Queene and her Women as at worke. Queen. Take thy Lute wench, My Soule growes sad with troubles, Sing, and disperse 'em if thou canst: leaue working. SONG. Orpheus with his Lute made Trees, And the Mountaine tops that freeze, Bow themselues when he did sing. To his Musicke, Plants and Flowers Euer sprung; as Sunne and Showers, There had made a lasting Spring. Euery thing that heard him play, Euen the Billowes of the Sea, Hung their heads, & then lay by. In sweet Musicke is such Art, Killing care, & griefe of heart, Fall asleepe, or hearing dye. Enter a Gentleman. Queen. How now? Gent. And't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the presence Queen. Would they speake with me? Gent. They wil'd me say so Madam Queen. Pray their Graces To come neere: what can be their busines With me, a poore weake woman, falne from fauour? I doe not like their comming; now I thinke on't, They should bee good men, their affaires as righteous: But all Hoods, make not Monkes. Enter the two Cardinalls, Wolsey & Campian. Wols. Peace to your Highnesse Queen. Your Graces find me heere part of a Houswife, (I would be all) against the worst may happen: What are your pleasures with me, reuerent Lords? Wol. May it please you Noble Madam, to withdraw Into your priuate Chamber; we shall giue you The full cause of our comming Queen. Speake it heere. There's nothing I haue done yet o' my Conscience Deserues a Corner: would all other Women Could speake this with as free a Soule as I doe. My Lords, I care not (so much I am happy Aboue a number) if my actions Were tri'de by eu'ry tongue, eu'ry eye saw 'em, Enuy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my life so euen. If your busines Seeke me out, and that way I am Wife in; Out with it boldly: Truth loues open dealing Card. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas Regina serenissima Queen. O good my Lord, no Latin; I am not such a Truant since my comming, As not to know the Language I haue liu'd in: A strange Tongue makes my cause more strange, suspitious: Pray speake in English; heere are some will thanke you, If you speake truth, for their poore Mistris sake; Beleeue me she ha's had much wrong. Lord Cardinall, The willing'st sinne I euer yet committed, May be absolu'd in English Card. Noble Lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, (And seruice to his Maiesty and you) So deepe suspition, where all faith was meant; We come not by the way of Accusation, To taint that honour euery good Tongue blesses; Nor to betray you any way to sorrow; You haue too much good Lady: But to know How you stand minded in the waighty difference Betweene the King and you, and to deliuer (Like free and honest men) our iust opinions, And comforts to our cause Camp. Most honour'd Madam, My Lord of Yorke, out of his Noble nature, Zeale and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting (like a good man) your late Censure Both of his truth and him (which was too farre) Offers, as I doe, in a signe of peace, His Seruice, and his Counsell Queen. To betray me. My Lords, I thanke you both for your good wills, Ye speake like honest men, (pray God ye proue so) But how to make ye sodainly an Answere In such a poynt of weight, so neere mine Honour, (More neere my Life I feare) with my weake wit; And to such men of grauity and learning; In truth I know not. I was set at worke, Among my Maids, full little (God knowes) looking Either for such men, or such businesse; For her sake that I haue beene, for I feele The last fit of my Greatnesse; good your Graces Let me haue time and Councell for my Cause: Alas, I am a Woman frendlesse, hopelesse Wol. Madam, You wrong the Kings loue with these feares, Your hopes and friends are infinite Queen. In England, But little for my profit can you thinke Lords, That any English man dare giue me Councell? Or be a knowne friend 'gainst his Highnes pleasure, (Though he be growne so desperate to be honest) And liue a Subiect? Nay forsooth, my Friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, liue not heere, They are (as all my other comforts) far hence In mine owne Countrey Lords Camp. I would your Grace Would leaue your greefes, and take my Counsell Queen. How Sir? Camp. Put your maine cause into the Kings protection, Hee's louing and most gracious. 'Twill be much, Both for your Honour better, and your Cause: For if the tryall of the Law o'retake ye, You'l part away disgrac'd Wol. He tels you rightly Queen. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruine: Is this your Christian Councell? Out vpon ye. Heauen is aboue all yet; there sits a Iudge, That no King can corrupt Camp. Your rage mistakes vs Queen. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Vpon my Soule two reuerend Cardinall Vertues: But Cardinall Sins, and hollow hearts I feare ye: Mend 'em for shame my Lords: Is this your comfort? The Cordiall that ye bring a wretched Lady? A woman lost among ye, laugh't at, scornd? I will not wish ye halfe my miseries, I haue more Charity. But say I warn'd ye; Take heed, for heauens sake take heed, least at once The burthen of my sorrowes, fall vpon ye Car. Madam, this is a meere distraction, You turne the good we offer, into enuy Quee. Ye turne me into nothing. Woe vpon ye, And all such false Professors. Would you haue me (If you haue any Iustice, any Pitty, If ye be any thing but Churchmens habits) Put my sicke cause into his hands, that hates me? Alas, ha's banish'd me his Bed already, His Loue, too long ago. I am old my Lords, And all the Fellowship I hold now with him Is onely my Obedience. What can happen To me, aboue this wretchednesse? All your Studies Make me a Curse, like this Camp. Your feares are worse Qu. Haue I liu'd thus long (let me speake my selfe, Since Vertue findes no friends) a Wife, a true one? A Woman (I dare say without Vainglory) Neuer yet branded with Suspition? Haue I, with all my full Affections Still met the King? Lou'd him next Heau'n? Obey'd him? Bin (out of fondnesse) superstitious to him? Almost forgot my Prayres to content him? And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well Lords. Bring me a constant woman to her Husband, One that ne're dream'd a Ioy, beyond his pleasure; And to that Woman (when she has done most) Yet will I adde an Honor; a great Patience Car. Madam, you wander from the good We ayme at Qu. My Lord, I dare not make my selfe so guiltie, To giue vp willingly that Noble Title Your Master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e're diuorce my Dignities Car. Pray heare me Qu. Would I had neuer trod this English Earth, Or felt the Flatteries that grow vpon it: Ye haue Angels Faces; but Heauen knowes your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched Lady? I am the most vnhappy Woman liuing. Alas (poore Wenches) where are now your Fortunes? Shipwrack'd vpon a Kingdome, where no Pitty, No Friends, no Hope, no Kindred weepe for me? Almost no Graue allow'd me? Like the Lilly That once was Mistris of the Field, and flourish'd, Ile hang my head, and perish Car. If your Grace Could but be brought to know, our Ends are honest, Youl'd feele more comfort. Why shold we (good Lady) Vpon what cause wrong you? Alas, our Places, The way of our Profession is against it; We are to Cure such sorrowes, not to sowe 'em. For Goodnesse sake, consider what you do, How you may hurt your selfe: I, vtterly Grow from the Kings Acquaintance, by this Carriage. The hearts of Princes kisse Obedience, So much they loue it. But to stubborne Spirits, They swell and grow, as terrible as stormes. I know you haue a Gentle, Noble temper, A Soule as euen as a Calme; Pray thinke vs, Those we professe, Peace-makers, Friends, and Seruants Camp. Madam, you'l finde it so: You wrong your Vertues With these weake Womens feares. A Noble Spirit As yours was, put into you, euer casts Such doubts as false Coine from it. The King loues you, Beware you loose it not: For vs (if you please To trust vs in your businesse) we are ready To vse our vtmost Studies, in your seruice Qu. Do what ye will, my Lords: And pray forgiue me; If I haue vs'd my selfe vnmannerly, You know I am a Woman, lacking wit To make a seemely answer to such persons. Pray do my seruice to his Maiestie, He ha's my heart yet, and shall haue my Prayers While I shall haue my life. Come reuerend Fathers, Bestow your Councels on me. She now begges That little thought when she set footing heere, She should haue bought her Dignities so deere. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 1--------- Enter Queene and her Women as at worke. Queen. Take thy Lute wench, My Soule growes sad with troubles, Sing, and disperse 'em if thou canst: leaue working. SONG. Orpheus with his Lute made Trees, And the Mountaine tops that freeze, Bow themselues when he did sing. To his Musicke, Plants and Flowers Euer sprung; as Sunne and Showers, There had made a lasting Spring. Euery thing that heard him play, Euen the Billowes of the Sea, Hung their heads, & then lay by. In sweet Musicke is such Art, Killing care, & griefe of heart, Fall asleepe, or hearing dye. Enter a Gentleman. Queen. How now? Gent. And't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the presence Queen. Would they speake with me? Gent. They wil'd me say so Madam Queen. Pray their Graces To come neere: what can be their busines With me, a poore weake woman, falne from fauour? I doe not like their comming; now I thinke on't, They should bee good men, their affaires as righteous: But all Hoods, make not Monkes. Enter the two Cardinalls, Wolsey & Campian. Wols. Peace to your Highnesse Queen. Your Graces find me heere part of a Houswife, (I would be all) against the worst may happen: What are your pleasures with me, reuerent Lords? Wol. May it please you Noble Madam, to withdraw Into your priuate Chamber; we shall giue you The full cause of our comming Queen. Speake it heere. There's nothing I haue done yet o' my Conscience Deserues a Corner: would all other Women Could speake this with as free a Soule as I doe. My Lords, I care not (so much I am happy Aboue a number) if my actions Were tri'de by eu'ry tongue, eu'ry eye saw 'em, Enuy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my life so euen. If your busines Seeke me out, and that way I am Wife in; Out with it boldly: Truth loues open dealing Card. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas Regina serenissima Queen. O good my Lord, no Latin; I am not such a Truant since my comming, As not to know the Language I haue liu'd in: A strange Tongue makes my cause more strange, suspitious: Pray speake in English; heere are some will thanke you, If you speake truth, for their poore Mistris sake; Beleeue me she ha's had much wrong. Lord Cardinall, The willing'st sinne I euer yet committed, May be absolu'd in English Card. Noble Lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, (And seruice to his Maiesty and you) So deepe suspition, where all faith was meant; We come not by the way of Accusation, To taint that honour euery good Tongue blesses; Nor to betray you any way to sorrow; You haue too much good Lady: But to know How you stand minded in the waighty difference Betweene the King and you, and to deliuer (Like free and honest men) our iust opinions, And comforts to our cause Camp. Most honour'd Madam, My Lord of Yorke, out of his Noble nature, Zeale and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting (like a good man) your late Censure Both of his truth and him (which was too farre) Offers, as I doe, in a signe of peace, His Seruice, and his Counsell Queen. To betray me. My Lords, I thanke you both for your good wills, Ye speake like honest men, (pray God ye proue so) But how to make ye sodainly an Answere In such a poynt of weight, so neere mine Honour, (More neere my Life I feare) with my weake wit; And to such men of grauity and learning; In truth I know not. I was set at worke, Among my Maids, full little (God knowes) looking Either for such men, or such businesse; For her sake that I haue beene, for I feele The last fit of my Greatnesse; good your Graces Let me haue time and Councell for my Cause: Alas, I am a Woman frendlesse, hopelesse Wol. Madam, You wrong the Kings loue with these feares, Your hopes and friends are infinite Queen. In England, But little for my profit can you thinke Lords, That any English man dare giue me Councell? Or be a knowne friend 'gainst his Highnes pleasure, (Though he be growne so desperate to be honest) And liue a Subiect? Nay forsooth, my Friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, liue not heere, They are (as all my other comforts) far hence In mine owne Countrey Lords Camp. I would your Grace Would leaue your greefes, and take my Counsell Queen. How Sir? Camp. Put your maine cause into the Kings protection, Hee's louing and most gracious. 'Twill be much, Both for your Honour better, and your Cause: For if the tryall of the Law o'retake ye, You'l part away disgrac'd Wol. He tels you rightly Queen. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruine: Is this your Christian Councell? Out vpon ye. Heauen is aboue all yet; there sits a Iudge, That no King can corrupt Camp. Your rage mistakes vs Queen. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Vpon my Soule two reuerend Cardinall Vertues: But Cardinall Sins, and hollow hearts I feare ye: Mend 'em for shame my Lords: Is this your comfort? The Cordiall that ye bring a wretched Lady? A woman lost among ye, laugh't at, scornd? I will not wish ye halfe my miseries, I haue more Charity. But say I warn'd ye; Take heed, for heauens sake take heed, least at once The burthen of my sorrowes, fall vpon ye Car. Madam, this is a meere distraction, You turne the good we offer, into enuy Quee. Ye turne me into nothing. Woe vpon ye, And all such false Professors. Would you haue me (If you haue any Iustice, any Pitty, If ye be any thing but Churchmens habits) Put my sicke cause into his hands, that hates me? Alas, ha's banish'd me his Bed already, His Loue, too long ago. I am old my Lords, And all the Fellowship I hold now with him Is onely my Obedience. What can happen To me, aboue this wretchednesse? All your Studies Make me a Curse, like this Camp. Your feares are worse Qu. Haue I liu'd thus long (let me speake my selfe, Since Vertue findes no friends) a Wife, a true one? A Woman (I dare say without Vainglory) Neuer yet branded with Suspition? Haue I, with all my full Affections Still met the King? Lou'd him next Heau'n? Obey'd him? Bin (out of fondnesse) superstitious to him? Almost forgot my Prayres to content him? And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well Lords. Bring me a constant woman to her Husband, One that ne're dream'd a Ioy, beyond his pleasure; And to that Woman (when she has done most) Yet will I adde an Honor; a great Patience Car. Madam, you wander from the good We ayme at Qu. My Lord, I dare not make my selfe so guiltie, To giue vp willingly that Noble Title Your Master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e're diuorce my Dignities Car. Pray heare me Qu. Would I had neuer trod this English Earth, Or felt the Flatteries that grow vpon it: Ye haue Angels Faces; but Heauen knowes your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched Lady? I am the most vnhappy Woman liuing. Alas (poore Wenches) where are now your Fortunes? Shipwrack'd vpon a Kingdome, where no Pitty, No Friends, no Hope, no Kindred weepe for me? Almost no Graue allow'd me? Like the Lilly That once was Mistris of the Field, and flourish'd, Ile hang my head, and perish Car. If your Grace Could but be brought to know, our Ends are honest, Youl'd feele more comfort. Why shold we (good Lady) Vpon what cause wrong you? Alas, our Places, The way of our Profession is against it; We are to Cure such sorrowes, not to sowe 'em. For Goodnesse sake, consider what you do, How you may hurt your selfe: I, vtterly Grow from the Kings Acquaintance, by this Carriage. The hearts of Princes kisse Obedience, So much they loue it. But to stubborne Spirits, They swell and grow, as terrible as stormes. I know you haue a Gentle, Noble temper, A Soule as euen as a Calme; Pray thinke vs, Those we professe, Peace-makers, Friends, and Seruants Camp. Madam, you'l finde it so: You wrong your Vertues With these weake Womens feares. A Noble Spirit As yours was, put into you, euer casts Such doubts as false Coine from it. The King loues you, Beware you loose it not: For vs (if you please To trust vs in your businesse) we are ready To vse our vtmost Studies, in your seruice Qu. Do what ye will, my Lords: And pray forgiue me; If I haue vs'd my selfe vnmannerly, You know I am a Woman, lacking wit To make a seemely answer to such persons. Pray do my seruice to his Maiestie, He ha's my heart yet, and shall haue my Prayers While I shall haue my life. Come reuerend Fathers, Bestow your Councels on me. She now begges That little thought when she set footing heere, She should haue bought her Dignities so deere. Exeunt. ----------ACT 3 SCENE 1--------- Enter Queene and her Women as at worke. Queen. Take thy Lute wench, My Soule growes sad with troubles, Sing, and disperse 'em if thou canst: leaue working. SONG. Orpheus with his Lute made Trees, And the Mountaine tops that freeze, Bow themselues when he did sing. To his Musicke, Plants and Flowers Euer sprung; as Sunne and Showers, There had made a lasting Spring. Euery thing that heard him play, Euen the Billowes of the Sea, Hung their heads, & then lay by. In sweet Musicke is such Art, Killing care, & griefe of heart, Fall asleepe, or hearing dye. Enter a Gentleman. Queen. How now? Gent. And't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the presence Queen. Would they speake with me? Gent. They wil'd me say so Madam Queen. Pray their Graces To come neere: what can be their busines With me, a poore weake woman, falne from fauour? I doe not like their comming; now I thinke on't, They should bee good men, their affaires as righteous: But all Hoods, make not Monkes. Enter the two Cardinalls, Wolsey & Campian. Wols. Peace to your Highnesse Queen. Your Graces find me heere part of a Houswife, (I would be all) against the worst may happen: What are your pleasures with me, reuerent Lords? Wol. May it please you Noble Madam, to withdraw Into your priuate Chamber; we shall giue you The full cause of our comming Queen. Speake it heere. There's nothing I haue done yet o' my Conscience Deserues a Corner: would all other Women Could speake this with as free a Soule as I doe. My Lords, I care not (so much I am happy Aboue a number) if my actions Were tri'de by eu'ry tongue, eu'ry eye saw 'em, Enuy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my life so euen. If your busines Seeke me out, and that way I am Wife in; Out with it boldly: Truth loues open dealing Card. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas Regina serenissima Queen. O good my Lord, no Latin; I am not such a Truant since my comming, As not to know the Language I haue liu'd in: A strange Tongue makes my cause more strange, suspitious: Pray speake in English; heere are some will thanke you, If you speake truth, for their poore Mistris sake; Beleeue me she ha's had much wrong. Lord Cardinall, The willing'st sinne I euer yet committed, May be absolu'd in English Card. Noble Lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, (And seruice to his Maiesty and you) So deepe suspition, where all faith was meant; We come not by the way of Accusation, To taint that honour euery good Tongue blesses; Nor to betray you any way to sorrow; You haue too much good Lady: But to know How you stand minded in the waighty difference Betweene the King and you, and to deliuer (Like free and honest men) our iust opinions, And comforts to our cause Camp. Most honour'd Madam, My Lord of Yorke, out of his Noble nature, Zeale and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting (like a good man) your late Censure Both of his truth and him (which was too farre) Offers, as I doe, in a signe of peace, His Seruice, and his Counsell Queen. To betray me. My Lords, I thanke you both for your good wills, Ye speake like honest men, (pray God ye proue so) But how to make ye sodainly an Answere In such a poynt of weight, so neere mine Honour, (More neere my Life I feare) with my weake wit; And to such men of grauity and learning; In truth I know not. I was set at worke, Among my Maids, full little (God knowes) looking Either for such men, or such businesse; For her sake that I haue beene, for I feele The last fit of my Greatnesse; good your Graces Let me haue time and Councell for my Cause: Alas, I am a Woman frendlesse, hopelesse Wol. Madam, You wrong the Kings loue with these feares, Your hopes and friends are infinite Queen. In England, But little for my profit can you thinke Lords, That any English man dare giue me Councell? Or be a knowne friend 'gainst his Highnes pleasure, (Though he be growne so desperate to be honest) And liue a Subiect? Nay forsooth, my Friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, liue not heere, They are (as all my other comforts) far hence In mine owne Countrey Lords Camp. I would your Grace Would leaue your greefes, and take my Counsell Queen. How Sir? Camp. Put your maine cause into the Kings protection, Hee's louing and most gracious. 'Twill be much, Both for your Honour better, and your Cause: For if the tryall of the Law o'retake ye, You'l part away disgrac'd Wol. He tels you rightly Queen. Ye tell me what ye wish for both, my ruine: Is this your Christian Councell? Out vpon ye. Heauen is aboue all yet; there sits a Iudge, That no King can corrupt Camp. Your rage mistakes vs Queen. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Vpon my Soule two reuerend Cardinall Vertues: But Cardinall Sins, and hollow hearts I feare ye: Mend 'em for shame my Lords: Is this your comfort? The Cordiall that ye bring a wretched Lady? A woman lost among ye, laugh't at, scornd? I will not wish ye halfe my miseries, I haue more Charity. But say I warn'd ye; Take heed, for heauens sake take heed, least at once The burthen of my sorrowes, fall vpon ye Car. Madam, this is a meere distraction, You turne the good we offer, into enuy Quee. Ye turne me into nothing. Woe vpon ye, And all such false Professors. Would you haue me (If you haue any Iustice, any Pitty, If ye be any thing but Churchmens habits) Put my sicke cause into his hands, that hates me? Alas, ha's banish'd me his Bed already, His Loue, too long ago. I am old my Lords, And all the Fellowship I hold now with him Is onely my Obedience. What can happen To me, aboue this wretchednesse? All your Studies Make me a Curse, like this Camp. Your feares are worse Qu. Haue I liu'd thus long (let me speake my selfe, Since Vertue findes no friends) a Wife, a true one? A Woman (I dare say without Vainglory) Neuer yet branded with Suspition? Haue I, with all my full Affections Still met the King? Lou'd him next Heau'n? Obey'd him? Bin (out of fondnesse) superstitious to him? Almost forgot my Prayres to content him? And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well Lords. Bring me a constant woman to her Husband, One that ne're dream'd a Ioy, beyond his pleasure; And to that Woman (when she has done most) Yet will I adde an Honor; a great Patience Car. Madam, you wander from the good We ayme at Qu. My Lord, I dare not make my selfe so guiltie, To giue vp willingly that Noble Title Your Master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e're diuorce my Dignities Car. Pray heare me Qu. Would I had neuer trod this English Earth, Or felt the Flatteries that grow vpon it: Ye haue Angels Faces; but Heauen knowes your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched Lady? I am the most vnhappy Woman liuing. Alas (poore Wenches) where are now your Fortunes? Shipwrack'd vpon a Kingdome, where no Pitty, No Friends, no Hope, no Kindred weepe for me? Almost no Graue allow'd me? Like the Lilly That once was Mistris of the Field, and flourish'd, Ile hang my head, and perish Car. If your Grace Could but be brought to know, our Ends are honest, Youl'd feele more comfort. Why shold we (good Lady) Vpon what cause wrong you? Alas, our Places, The way of our Profession is against it; We are to Cure such sorrowes, not to sowe 'em. For Goodnesse sake, consider what you do, How you may hurt your selfe: I, vtterly Grow from the Kings Acquaintance, by this Carriage. The hearts of Princes kisse Obedience, So much they loue it. But to stubborne Spirits, They swell and grow, as terrible as stormes. I know you haue a Gentle, Noble temper, A Soule as euen as a Calme; Pray thinke vs, Those we professe, Peace-makers, Friends, and Seruants Camp. Madam, you'l finde it so: You wrong your Vertues With these weake Womens feares. A Noble Spirit As yours was, put into you, euer casts Such doubts as false Coine from it. The King loues you, Beware you loose it not: For vs (if you please To trust vs in your businesse) we are ready To vse our vtmost Studies, in your seruice Qu. Do what ye will, my Lords: And pray forgiue me; If I haue vs'd my selfe vnmannerly, You know I am a Woman, lacking wit To make a seemely answer to such persons. Pray do my seruice to his Maiestie, He ha's my heart yet, and shall haue my Prayers While I shall haue my life. Come reuerend Fathers, Bestow your Councels on me. She now begges That little thought when she set footing heere, She should haue bought her Dignities so deere. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 4.scene 1

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4, scene 1 using the context provided.

Out on the streets, the two gents meet again. This time, they're waiting to see Anne pass by. It's her coronation day , and they can't wait to see their new queen. This is way better than the last time they met , and they're glad to meet on a happier occasion. Guy #1 reminds the other guy that Anne isn't the only one with a new title today. Suffolk is becoming High Steward, and Norfolk is becoming Earl Marshall. At this point, Guy #2 brings up the fact that Katherine has become Princess Dowager. What's become of her, anyway? Guy # 1 reports that since the divorce, she's been taken off to Kimbolton, and she's sick. Trumpets sound, and choristers sing. There's a flourish as Anne makes her way, and the gents are impressed: she looks like an angel. After the gents figure out who each noble is, a third gent joins them. He's just seen the ceremony and wants to tell them all about it. Everyone crowded around the abbey to watch, and Anne was totally hot. Guy #3 says he's never seen so much joy before. Cranmer performed the ceremony, and the choir sang. Then Guy #3 comments that Gardiner was there, and there's no love lost between him and Cranmer. Oh, well: Cranmer's got Cromwell by his side, and that guy is super loyal. Nothing will come of Cranmer's feud with Gardiner, then. The guy's sure of it.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 1--------- Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another. 1 Y'are well met once againe 2 So are you 1 You come to take your stand heere, and behold The Lady Anne, passe from her Corronation 2 'Tis all my businesse. At our last encounter, The Duke of Buckingham came from his Triall 1 'Tis very true. But that time offer'd sorrow, This generall ioy 2 'Tis well: The Citizens I am sure haue shewne at full their Royall minds, As let 'em haue their rights, they are euer forward In Celebration of this day with Shewes, Pageants, and Sights of Honor 1 Neuer greater, Nor Ile assure you better taken Sir 2 May I be bold to aske what that containes, That Paper in your hand 1 Yes, 'tis the List Of those that claime their Offices this day, By custome of the Coronation. The Duke of Suffolke is the first, and claimes To be high Steward; Next the Duke of Norfolke, He to be Earle Marshall: you may reade the rest 1 I thanke you Sir: Had I not known those customs, I should haue beene beholding to your Paper: But I beseech you, what's become of Katherine The Princesse Dowager? How goes her businesse? 1 That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned, and Reuerend Fathers of his Order, Held a late Court at Dunstable; sixe miles off From Ampthill, where the Princesse lay, to which She was often cyted by them, but appear'd not: And to be short, for not Appearance, and The Kings late Scruple, by the maine assent Of all these Learned men, she was diuorc'd, And the late Marriage made of none effect: Since which, she was remou'd to Kymmalton, Where she remaines now sicke 2 Alas good Lady. The Trumpets sound: Stand close, The Queene is comming. Ho-boyes. The Order of the Coronation. 1 A liuely Flourish of Trumpets. 2 Then, two Iudges. 3 Lord Chancellor, with Purse and Mace before him. 4 Quirristers singing. Musicke. 5 Maior of London, bearing the Mace. Then Garter, in his Coate of Armes, and on his head he wore a Gilt Copper Crowne. 6 Marquesse Dorset, bearing a Scepter of Gold, on his head, a Demy Coronall of Gold. With him, the Earle of Surrey, bearing the Rod of Siluer with the Doue, Crowned with an Earles Coronet. Collars of Esses. 7 Duke of Suffolke, in his Robe of Estate, his Coronet on his head, bearing a long white Wand, as High Steward. With him, the Duke of Norfolke, with the Rod of Marshalship, a Coronet on his head. Collars of Esses. 8 A Canopy, borne by foure of the Cinque-Ports, vnder it the Queene in her Robe, in her haire, richly adorned with Pearle, Crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London, and Winchester. 9 The Olde Dutchesse of Norfolke, in a Coronall of Gold, wrought with Flowers bearing the Queenes Traine. 10 Certaine Ladies or Countesses, with plaine Circlets of Gold, without Flowers. Exeunt, first passing ouer the Stage in Order and State, and then, A great Flourish of Trumpets. 2 A Royall Traine beleeue me: These I know: Who's that that beares the Scepter? 1 Marquesse Dorset, And that the Earle of Surrey, with the Rod 2 A bold braue Gentleman. That should bee The Duke of Suffolke 1 'Tis the same: high Steward 2 And that my Lord of Norfolke? 1 Yes 2 Heauen blesse thee, Thou hast the sweetest face I euer look'd on. Sir, as I haue a Soule, she is an Angell; Our King ha's all the Indies in his Armes, And more, and richer, when he straines that Lady, I cannot blame his Conscience 1 They that beare The Cloath of Honour ouer her, are foure Barons Of the Cinque-Ports 2 Those men are happy, And so are all, are neere her. I take it, she that carries vp the Traine, Is that old Noble Lady, Dutchesse of Norfolke 1 It is, and all the rest are Countesses 2 Their Coronets say so. These are Starres indeed, And sometimes falling ones 2 No more of that. Enter a third Gentleman. 1 God saue you Sir. Where haue you bin broiling? 3 Among the crowd i'th' Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedg'd in more: I am stifled With the meere ranknesse of their ioy 2 You saw the Ceremony? 3 That I did 1 How was it? 3 Well worth the seeing 2 Good Sir, speake it to vs? 3 As well as I am able. The rich streame Of Lords, and Ladies, hauing brought the Queene To a prepar'd place in the Quire, fell off A distance from her; while her Grace sate downe To rest a while, some halfe an houre, or so, In a rich Chaire of State, opposing freely The Beauty of her Person to the People. Beleeue me Sir, she is the goodliest Woman That euer lay by man: which when the people Had the full view of, such a noyse arose, As the shrowdes make at Sea, in a stiffe Tempest, As lowd, and to as many Tunes. Hats, Cloakes, (Doublets, I thinke) flew vp, and had their Faces Bin loose, this day they had beene lost. Such ioy I neuer saw before. Great belly'd women, That had not halfe a weeke to go, like Rammes In the old time of Warre, would shake the prease And make 'em reele before 'em. No man liuing Could say this is my wife there, all were wouen So strangely in one peece 2 But what follow'd? 3 At length, her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the Altar, where she kneel'd, and Saint-like Cast her faire eyes to Heauen, and pray'd deuoutly. Then rose againe, and bow'd her to the people: When by the Arch-byshop of Canterbury, She had all the Royall makings of a Queene; As holy Oyle, Edward Confessors Crowne, The Rod, and Bird of Peace, and all such Emblemes Laid Nobly on her: which perform'd, the Quire With all the choysest Musicke of the Kingdome, Together sung Te Deum. So she parted, And with the same full State pac'd backe againe To Yorke-Place, where the Feast is held 1 Sir, You must no more call it Yorke-place, that's past: For since the Cardinall fell, that Titles lost, 'Tis now the Kings, and call'd White-Hall 3 I know it: But 'tis so lately alter'd, that the old name Is fresh about me 2 What two Reuerend Byshops Were those that went on each side of the Queene? 3 Stokeley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester, Newly preferr'd from the Kings Secretary: The other London 2 He of Winchester Is held no great good louer of the Archbishops, The vertuous Cranmer 3 All the Land knowes that: How euer, yet there is no great breach, when it comes Cranmer will finde a Friend will not shrinke from him 2 Who may that be, I pray you 3 Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteeme with th' King, and truly A worthy Friend. The King ha's made him Master o'th' Iewell House, And one already of the Priuy Councell 2 He will deserue more 3 Yes without all doubt. Come Gentlemen, ye shall go my way, Which is to'th Court, and there ye shall be my Guests: Something I can command. As I walke thither, Ile tell ye more Both. You may command vs Sir. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 1--------- Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another. 1 Y'are well met once againe 2 So are you 1 You come to take your stand heere, and behold The Lady Anne, passe from her Corronation 2 'Tis all my businesse. At our last encounter, The Duke of Buckingham came from his Triall 1 'Tis very true. But that time offer'd sorrow, This generall ioy 2 'Tis well: The Citizens I am sure haue shewne at full their Royall minds, As let 'em haue their rights, they are euer forward In Celebration of this day with Shewes, Pageants, and Sights of Honor 1 Neuer greater, Nor Ile assure you better taken Sir 2 May I be bold to aske what that containes, That Paper in your hand 1 Yes, 'tis the List Of those that claime their Offices this day, By custome of the Coronation. The Duke of Suffolke is the first, and claimes To be high Steward; Next the Duke of Norfolke, He to be Earle Marshall: you may reade the rest 1 I thanke you Sir: Had I not known those customs, I should haue beene beholding to your Paper: But I beseech you, what's become of Katherine The Princesse Dowager? How goes her businesse? 1 That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned, and Reuerend Fathers of his Order, Held a late Court at Dunstable; sixe miles off From Ampthill, where the Princesse lay, to which She was often cyted by them, but appear'd not: And to be short, for not Appearance, and The Kings late Scruple, by the maine assent Of all these Learned men, she was diuorc'd, And the late Marriage made of none effect: Since which, she was remou'd to Kymmalton, Where she remaines now sicke 2 Alas good Lady. The Trumpets sound: Stand close, The Queene is comming. Ho-boyes. The Order of the Coronation. 1 A liuely Flourish of Trumpets. 2 Then, two Iudges. 3 Lord Chancellor, with Purse and Mace before him. 4 Quirristers singing. Musicke. 5 Maior of London, bearing the Mace. Then Garter, in his Coate of Armes, and on his head he wore a Gilt Copper Crowne. 6 Marquesse Dorset, bearing a Scepter of Gold, on his head, a Demy Coronall of Gold. With him, the Earle of Surrey, bearing the Rod of Siluer with the Doue, Crowned with an Earles Coronet. Collars of Esses. 7 Duke of Suffolke, in his Robe of Estate, his Coronet on his head, bearing a long white Wand, as High Steward. With him, the Duke of Norfolke, with the Rod of Marshalship, a Coronet on his head. Collars of Esses. 8 A Canopy, borne by foure of the Cinque-Ports, vnder it the Queene in her Robe, in her haire, richly adorned with Pearle, Crowned. On each side her, the Bishops of London, and Winchester. 9 The Olde Dutchesse of Norfolke, in a Coronall of Gold, wrought with Flowers bearing the Queenes Traine. 10 Certaine Ladies or Countesses, with plaine Circlets of Gold, without Flowers. Exeunt, first passing ouer the Stage in Order and State, and then, A great Flourish of Trumpets. 2 A Royall Traine beleeue me: These I know: Who's that that beares the Scepter? 1 Marquesse Dorset, And that the Earle of Surrey, with the Rod 2 A bold braue Gentleman. That should bee The Duke of Suffolke 1 'Tis the same: high Steward 2 And that my Lord of Norfolke? 1 Yes 2 Heauen blesse thee, Thou hast the sweetest face I euer look'd on. Sir, as I haue a Soule, she is an Angell; Our King ha's all the Indies in his Armes, And more, and richer, when he straines that Lady, I cannot blame his Conscience 1 They that beare The Cloath of Honour ouer her, are foure Barons Of the Cinque-Ports 2 Those men are happy, And so are all, are neere her. I take it, she that carries vp the Traine, Is that old Noble Lady, Dutchesse of Norfolke 1 It is, and all the rest are Countesses 2 Their Coronets say so. These are Starres indeed, And sometimes falling ones 2 No more of that. Enter a third Gentleman. 1 God saue you Sir. Where haue you bin broiling? 3 Among the crowd i'th' Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedg'd in more: I am stifled With the meere ranknesse of their ioy 2 You saw the Ceremony? 3 That I did 1 How was it? 3 Well worth the seeing 2 Good Sir, speake it to vs? 3 As well as I am able. The rich streame Of Lords, and Ladies, hauing brought the Queene To a prepar'd place in the Quire, fell off A distance from her; while her Grace sate downe To rest a while, some halfe an houre, or so, In a rich Chaire of State, opposing freely The Beauty of her Person to the People. Beleeue me Sir, she is the goodliest Woman That euer lay by man: which when the people Had the full view of, such a noyse arose, As the shrowdes make at Sea, in a stiffe Tempest, As lowd, and to as many Tunes. Hats, Cloakes, (Doublets, I thinke) flew vp, and had their Faces Bin loose, this day they had beene lost. Such ioy I neuer saw before. Great belly'd women, That had not halfe a weeke to go, like Rammes In the old time of Warre, would shake the prease And make 'em reele before 'em. No man liuing Could say this is my wife there, all were wouen So strangely in one peece 2 But what follow'd? 3 At length, her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the Altar, where she kneel'd, and Saint-like Cast her faire eyes to Heauen, and pray'd deuoutly. Then rose againe, and bow'd her to the people: When by the Arch-byshop of Canterbury, She had all the Royall makings of a Queene; As holy Oyle, Edward Confessors Crowne, The Rod, and Bird of Peace, and all such Emblemes Laid Nobly on her: which perform'd, the Quire With all the choysest Musicke of the Kingdome, Together sung Te Deum. So she parted, And with the same full State pac'd backe againe To Yorke-Place, where the Feast is held 1 Sir, You must no more call it Yorke-place, that's past: For since the Cardinall fell, that Titles lost, 'Tis now the Kings, and call'd White-Hall 3 I know it: But 'tis so lately alter'd, that the old name Is fresh about me 2 What two Reuerend Byshops Were those that went on each side of the Queene? 3 Stokeley and Gardiner, the one of Winchester, Newly preferr'd from the Kings Secretary: The other London 2 He of Winchester Is held no great good louer of the Archbishops, The vertuous Cranmer 3 All the Land knowes that: How euer, yet there is no great breach, when it comes Cranmer will finde a Friend will not shrinke from him 2 Who may that be, I pray you 3 Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteeme with th' King, and truly A worthy Friend. The King ha's made him Master o'th' Iewell House, And one already of the Priuy Councell 2 He will deserue more 3 Yes without all doubt. Come Gentlemen, ye shall go my way, Which is to'th Court, and there ye shall be my Guests: Something I can command. As I walke thither, Ile tell ye more Both. You may command vs Sir. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 4.scene 2

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of act 4, scene 2 using the context provided.

Over at Katherine's pad, her usher Griffith tells her about the death of Cardinal Wolsey. Once he was arrested, he got sick and died. Katherine is not one to hold a grudge, so she says she'll speak kindly of him, but she does note that his ambition caused major problems for England. Plus, he was just a bad example of a clergyman: he lied and took bribes, and that's just not right for a religious man to do. Griffith doesn't agree. He thinks Wolsey was a good man who came from a humble background but grew into a scholar. Sure, he made some mistakes, but who hasn't? Griffith also reminds Katherine that when Wolsey died, he was a God-fearing man. Griffith's little speech moves Katherine. She decides that when she dies, she wants Griffith to eulogize her because he talks so well. Katherine asks Griffith to get her musicians to play for her while she rests. Once she's asleep, Griffith, too, sits down patiently. That's when the nightmare begins. No, really: Katherine sees six people in white robes and golden masks carrying branches. They dance and curtsy to her, and then they give her a garland. Then they dance away. Wait, what? Katherine wakes up and is confused. She wants to understand what she saw, so she tells her dream to her servants. Griffith says he's happy Katherine is seeing such good dreams. Katherine orders the music to stop and questions what she saw. Then Griffith tells another servant named Patience that seeing such wild apparitions is a bad sign. Katherine must not have long to live. Just then, a messenger brings news of Capuchius's arrival. He's an ambassador from Spain, and he asks after Katherine's health for her dad. Katherine reports that she's weak but comforted by prayers. Then she remembers that she wrote a letter to Henry, and she asks Capuchius to deliver it to him. When Capuchius agrees, Katherine tells us what the letter says: she wants Henry to care for their daughter and her servants, even though he has remarried. Katherine also mentions that she'll die soon and won't be of any trouble to the king. Katherine asks Capuchius to remind Henry how humble she's been. Then she gets ready for bed.

----------ACT 4, SCENE 2--------- Enter Katherine Dowager, sicke, lead betweene Griffith, her Gentleman Vsher, and Patience her Woman. Grif. How do's your Grace? Kath. O Griffith, sicke to death: My Legges like loaden Branches bow to'th' Earth, Willing to leaue their burthen: Reach a Chaire, So now (me thinkes) I feele a little ease. Did'st thou not tell me Griffith, as thou lead'st mee, That the great Childe of Honor, Cardinall Wolsey Was dead? Grif. Yes Madam: but I thinke your Grace Out of the paine you suffer'd, gaue no eare too't Kath. Pre'thee good Griffith, tell me how he dy'de. If well, he stept before me happily For my example Grif. Well, the voyce goes Madam, For after the stout Earle Northumberland Arrested him at Yorke, and brought him forward As a man sorely tainted, to his Answer, He fell sicke sodainly, and grew so ill He could not sit his Mule Kath. Alas poore man Grif. At last, with easie Rodes, he came to Leicester, Lodg'd in the Abbey; where the reuerend Abbot With all his Couent, honourably receiu'd him; To whom he gaue these words. O Father Abbot, An old man, broken with the stormes of State, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye: Giue him a little earth for Charity. So went to bed; where eagerly his sicknesse Pursu'd him still, and three nights after this, About the houre of eight, which he himselfe Foretold should be his last, full of Repentance, Continuall Meditations, Teares, and Sorrowes, He gaue his Honors to the world agen, His blessed part to Heauen, and slept in peace Kath. So may he rest, His Faults lye gently on him: Yet thus farre Griffith, giue me leaue to speake him, And yet with Charity. He was a man Of an vnbounded stomacke, euer ranking Himselfe with Princes. One that by suggestion Ty'de all the Kingdome. Symonie, was faire play, His owne Opinion was his Law. I'th' presence He would say vntruths, and be euer double Both in his words, and meaning. He was neuer (But where he meant to Ruine) pittifull. His Promises, were as he then was, Mighty: But his performance, as he is now, Nothing: Of his owne body he was ill, and gaue The Clergy ill example Grif. Noble Madam: Mens euill manners, liue in Brasse, their Vertues We write in Water. May it please your Highnesse To heare me speake his good now? Kath. Yes good Griffith, I were malicious else Grif. This Cardinall, Though from an humble Stocke, vndoubtedly Was fashion'd to much Honor. From his Cradle He was a Scholler, and a ripe, and good one: Exceeding wise, faire spoken, and perswading: Lofty, and sowre to them that lou'd him not: But, to those men that sought him, sweet as Summer. And though he were vnsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sinne) yet in bestowing, Madam, He was most Princely: Euer witnesse for him Those twinnes of Learning, that he rais'd in you, Ipswich and Oxford: one of which, fell with him, Vnwilling to out-liue the good that did it. The other (though vnfinish'd) yet so Famous, So excellent in Art, and still so rising, That Christendome shall euer speake his Vertue. His Ouerthrow, heap'd Happinesse vpon him: For then, and not till then, he felt himselfe, And found the Blessednesse of being little. And to adde greater Honors to his Age Then man could giue him; he dy'de, fearing God Kath. After my death, I wish no other Herald, No other speaker of my liuing Actions, To keepe mine Honor, from Corruption, But such an honest Chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated Liuing, thou hast made mee With thy Religious Truth, and Modestie, (Now in his Ashes) Honor: Peace be with him. Patience, be neere me still, and set me lower, I haue not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the Musitians play me that sad note I nam'd my Knell; whil'st I sit meditating On that Coelestiall Harmony I go too. Sad and solemne Musicke. Grif. She is asleep: Good wench, let's sit down quiet, For feare we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience. The Vision. Enter solemnely tripping one after another, sixe Personages, clad in white Robes, wearing on their heades Garlands of Bayes, and golden Vizards on their faces, Branches of Bayes or Palme in their hands. They first Conge vnto her, then Dance: and at certaine Changes, the first two hold a spare Garland ouer her Head, at which the other foure make reuerend Curtsies. Then the two that held the Garland, deliuer the same to the other next two, who obserue the same order in their Changes, and holding the Garland ouer her head. Which done, they deliuer the same Garland to the last two: who likewise obserue the same Order. At which (as it were by inspiration) she makes (in her sleepe) signes of reioycing, and holdeth vp her hands to heauen. And so, in their Dancing vanish, carrying the Garland with them. The Musicke continues. Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone? And leaue me heere in wretchednesse, behinde ye? Grif. Madam, we are heere Kath. It is not you I call for, Saw ye none enter since I slept? Grif. None Madam Kath. No? Saw you not euen now a blessed Troope Inuite me to a Banquet, whose bright faces Cast thousand beames vpon me, like the Sun? They promis'd me eternall Happinesse, And brought me Garlands (Griffith) which I feele I am not worthy yet to weare: I shall assuredly Grif. I am most ioyfull Madam, such good dreames Possesse your Fancy Kath. Bid the Musicke leaue, They are harsh and heauy to me. Musicke ceases. Pati. Do you note How much her Grace is alter'd on the sodaine? How long her face is drawne? How pale she lookes, And of an earthy cold? Marke her eyes? Grif. She is going Wench. Pray, pray Pati. Heauen comfort her. Enter a Messenger. Mes. And't like your Grace - Kath. You are a sawcy Fellow, Deserue we no more Reuerence? Grif. You are too blame, Knowing she will not loose her wonted Greatnesse To vse so rude behauiour. Go too, kneele Mes. I humbly do entreat your Highnesse pardon, My hast made me vnmannerly. There is staying A Gentleman sent from the King, to see you Kath. Admit him entrance Griffith. But this Fellow Let me ne're see againe. Exit Messeng. Enter Lord Capuchius. If my sight faile not, You should be Lord Ambassador from the Emperor, My Royall Nephew, and your name Capuchius Cap. Madam the same. Your Seruant Kath. O my Lord, The Times and Titles now are alter'd strangely With me, since first you knew me. But I pray you, What is your pleasure with me? Cap. Noble Lady, First mine owne seruice to your Grace, the next The Kings request, that I would visit you, Who greeues much for your weaknesse, and by me Sends you his Princely Commendations, And heartily entreats you take good comfort Kath. O my good Lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a Pardon after Execution; That gentle Physicke giuen in time, had cur'd me: But now I am past all Comforts heere, but Prayers. How does his Highnesse? Cap. Madam, in good health Kath. So may he euer do, and euer flourish, When I shall dwell with Wormes, and my poore name Banish'd the Kingdome. Patience, is that Letter I caus'd you write, yet sent away? Pat. No Madam Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliuer This to my Lord the King Cap. Most willing Madam Kath. In which I haue commended to his goodnesse The Modell of our chaste loues: his yong daughter, The dewes of Heauen fall thicke in Blessings on her, Beseeching him to giue her vertuous breeding. She is yong, and of a Noble modest Nature, I hope she will deserue well; and a little To loue her for her Mothers sake, that lou'd him, Heauen knowes how deerely. My next poore Petition, Is, that his Noble Grace would haue some pittie Vpon my wretched women, that so long Haue follow'd both my Fortunes, faithfully, Of which there is not one, I dare auow (And now I should not lye) but will deserue For Vertue, and true Beautie of the Soule, For honestie, and decent Carriage A right good Husband (let him be a Noble) And sure those men are happy that shall haue 'em. The last is for my men, they are the poorest, (But pouerty could neuer draw 'em from me) That they may haue their wages, duly paid 'em, And something ouer to remember me by. If Heauen had pleas'd to haue giuen me longer life And able meanes, we had not parted thus. These are the whole Contents, and good my Lord, By that you loue the deerest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to soules departed, Stand these poore peoples Friend, and vrge the King To do me this last right Cap. By Heauen I will, Or let me loose the fashion of a man Kath. I thanke you honest Lord. Remember me In all humilitie vnto his Highnesse: Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I blest him (For so I will) mine eyes grow dimme. Farewell My Lord. Griffith farewell. Nay Patience, You must not leaue me yet. I must to bed, Call in more women. When I am dead, good Wench, Let me be vs'd with Honor; strew me ouer With Maiden Flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste Wife, to my Graue: Embalme me, Then lay me forth (although vnqueen'd) yet like A Queene, and Daughter to a King enterre me. I can no more. Exeunt. leading Katherine. ----------SCENE 2--------- Enter Katherine Dowager, sicke, lead betweene Griffith, her Gentleman Vsher, and Patience her Woman. Grif. How do's your Grace? Kath. O Griffith, sicke to death: My Legges like loaden Branches bow to'th' Earth, Willing to leaue their burthen: Reach a Chaire, So now (me thinkes) I feele a little ease. Did'st thou not tell me Griffith, as thou lead'st mee, That the great Childe of Honor, Cardinall Wolsey Was dead? Grif. Yes Madam: but I thinke your Grace Out of the paine you suffer'd, gaue no eare too't Kath. Pre'thee good Griffith, tell me how he dy'de. If well, he stept before me happily For my example Grif. Well, the voyce goes Madam, For after the stout Earle Northumberland Arrested him at Yorke, and brought him forward As a man sorely tainted, to his Answer, He fell sicke sodainly, and grew so ill He could not sit his Mule Kath. Alas poore man Grif. At last, with easie Rodes, he came to Leicester, Lodg'd in the Abbey; where the reuerend Abbot With all his Couent, honourably receiu'd him; To whom he gaue these words. O Father Abbot, An old man, broken with the stormes of State, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye: Giue him a little earth for Charity. So went to bed; where eagerly his sicknesse Pursu'd him still, and three nights after this, About the houre of eight, which he himselfe Foretold should be his last, full of Repentance, Continuall Meditations, Teares, and Sorrowes, He gaue his Honors to the world agen, His blessed part to Heauen, and slept in peace Kath. So may he rest, His Faults lye gently on him: Yet thus farre Griffith, giue me leaue to speake him, And yet with Charity. He was a man Of an vnbounded stomacke, euer ranking Himselfe with Princes. One that by suggestion Ty'de all the Kingdome. Symonie, was faire play, His owne Opinion was his Law. I'th' presence He would say vntruths, and be euer double Both in his words, and meaning. He was neuer (But where he meant to Ruine) pittifull. His Promises, were as he then was, Mighty: But his performance, as he is now, Nothing: Of his owne body he was ill, and gaue The Clergy ill example Grif. Noble Madam: Mens euill manners, liue in Brasse, their Vertues We write in Water. May it please your Highnesse To heare me speake his good now? Kath. Yes good Griffith, I were malicious else Grif. This Cardinall, Though from an humble Stocke, vndoubtedly Was fashion'd to much Honor. From his Cradle He was a Scholler, and a ripe, and good one: Exceeding wise, faire spoken, and perswading: Lofty, and sowre to them that lou'd him not: But, to those men that sought him, sweet as Summer. And though he were vnsatisfied in getting, (Which was a sinne) yet in bestowing, Madam, He was most Princely: Euer witnesse for him Those twinnes of Learning, that he rais'd in you, Ipswich and Oxford: one of which, fell with him, Vnwilling to out-liue the good that did it. The other (though vnfinish'd) yet so Famous, So excellent in Art, and still so rising, That Christendome shall euer speake his Vertue. His Ouerthrow, heap'd Happinesse vpon him: For then, and not till then, he felt himselfe, And found the Blessednesse of being little. And to adde greater Honors to his Age Then man could giue him; he dy'de, fearing God Kath. After my death, I wish no other Herald, No other speaker of my liuing Actions, To keepe mine Honor, from Corruption, But such an honest Chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated Liuing, thou hast made mee With thy Religious Truth, and Modestie, (Now in his Ashes) Honor: Peace be with him. Patience, be neere me still, and set me lower, I haue not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the Musitians play me that sad note I nam'd my Knell; whil'st I sit meditating On that Coelestiall Harmony I go too. Sad and solemne Musicke. Grif. She is asleep: Good wench, let's sit down quiet, For feare we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience. The Vision. Enter solemnely tripping one after another, sixe Personages, clad in white Robes, wearing on their heades Garlands of Bayes, and golden Vizards on their faces, Branches of Bayes or Palme in their hands. They first Conge vnto her, then Dance: and at certaine Changes, the first two hold a spare Garland ouer her Head, at which the other foure make reuerend Curtsies. Then the two that held the Garland, deliuer the same to the other next two, who obserue the same order in their Changes, and holding the Garland ouer her head. Which done, they deliuer the same Garland to the last two: who likewise obserue the same Order. At which (as it were by inspiration) she makes (in her sleepe) signes of reioycing, and holdeth vp her hands to heauen. And so, in their Dancing vanish, carrying the Garland with them. The Musicke continues. Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone? And leaue me heere in wretchednesse, behinde ye? Grif. Madam, we are heere Kath. It is not you I call for, Saw ye none enter since I slept? Grif. None Madam Kath. No? Saw you not euen now a blessed Troope Inuite me to a Banquet, whose bright faces Cast thousand beames vpon me, like the Sun? They promis'd me eternall Happinesse, And brought me Garlands (Griffith) which I feele I am not worthy yet to weare: I shall assuredly Grif. I am most ioyfull Madam, such good dreames Possesse your Fancy Kath. Bid the Musicke leaue, They are harsh and heauy to me. Musicke ceases. Pati. Do you note How much her Grace is alter'd on the sodaine? How long her face is drawne? How pale she lookes, And of an earthy cold? Marke her eyes? Grif. She is going Wench. Pray, pray Pati. Heauen comfort her. Enter a Messenger. Mes. And't like your Grace - Kath. You are a sawcy Fellow, Deserue we no more Reuerence? Grif. You are too blame, Knowing she will not loose her wonted Greatnesse To vse so rude behauiour. Go too, kneele Mes. I humbly do entreat your Highnesse pardon, My hast made me vnmannerly. There is staying A Gentleman sent from the King, to see you Kath. Admit him entrance Griffith. But this Fellow Let me ne're see againe. Exit Messeng. Enter Lord Capuchius. If my sight faile not, You should be Lord Ambassador from the Emperor, My Royall Nephew, and your name Capuchius Cap. Madam the same. Your Seruant Kath. O my Lord, The Times and Titles now are alter'd strangely With me, since first you knew me. But I pray you, What is your pleasure with me? Cap. Noble Lady, First mine owne seruice to your Grace, the next The Kings request, that I would visit you, Who greeues much for your weaknesse, and by me Sends you his Princely Commendations, And heartily entreats you take good comfort Kath. O my good Lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a Pardon after Execution; That gentle Physicke giuen in time, had cur'd me: But now I am past all Comforts heere, but Prayers. How does his Highnesse? Cap. Madam, in good health Kath. So may he euer do, and euer flourish, When I shall dwell with Wormes, and my poore name Banish'd the Kingdome. Patience, is that Letter I caus'd you write, yet sent away? Pat. No Madam Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliuer This to my Lord the King Cap. Most willing Madam Kath. In which I haue commended to his goodnesse The Modell of our chaste loues: his yong daughter, The dewes of Heauen fall thicke in Blessings on her, Beseeching him to giue her vertuous breeding. She is yong, and of a Noble modest Nature, I hope she will deserue well; and a little To loue her for her Mothers sake, that lou'd him, Heauen knowes how deerely. My next poore Petition, Is, that his Noble Grace would haue some pittie Vpon my wretched women, that so long Haue follow'd both my Fortunes, faithfully, Of which there is not one, I dare auow (And now I should not lye) but will deserue For Vertue, and true Beautie of the Soule, For honestie, and decent Carriage A right good Husband (let him be a Noble) And sure those men are happy that shall haue 'em. The last is for my men, they are the poorest, (But pouerty could neuer draw 'em from me) That they may haue their wages, duly paid 'em, And something ouer to remember me by. If Heauen had pleas'd to haue giuen me longer life And able meanes, we had not parted thus. These are the whole Contents, and good my Lord, By that you loue the deerest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to soules departed, Stand these poore peoples Friend, and vrge the King To do me this last right Cap. By Heauen I will, Or let me loose the fashion of a man Kath. I thanke you honest Lord. Remember me In all humilitie vnto his Highnesse: Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I blest him (For so I will) mine eyes grow dimme. Farewell My Lord. Griffith farewell. Nay Patience, You must not leaue me yet. I must to bed, Call in more women. When I am dead, good Wench, Let me be vs'd with Honor; strew me ouer With Maiden Flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste Wife, to my Graue: Embalme me, Then lay me forth (although vnqueen'd) yet like A Queene, and Daughter to a King enterre me. I can no more. Exeunt. leading Katherine.

Henry VIII.act 5.scene 1

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act 5 scene 1 based on the provided context.

It is one o'clock at night. Bishop Gardiner enters with his Page. Lovell rushes in. Gardiner asks why he is in haste, and Lovell reveals that Queen Anne is in labor, and it is feared that she may not survive. Gardiner says that he prays for the baby, but believes that Anne is not of good enough stock to provide the heir to the throne. He says that things will not go well for England until Anne and her two allies, Cranmer and Cromwell, are dead. Lovell points out that Cranmer and Cromwell are the two men most favored by the king. But Gardiner says that he has already told the council that Cranmer is a heretic, and the king has ordered the council to convene tomorrow morning to examine him. Gardiner says that Cranmer is a "rank weed," " And we must root him out" . The king and Suffolk enter. The king asks Lovell how Anne's labor is progressing. Lovell delivers a message from Anne asking the king to pray for her. The king is concerned and asks to be left alone. Suffolk leaves. Sir Anthony Denny brings in Cranmer, who is worried by the king's frown. The king tells Cranmer that he has heard some serious complaints about him, and that he must come before the council tomorrow morning to answer them. The king warns Cranmer that he will not be able to prove his innocence instantly, and so while the complaints are being investigated he may have to be patient and accept imprisonment in the Tower of London. Cranmer thanks the king for the warning, and says he knows he is subject to many malicious rumors. He says he does not fear anything that can be said against him, and will rely upon his truth and honesty. But the king warns him that he has powerful enemies and it is possible that corrupt witnesses will be brought to testify against him. Cranmer hopes that God and the king will protect him, or he will certainly fall into the trap that is laid for him. The king advises Cranmer to use his persuasive powers to avoid imprisonment. He gives Cranmer a ring and tells him to show it to the council if they try to imprison him. The council will then have to allow Cranmer's appeal to be heard by the king himself. Cranmer is overcome with gratitude, and weeps. The king swears he is honest and says there is not a better soul in his kingdom. Cranmer leaves. An Old Lady enters with the news that Anne has given birth. He demands to be told that it is a boy, so the Old Lady agrees that it is a boy. She quickly adds that it is, in fact, a girl who "promises boys hereafter" , and who looks exactly like him.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 1--------- Enter Gardiner Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a Torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Louell. Gard. It's one a clocke Boy, is't not Boy. It hath strooke Gard. These should be houres for necessities, Not for delights: Times to repayre our Nature With comforting repose, and not for vs To waste these times. Good houre of night Sir Thomas: Whether so late? Lou. Came you from the King, my Lord? Gar. I did Sir Thomas, and left him at Primero With the Duke of Suffolke Lou. I must to him too Before he go to bed. Ile take my leaue Gard. Not yet Sir Thomas Louell: what's the matter? It seemes you are in hast: and if there be No great offence belongs too't, giue your Friend Some touch of your late businesse: Affaires that walke (As they say Spirits do) at midnight, haue In them a wilder Nature, then the businesse That seekes dispatch by day Lou. My Lord, I loue you; And durst commend a secret to your eare Much waightier then this worke. The Queens in Labor They say in great Extremity, and fear'd Shee'l with the Labour, end Gard. The fruite she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may finde Good time, and liue: but for the Stocke Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd vp now Lou. Me thinkes I could Cry the Amen, and yet my Conscience sayes Shee's a good Creature, and sweet-Ladie do's Deserue our better wishes Gard. But Sir, Sir, Heare me Sir Thomas, y'are a Gentleman Of mine owne way. I know you Wise, Religious, And let me tell you, it will ne're be well, 'Twill not Sir Thomas Louell, tak't of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwel, her two hands, and shee Sleepe in their Graues Louell. Now Sir, you speake of two The most remark'd i'th' Kingdome: as for Cromwell, Beside that of the Iewell-House, is made Master O'th' Rolles, and the Kings Secretary. Further Sir, Stands in the gap and Trade of moe Preferments, With which the Lime will loade him. Th' Archbyshop Is the Kings hand, and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him? Gard. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that Dare, and I my selfe haue ventur'd To speake my minde of him: and indeed this day, Sir (I may tell it you) I thinke I haue Incenst the Lords o'th' Councell, that he is (For so I know he is, they know he is) A most Arch-Heretique, a Pestilence That does infect the Land: with which, they moued Haue broken with the King, who hath so farre Giuen eare to our Complaint, of his great Grace, And Princely Care, fore-seeing those fell Mischiefes, Our Reasons layd before him, hath commanded To morrow Morning to the Councell Boord He be conuented. He's a ranke weed Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your Affaires I hinder you too long: Good night, Sir Thomas. Exit Gardiner and Page. Lou. Many good nights, my Lord, I rest your seruant. Enter King and Suffolke. King. Charles, I will play no more to night, My mindes not on't, you are too hard for me Suff. Sir, I did neuer win of you before King. But little Charles, Nor shall not when my Fancies on my play. Now Louel, from the Queene what is the Newes Lou. I could not personally deliuer to her What you commanded me, but by her woman, I sent your Message, who return'd her thankes In the great'st humblenesse, and desir'd your Highnesse Most heartily to pray for her King. What say'st thou? Ha? To pray for her? What is she crying out? Lou. So said her woman, and that her suffrance made Almost each pang, a death King. Alas good Lady Suf. God safely quit her of her Burthen, and With gentle Trauaile, to the gladding of Your Highnesse with an Heire King. 'Tis midnight Charles, Prythee to bed, and in thy Prayres remember Th' estate of my poore Queene. Leaue me alone, For I must thinke of that, which company Would not be friendly too Suf. I wish your Highnesse A quiet night, and my good Mistris will Remember in my Prayers King. Charles good night. Exit Suffolke. Well Sir, what followes? Enter Sir Anthony Denny. Den. Sir, I haue brought my Lord the Arch-byshop, As you commanded me King. Ha? Canterbury? Den. I my good Lord King. 'Tis true: where is he Denny? Den. He attends your Highnesse pleasure King. Bring him to Vs Lou. This is about that, which the Byshop spake, I am happily come hither. Enter Cranmer and Denny. King. Auoyd the Gallery. Louel seemes to stay. Ha? I haue said. Be gone. What? Exeunt. Louell and Denny. Cran. I am fearefull: Wherefore frownes he thus? 'Tis his Aspect of Terror. All's not well King. How now my Lord? You do desire to know wherefore I sent for you Cran. It is my dutie T' attend your Highnesse pleasure King. Pray you arise My good and gracious Lord of Canterburie: Come, you and I must walke a turne together: I haue Newes to tell you. Come, come, giue me your hand. Ah my good Lord, I greeue at what I speake, And am right sorrie to repeat what followes. I haue, and most vnwillingly of late Heard many greeuous, I do say my Lord Greeuous complaints of you; which being consider'd, Haue mou'd Vs, and our Councell, that you shall This Morning come before vs, where I know You cannot with such freedome purge your selfe, But that till further Triall, in those Charges Which will require your Answer, you must take Your patience to you, and be well contented To make your house our Towre: you, a Brother of vs It fits we thus proceed, or else no witnesse Would come against you Cran. I humbly thanke your Highnesse, And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed, where my Chaffe And Corne shall flye asunder. For I know There's none stands vnder more calumnious tongues, Then I my selfe, poore man King. Stand vp, good Canterbury, Thy Truth, and thy Integrity is rooted In vs thy Friend. Giue me thy hand, stand vp, Prythee let's walke. Now by my Holydame, What manner of man are you? My Lord, I look'd You would haue giuen me your Petition, that I should haue tane some paines, to bring together Your selfe, and your Accusers, and to haue heard you Without indurance further Cran. Most dread Liege, The good I stand on, is my Truth and Honestie: If they shall faile, I with mine Enemies Will triumph o're my person, which I waigh not, Being of those Vertues vacant. I feare nothing What can be said against me King. Know you not How your state stands i'th' world, with the whole world? Your Enemies are many, and not small; their practises Must beare the same proportion, and not euer The Iustice and the Truth o'th' question carries The dew o'th' Verdict with it; at what ease Might corrupt mindes procure, Knaues as corrupt To sweare against you: Such things haue bene done. You are Potently oppos'd, and with a Malice Of as great Size. Weene you of better lucke, I meane in periur'd Witnesse, then your Master, Whose Minister you are, whiles heere he liu'd Vpon this naughty Earth? Go too, go too, You take a Precepit for no leape of danger, And woe your owne destruction Cran. God, and your Maiesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me King. Be of good cheere, They shall no more preuaile, then we giue way too: Keepe comfort to you, and this Morning see You do appeare before them. If they shall chance In charging you with matters, to commit you: The best perswasions to the contrary Faile not to vse, and with what vehemencie Th' occasion shall instruct you. If intreaties Will render you no remedy, this Ring Deliuer them, and your Appeale to vs There make before them. Looke, the goodman weeps: He's honest on mine Honor. Gods blest Mother, I sweare he is true-hearted, and a soule None better in my Kingdome. Get you gone, And do as I haue bid you. Exit Cranmer. He ha's strangled his Language in his teares. Enter Olde Lady. Gent. within. Come backe: what meane you? Lady. Ile not come backe, the tydings that I bring Will make my boldnesse, manners. Now good Angels Fly o're thy Royall head, and shade thy person Vnder their blessed wings King. Now by thy lookes I gesse thy Message. Is the Queene deliuer'd? Say I, and of a boy Lady. I, I my Liege, And of a louely Boy: the God of heauen Both now, and euer blesse her: 'Tis a Gyrle Promises Boyes heereafter. Sir, your Queen Desires your Visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger; 'tis as like you, As Cherry, is to Cherry King. Louell Lou. Sir King. Giue her an hundred Markes. Ile to the Queene. Exit King. Lady. An hundred Markes? By this light, Ile ha more. An ordinary Groome is for such payment. I will haue more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this, the Gyrle was like to him? Ile Haue more, or else vnsay't: and now, while 'tis hot, Ile put it to the issue. Exit Ladie. ----------SCENE 1--------- Enter Gardiner Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a Torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Louell. Gard. It's one a clocke Boy, is't not Boy. It hath strooke Gard. These should be houres for necessities, Not for delights: Times to repayre our Nature With comforting repose, and not for vs To waste these times. Good houre of night Sir Thomas: Whether so late? Lou. Came you from the King, my Lord? Gar. I did Sir Thomas, and left him at Primero With the Duke of Suffolke Lou. I must to him too Before he go to bed. Ile take my leaue Gard. Not yet Sir Thomas Louell: what's the matter? It seemes you are in hast: and if there be No great offence belongs too't, giue your Friend Some touch of your late businesse: Affaires that walke (As they say Spirits do) at midnight, haue In them a wilder Nature, then the businesse That seekes dispatch by day Lou. My Lord, I loue you; And durst commend a secret to your eare Much waightier then this worke. The Queens in Labor They say in great Extremity, and fear'd Shee'l with the Labour, end Gard. The fruite she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may finde Good time, and liue: but for the Stocke Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd vp now Lou. Me thinkes I could Cry the Amen, and yet my Conscience sayes Shee's a good Creature, and sweet-Ladie do's Deserue our better wishes Gard. But Sir, Sir, Heare me Sir Thomas, y'are a Gentleman Of mine owne way. I know you Wise, Religious, And let me tell you, it will ne're be well, 'Twill not Sir Thomas Louell, tak't of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwel, her two hands, and shee Sleepe in their Graues Louell. Now Sir, you speake of two The most remark'd i'th' Kingdome: as for Cromwell, Beside that of the Iewell-House, is made Master O'th' Rolles, and the Kings Secretary. Further Sir, Stands in the gap and Trade of moe Preferments, With which the Lime will loade him. Th' Archbyshop Is the Kings hand, and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him? Gard. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that Dare, and I my selfe haue ventur'd To speake my minde of him: and indeed this day, Sir (I may tell it you) I thinke I haue Incenst the Lords o'th' Councell, that he is (For so I know he is, they know he is) A most Arch-Heretique, a Pestilence That does infect the Land: with which, they moued Haue broken with the King, who hath so farre Giuen eare to our Complaint, of his great Grace, And Princely Care, fore-seeing those fell Mischiefes, Our Reasons layd before him, hath commanded To morrow Morning to the Councell Boord He be conuented. He's a ranke weed Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your Affaires I hinder you too long: Good night, Sir Thomas. Exit Gardiner and Page. Lou. Many good nights, my Lord, I rest your seruant. Enter King and Suffolke. King. Charles, I will play no more to night, My mindes not on't, you are too hard for me Suff. Sir, I did neuer win of you before King. But little Charles, Nor shall not when my Fancies on my play. Now Louel, from the Queene what is the Newes Lou. I could not personally deliuer to her What you commanded me, but by her woman, I sent your Message, who return'd her thankes In the great'st humblenesse, and desir'd your Highnesse Most heartily to pray for her King. What say'st thou? Ha? To pray for her? What is she crying out? Lou. So said her woman, and that her suffrance made Almost each pang, a death King. Alas good Lady Suf. God safely quit her of her Burthen, and With gentle Trauaile, to the gladding of Your Highnesse with an Heire King. 'Tis midnight Charles, Prythee to bed, and in thy Prayres remember Th' estate of my poore Queene. Leaue me alone, For I must thinke of that, which company Would not be friendly too Suf. I wish your Highnesse A quiet night, and my good Mistris will Remember in my Prayers King. Charles good night. Exit Suffolke. Well Sir, what followes? Enter Sir Anthony Denny. Den. Sir, I haue brought my Lord the Arch-byshop, As you commanded me King. Ha? Canterbury? Den. I my good Lord King. 'Tis true: where is he Denny? Den. He attends your Highnesse pleasure King. Bring him to Vs Lou. This is about that, which the Byshop spake, I am happily come hither. Enter Cranmer and Denny. King. Auoyd the Gallery. Louel seemes to stay. Ha? I haue said. Be gone. What? Exeunt. Louell and Denny. Cran. I am fearefull: Wherefore frownes he thus? 'Tis his Aspect of Terror. All's not well King. How now my Lord? You do desire to know wherefore I sent for you Cran. It is my dutie T' attend your Highnesse pleasure King. Pray you arise My good and gracious Lord of Canterburie: Come, you and I must walke a turne together: I haue Newes to tell you. Come, come, giue me your hand. Ah my good Lord, I greeue at what I speake, And am right sorrie to repeat what followes. I haue, and most vnwillingly of late Heard many greeuous, I do say my Lord Greeuous complaints of you; which being consider'd, Haue mou'd Vs, and our Councell, that you shall This Morning come before vs, where I know You cannot with such freedome purge your selfe, But that till further Triall, in those Charges Which will require your Answer, you must take Your patience to you, and be well contented To make your house our Towre: you, a Brother of vs It fits we thus proceed, or else no witnesse Would come against you Cran. I humbly thanke your Highnesse, And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed, where my Chaffe And Corne shall flye asunder. For I know There's none stands vnder more calumnious tongues, Then I my selfe, poore man King. Stand vp, good Canterbury, Thy Truth, and thy Integrity is rooted In vs thy Friend. Giue me thy hand, stand vp, Prythee let's walke. Now by my Holydame, What manner of man are you? My Lord, I look'd You would haue giuen me your Petition, that I should haue tane some paines, to bring together Your selfe, and your Accusers, and to haue heard you Without indurance further Cran. Most dread Liege, The good I stand on, is my Truth and Honestie: If they shall faile, I with mine Enemies Will triumph o're my person, which I waigh not, Being of those Vertues vacant. I feare nothing What can be said against me King. Know you not How your state stands i'th' world, with the whole world? Your Enemies are many, and not small; their practises Must beare the same proportion, and not euer The Iustice and the Truth o'th' question carries The dew o'th' Verdict with it; at what ease Might corrupt mindes procure, Knaues as corrupt To sweare against you: Such things haue bene done. You are Potently oppos'd, and with a Malice Of as great Size. Weene you of better lucke, I meane in periur'd Witnesse, then your Master, Whose Minister you are, whiles heere he liu'd Vpon this naughty Earth? Go too, go too, You take a Precepit for no leape of danger, And woe your owne destruction Cran. God, and your Maiesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me King. Be of good cheere, They shall no more preuaile, then we giue way too: Keepe comfort to you, and this Morning see You do appeare before them. If they shall chance In charging you with matters, to commit you: The best perswasions to the contrary Faile not to vse, and with what vehemencie Th' occasion shall instruct you. If intreaties Will render you no remedy, this Ring Deliuer them, and your Appeale to vs There make before them. Looke, the goodman weeps: He's honest on mine Honor. Gods blest Mother, I sweare he is true-hearted, and a soule None better in my Kingdome. Get you gone, And do as I haue bid you. Exit Cranmer. He ha's strangled his Language in his teares. Enter Olde Lady. Gent. within. Come backe: what meane you? Lady. Ile not come backe, the tydings that I bring Will make my boldnesse, manners. Now good Angels Fly o're thy Royall head, and shade thy person Vnder their blessed wings King. Now by thy lookes I gesse thy Message. Is the Queene deliuer'd? Say I, and of a boy Lady. I, I my Liege, And of a louely Boy: the God of heauen Both now, and euer blesse her: 'Tis a Gyrle Promises Boyes heereafter. Sir, your Queen Desires your Visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger; 'tis as like you, As Cherry, is to Cherry King. Louell Lou. Sir King. Giue her an hundred Markes. Ile to the Queene. Exit King. Lady. An hundred Markes? By this light, Ile ha more. An ordinary Groome is for such payment. I will haue more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this, the Gyrle was like to him? Ile Haue more, or else vnsay't: and now, while 'tis hot, Ile put it to the issue. Exit Ladie. ----------ACT 5 SCENE 1--------- Enter Gardiner Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a Torch before him, met by Sir Thomas Louell. Gard. It's one a clocke Boy, is't not Boy. It hath strooke Gard. These should be houres for necessities, Not for delights: Times to repayre our Nature With comforting repose, and not for vs To waste these times. Good houre of night Sir Thomas: Whether so late? Lou. Came you from the King, my Lord? Gar. I did Sir Thomas, and left him at Primero With the Duke of Suffolke Lou. I must to him too Before he go to bed. Ile take my leaue Gard. Not yet Sir Thomas Louell: what's the matter? It seemes you are in hast: and if there be No great offence belongs too't, giue your Friend Some touch of your late businesse: Affaires that walke (As they say Spirits do) at midnight, haue In them a wilder Nature, then the businesse That seekes dispatch by day Lou. My Lord, I loue you; And durst commend a secret to your eare Much waightier then this worke. The Queens in Labor They say in great Extremity, and fear'd Shee'l with the Labour, end Gard. The fruite she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may finde Good time, and liue: but for the Stocke Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd vp now Lou. Me thinkes I could Cry the Amen, and yet my Conscience sayes Shee's a good Creature, and sweet-Ladie do's Deserue our better wishes Gard. But Sir, Sir, Heare me Sir Thomas, y'are a Gentleman Of mine owne way. I know you Wise, Religious, And let me tell you, it will ne're be well, 'Twill not Sir Thomas Louell, tak't of me, Till Cranmer, Cromwel, her two hands, and shee Sleepe in their Graues Louell. Now Sir, you speake of two The most remark'd i'th' Kingdome: as for Cromwell, Beside that of the Iewell-House, is made Master O'th' Rolles, and the Kings Secretary. Further Sir, Stands in the gap and Trade of moe Preferments, With which the Lime will loade him. Th' Archbyshop Is the Kings hand, and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him? Gard. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that Dare, and I my selfe haue ventur'd To speake my minde of him: and indeed this day, Sir (I may tell it you) I thinke I haue Incenst the Lords o'th' Councell, that he is (For so I know he is, they know he is) A most Arch-Heretique, a Pestilence That does infect the Land: with which, they moued Haue broken with the King, who hath so farre Giuen eare to our Complaint, of his great Grace, And Princely Care, fore-seeing those fell Mischiefes, Our Reasons layd before him, hath commanded To morrow Morning to the Councell Boord He be conuented. He's a ranke weed Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your Affaires I hinder you too long: Good night, Sir Thomas. Exit Gardiner and Page. Lou. Many good nights, my Lord, I rest your seruant. Enter King and Suffolke. King. Charles, I will play no more to night, My mindes not on't, you are too hard for me Suff. Sir, I did neuer win of you before King. But little Charles, Nor shall not when my Fancies on my play. Now Louel, from the Queene what is the Newes Lou. I could not personally deliuer to her What you commanded me, but by her woman, I sent your Message, who return'd her thankes In the great'st humblenesse, and desir'd your Highnesse Most heartily to pray for her King. What say'st thou? Ha? To pray for her? What is she crying out? Lou. So said her woman, and that her suffrance made Almost each pang, a death King. Alas good Lady Suf. God safely quit her of her Burthen, and With gentle Trauaile, to the gladding of Your Highnesse with an Heire King. 'Tis midnight Charles, Prythee to bed, and in thy Prayres remember Th' estate of my poore Queene. Leaue me alone, For I must thinke of that, which company Would not be friendly too Suf. I wish your Highnesse A quiet night, and my good Mistris will Remember in my Prayers King. Charles good night. Exit Suffolke. Well Sir, what followes? Enter Sir Anthony Denny. Den. Sir, I haue brought my Lord the Arch-byshop, As you commanded me King. Ha? Canterbury? Den. I my good Lord King. 'Tis true: where is he Denny? Den. He attends your Highnesse pleasure King. Bring him to Vs Lou. This is about that, which the Byshop spake, I am happily come hither. Enter Cranmer and Denny. King. Auoyd the Gallery. Louel seemes to stay. Ha? I haue said. Be gone. What? Exeunt. Louell and Denny. Cran. I am fearefull: Wherefore frownes he thus? 'Tis his Aspect of Terror. All's not well King. How now my Lord? You do desire to know wherefore I sent for you Cran. It is my dutie T' attend your Highnesse pleasure King. Pray you arise My good and gracious Lord of Canterburie: Come, you and I must walke a turne together: I haue Newes to tell you. Come, come, giue me your hand. Ah my good Lord, I greeue at what I speake, And am right sorrie to repeat what followes. I haue, and most vnwillingly of late Heard many greeuous, I do say my Lord Greeuous complaints of you; which being consider'd, Haue mou'd Vs, and our Councell, that you shall This Morning come before vs, where I know You cannot with such freedome purge your selfe, But that till further Triall, in those Charges Which will require your Answer, you must take Your patience to you, and be well contented To make your house our Towre: you, a Brother of vs It fits we thus proceed, or else no witnesse Would come against you Cran. I humbly thanke your Highnesse, And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed, where my Chaffe And Corne shall flye asunder. For I know There's none stands vnder more calumnious tongues, Then I my selfe, poore man King. Stand vp, good Canterbury, Thy Truth, and thy Integrity is rooted In vs thy Friend. Giue me thy hand, stand vp, Prythee let's walke. Now by my Holydame, What manner of man are you? My Lord, I look'd You would haue giuen me your Petition, that I should haue tane some paines, to bring together Your selfe, and your Accusers, and to haue heard you Without indurance further Cran. Most dread Liege, The good I stand on, is my Truth and Honestie: If they shall faile, I with mine Enemies Will triumph o're my person, which I waigh not, Being of those Vertues vacant. I feare nothing What can be said against me King. Know you not How your state stands i'th' world, with the whole world? Your Enemies are many, and not small; their practises Must beare the same proportion, and not euer The Iustice and the Truth o'th' question carries The dew o'th' Verdict with it; at what ease Might corrupt mindes procure, Knaues as corrupt To sweare against you: Such things haue bene done. You are Potently oppos'd, and with a Malice Of as great Size. Weene you of better lucke, I meane in periur'd Witnesse, then your Master, Whose Minister you are, whiles heere he liu'd Vpon this naughty Earth? Go too, go too, You take a Precepit for no leape of danger, And woe your owne destruction Cran. God, and your Maiesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me King. Be of good cheere, They shall no more preuaile, then we giue way too: Keepe comfort to you, and this Morning see You do appeare before them. If they shall chance In charging you with matters, to commit you: The best perswasions to the contrary Faile not to vse, and with what vehemencie Th' occasion shall instruct you. If intreaties Will render you no remedy, this Ring Deliuer them, and your Appeale to vs There make before them. Looke, the goodman weeps: He's honest on mine Honor. Gods blest Mother, I sweare he is true-hearted, and a soule None better in my Kingdome. Get you gone, And do as I haue bid you. Exit Cranmer. He ha's strangled his Language in his teares. Enter Olde Lady. Gent. within. Come backe: what meane you? Lady. Ile not come backe, the tydings that I bring Will make my boldnesse, manners. Now good Angels Fly o're thy Royall head, and shade thy person Vnder their blessed wings King. Now by thy lookes I gesse thy Message. Is the Queene deliuer'd? Say I, and of a boy Lady. I, I my Liege, And of a louely Boy: the God of heauen Both now, and euer blesse her: 'Tis a Gyrle Promises Boyes heereafter. Sir, your Queen Desires your Visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger; 'tis as like you, As Cherry, is to Cherry King. Louell Lou. Sir King. Giue her an hundred Markes. Ile to the Queene. Exit King. Lady. An hundred Markes? By this light, Ile ha more. An ordinary Groome is for such payment. I will haue more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this, the Gyrle was like to him? Ile Haue more, or else vnsay't: and now, while 'tis hot, Ile put it to the issue. Exit Ladie.

Henry VIII.act 5.scene 2

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 5, scene 2 with the given context.

act 5, scene 2|scene 2

Rushing to the council meeting, Cranmer hopes he's not too late. He's about to go into the Council Chamber when a keeper stops him. Dr. Butts, the king's doctor, enters and remarks that there must be malice in the air. Then he leaves. Cranmer says to himself that it's strange that he--one of the council member--has to wait outside. He hopes Butts will be a pal and be nice to him. Butts and Henry look out of a window above Cranmer. Butts points out Cranmer to the king, and says it's strange for the Archbishop of Canterbury to rub elbows with pages and footboys outside. You're right, Henry says. That is Cranmer waiting outside. Wait, so that means something is not right. It's a trap! Henry decides they will hear about it later, but for now, should keep watching the council meeting from above.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 2--------- Enter Cranmer, Archbyshop of Canterbury. Cran. I hope I am not too late, and yet the Gentleman That was sent to me from the Councell, pray'd me To make great hast. All fast? What meanes this? Hoa? Who waites there? Sure you know me? Enter Keeper. Keep. Yes, my Lord: But yet I cannot helpe you Cran. Why? Keep. Your Grace must waight till you be call'd for. Enter Doctor Buts. Cran. So Buts. This is a Peere of Malice: I am glad I came this way so happily. The King Shall vnderstand it presently. Exit Buts Cran. 'Tis Buts. The Kings Physitian, as he past along How earnestly he cast his eyes vpon me: Pray heauen he found not my disgrace: for certaine This is of purpose laid by some that hate me, (God turne their hearts, I neuer sought their malice) To quench mine Honor; they would shame to make me Wait else at doore: a fellow Councellor 'Mong Boyes, Groomes, and Lackeyes. But their pleasures Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience. Enter the King, and Buts, at a Windowe aboue. Buts. Ile shew your Grace the strangest sight King. What's that Buts? Butts. I thinke your Highnesse saw this many a day Kin. Body a me: where is it? Butts. There my Lord: The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury, Who holds his State at dore 'mongst Purseuants, Pages, and Foot-boyes Kin. Ha? 'Tis he indeed. Is this the Honour they doe one another? 'Tis well there's one aboue 'em yet; I had thought They had parted so much honesty among 'em, At least good manners; as not thus to suffer A man of his Place, and so neere our fauour To dance attendance on their Lordships pleasures, And at the dore too, like a Post with Packets: By holy Mary (Butts) there's knauery; Let 'em alone, and draw the Curtaine close: We shall heare more anon. A Councell Table brought in with Chayres and Stooles, and placed vnder the State. Enter Lord Chancellour, places himselfe at the vpper end of the Table, on the left hand: A Seate being left void aboue him, as for Canterburies Seate. Duke of Suffolke, Duke of Norfolke, Surrey, Lord Chamberlaine, Gardiner, seat themselues in Order on each side. Cromwell at lower end, as Secretary. Chan. Speake to the businesse, M[aster]. Secretary; Why are we met in Councell? Crom. Please your Honours, The chiefe cause concernes his Grace of Canterbury Gard. Ha's he had knowledge of it? Crom. Yes Norf. Who waits there? Keep. Without my Noble Lords? Gard. Yes Keep. My Lord Archbishop: And ha's done halfe an houre to know your pleasures Chan. Let him come in Keep. Your Grace may enter now. Cranmer approches the Councell Table. Chan. My good Lord Archbishop, I'm very sorry To sit heere at this present, and behold That Chayre stand empty: But we all are men In our owne natures fraile, and capable Of our flesh, few are Angels; out of which frailty And want of wisedome, you that best should teach vs, Haue misdemean'd your selfe, and not a little: Toward the King first, then his Lawes, in filling The whole Realme, by your teaching & your Chaplaines (For so we are inform'd) with new opinions, Diuers and dangerous; which are Heresies; And not reform'd, may proue pernicious Gard. Which Reformation must be sodaine too My Noble Lords; for those that tame wild Horses, Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle; But stop their mouthes with stubborn Bits & spurre 'em, Till they obey the mannage. If we suffer Out of our easinesse and childish pitty To one mans Honour, this contagious sicknesse; Farewell all Physicke: and what followes then? Commotions, vprores, with a generall Taint Of the whole State; as of late dayes our neighbours, The vpper Germany can deerely witnesse: Yet freshly pittied in our memories Cran. My good Lords; Hitherto, in all the Progresse Both of my Life and Office, I haue labour'd, And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my Authority, Might goe one way, and safely; and the end Was euer to doe well: nor is there liuing, (I speake it with a single heart, my Lords) A man that more detests, more stirres against, Both in his priuate Conscience, and his place, Defacers of a publique peace then I doe: Pray Heauen the King may neuer find a heart With lesse Allegeance in it. Men that make Enuy, and crooked malice, nourishment; Dare bite the best. I doe beseech your, Lordships, That in this case of Iustice, my Accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face, And freely vrge against me Suff. Nay, my Lord, That cannot be; you are a Counsellor, And by that vertue no man dare accuse you Gard. My Lord, because we haue busines of more moment, We will be short with you. 'Tis his Highnesse pleasure And our consent, for better tryall of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower, Where being but a priuate man againe, You shall know many dare accuse you boldly, More then (I feare) you are prouided for Cran. Ah my good Lord of Winchester: I thanke you, You are alwayes my good Friend, if your will passe, I shall both finde your Lordship, Iudge and Iuror, You are so mercifull. I see your end, 'Tis my vndoing. Loue and meekenesse, Lord Become a Churchman, better then Ambition: Win straying Soules with modesty againe, Cast none away: That I shall cleere my selfe, Lay all the weight ye can vpon my patience, I make as little doubt as you doe conscience, In doing dayly wrongs. I could say more, But reuerence to your calling, makes me modest Gard. My Lord, my Lord, you are a Sectary, That's the plaine truth; your painted glosse discouers To men that vnderstand you, words and weaknesse Crom. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little, By your good fauour, too sharpe; Men so Noble, How euer faulty, yet should finde respect For what they haue beene: 'tis a cruelty, To load a falling man Gard. Good M[aster]. Secretary, I cry your Honour mercie; you may worst Of all this Table say so Crom. Why my Lord? Gard. Doe not I know you for a Fauourer Of this new Sect? ye are not sound Crom. Not sound? Gard. Not sound I say Crom. Would you were halfe so honest: Mens prayers then would seeke you, not their feares Gard. I shall remember this bold Language Crom. Doe. Remember your bold life too Cham. This is too much; Forbeare for shame my Lords Gard. I haue done Crom. And I Cham. Then thus for you my Lord, it stands agreed I take it, by all voyces: That forthwith, You be conuaid to th' Tower a Prisoner; There to remaine till the Kings further pleasure Be knowne vnto vs: are you all agreed Lords All. We are Cran. Is there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to th' Tower my Lords? Gard. What other, Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome: Let some o'th' Guard be ready there. Enter the Guard. Cran. For me? Must I goe like a Traytor thither? Gard. Receiue him, And see him safe i'th' Tower Cran. Stay good my Lords, I haue a little yet to say. Looke there my Lords, By vertue of that Ring, I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruell men, and giue it To a most Noble Iudge, the King my Maister Cham. This is the Kings Ring Sur. 'Tis no counterfeit Suff. 'Ts the right Ring, by Heau'n: I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a rowling, 'Twold fall vpon our selues Norf. Doe you thinke my Lords The King will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? Cham. Tis now too certaine; How much more is his Life in value with him? Would I were fairely out on't Crom. My mind gaue me, In seeking tales and Informations Against this man, whose honesty the Diuell And his Disciples onely enuy at, Ye blew the fire that burnes ye: now haue at ye. Enter King frowning on them, takes his Seate. Gard. Dread Soueraigne, How much are we bound to Heauen, In dayly thankes, that gaue vs such a Prince; Not onely good and wise, but most religious: One that in all obedience, makes the Church The cheefe ayme of his Honour, and to strengthen That holy duty out of deare respect, His Royall selfe in Iudgement comes to heare The cause betwixt her, and this great offender Kin. You were euer good at sodaine Commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not To heare such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin, and base to hide offences, To me you cannot reach. You play the Spaniell, And thinke with wagging of your tongue to win me: But whatsoere thou tak'st me for; I'm sure Thou hast a cruell Nature and a bloody. Good man sit downe: Now let me see the proudest Hee, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee. By all that's holy, he had better starue, Then but once thinke his place becomes thee not Sur. May it please your Grace; - Kin. No Sir, it doe's not please me, I had thought, I had had men of some vnderstanding, And wisedome of my Councell; but I finde none: Was it discretion Lords, to let this man, This good man (few of you deserue that Title) This honest man, wait like a lowsie Foot-boy At Chamber dore? and one, as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this? Did my Commission Bid ye so farre forget your selues? I gaue ye Power, as he was a Counsellour to try him, Not as a Groome: There's some of ye, I see, More out of Malice then Integrity, Would trye him to the vtmost, had ye meane, Which ye shall neuer haue while I liue Chan. Thus farre My most dread Soueraigne, may it like your Grace, To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos'd Concerning his Imprisonment, was rather (If there be faith in men) meant for his Tryall, And faire purgation to the world then malice, I'm sure in me Kin. Well, well my Lords respect him, Take him, and vse him well; hee's worthy of it. I will say thus much for him, if a Prince May be beholding to a Subiect; I Am for his loue and seruice, so to him. Make me no more adoe, but all embrace him; Be friends for shame my Lords: My Lord of Canterbury I haue a Suite which you must not deny mee. That is, a faire young Maid that yet wants Baptisme, You must be Godfather, and answere for her Cran. The greatest Monarch now aliue may glory In such an honour: how may I deserue it, That am a poore and humble Subiect to you? Kin. Come, come my Lord, you'd spare your spoones; You shall haue two noble Partners with you: the old Duchesse of Norfolke, and Lady Marquesse Dorset? will these please you? Once more my Lord of Winchester, I charge you Embrace, and loue this man Gard. With a true heart, And Brother; loue I doe it Cran. And let Heauen Witnesse how deare, I hold this Confirmation Kin. Good Man, those ioyfull teares shew thy true hearts, The common voyce I see is verified Of thee, which sayes thus: Doe my Lord of Canterbury A shrewd turne, and hee's your friend for euer: Come Lords, we trifle time away: I long To haue this young one made a Christian. As I haue made ye one Lords, one remaine: So I grow stronger, you more Honour gaine. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 2--------- Enter Cranmer, Archbyshop of Canterbury. Cran. I hope I am not too late, and yet the Gentleman That was sent to me from the Councell, pray'd me To make great hast. All fast? What meanes this? Hoa? Who waites there? Sure you know me? Enter Keeper. Keep. Yes, my Lord: But yet I cannot helpe you Cran. Why? Keep. Your Grace must waight till you be call'd for. Enter Doctor Buts. Cran. So Buts. This is a Peere of Malice: I am glad I came this way so happily. The King Shall vnderstand it presently. Exit Buts Cran. 'Tis Buts. The Kings Physitian, as he past along How earnestly he cast his eyes vpon me: Pray heauen he found not my disgrace: for certaine This is of purpose laid by some that hate me, (God turne their hearts, I neuer sought their malice) To quench mine Honor; they would shame to make me Wait else at doore: a fellow Councellor 'Mong Boyes, Groomes, and Lackeyes. But their pleasures Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience. Enter the King, and Buts, at a Windowe aboue. Buts. Ile shew your Grace the strangest sight King. What's that Buts? Butts. I thinke your Highnesse saw this many a day Kin. Body a me: where is it? Butts. There my Lord: The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury, Who holds his State at dore 'mongst Purseuants, Pages, and Foot-boyes Kin. Ha? 'Tis he indeed. Is this the Honour they doe one another? 'Tis well there's one aboue 'em yet; I had thought They had parted so much honesty among 'em, At least good manners; as not thus to suffer A man of his Place, and so neere our fauour To dance attendance on their Lordships pleasures, And at the dore too, like a Post with Packets: By holy Mary (Butts) there's knauery; Let 'em alone, and draw the Curtaine close: We shall heare more anon. A Councell Table brought in with Chayres and Stooles, and placed vnder the State. Enter Lord Chancellour, places himselfe at the vpper end of the Table, on the left hand: A Seate being left void aboue him, as for Canterburies Seate. Duke of Suffolke, Duke of Norfolke, Surrey, Lord Chamberlaine, Gardiner, seat themselues in Order on each side. Cromwell at lower end, as Secretary. Chan. Speake to the businesse, M[aster]. Secretary; Why are we met in Councell? Crom. Please your Honours, The chiefe cause concernes his Grace of Canterbury Gard. Ha's he had knowledge of it? Crom. Yes Norf. Who waits there? Keep. Without my Noble Lords? Gard. Yes Keep. My Lord Archbishop: And ha's done halfe an houre to know your pleasures Chan. Let him come in Keep. Your Grace may enter now. Cranmer approches the Councell Table. Chan. My good Lord Archbishop, I'm very sorry To sit heere at this present, and behold That Chayre stand empty: But we all are men In our owne natures fraile, and capable Of our flesh, few are Angels; out of which frailty And want of wisedome, you that best should teach vs, Haue misdemean'd your selfe, and not a little: Toward the King first, then his Lawes, in filling The whole Realme, by your teaching & your Chaplaines (For so we are inform'd) with new opinions, Diuers and dangerous; which are Heresies; And not reform'd, may proue pernicious Gard. Which Reformation must be sodaine too My Noble Lords; for those that tame wild Horses, Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle; But stop their mouthes with stubborn Bits & spurre 'em, Till they obey the mannage. If we suffer Out of our easinesse and childish pitty To one mans Honour, this contagious sicknesse; Farewell all Physicke: and what followes then? Commotions, vprores, with a generall Taint Of the whole State; as of late dayes our neighbours, The vpper Germany can deerely witnesse: Yet freshly pittied in our memories Cran. My good Lords; Hitherto, in all the Progresse Both of my Life and Office, I haue labour'd, And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my Authority, Might goe one way, and safely; and the end Was euer to doe well: nor is there liuing, (I speake it with a single heart, my Lords) A man that more detests, more stirres against, Both in his priuate Conscience, and his place, Defacers of a publique peace then I doe: Pray Heauen the King may neuer find a heart With lesse Allegeance in it. Men that make Enuy, and crooked malice, nourishment; Dare bite the best. I doe beseech your, Lordships, That in this case of Iustice, my Accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face, And freely vrge against me Suff. Nay, my Lord, That cannot be; you are a Counsellor, And by that vertue no man dare accuse you Gard. My Lord, because we haue busines of more moment, We will be short with you. 'Tis his Highnesse pleasure And our consent, for better tryall of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower, Where being but a priuate man againe, You shall know many dare accuse you boldly, More then (I feare) you are prouided for Cran. Ah my good Lord of Winchester: I thanke you, You are alwayes my good Friend, if your will passe, I shall both finde your Lordship, Iudge and Iuror, You are so mercifull. I see your end, 'Tis my vndoing. Loue and meekenesse, Lord Become a Churchman, better then Ambition: Win straying Soules with modesty againe, Cast none away: That I shall cleere my selfe, Lay all the weight ye can vpon my patience, I make as little doubt as you doe conscience, In doing dayly wrongs. I could say more, But reuerence to your calling, makes me modest Gard. My Lord, my Lord, you are a Sectary, That's the plaine truth; your painted glosse discouers To men that vnderstand you, words and weaknesse Crom. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little, By your good fauour, too sharpe; Men so Noble, How euer faulty, yet should finde respect For what they haue beene: 'tis a cruelty, To load a falling man Gard. Good M[aster]. Secretary, I cry your Honour mercie; you may worst Of all this Table say so Crom. Why my Lord? Gard. Doe not I know you for a Fauourer Of this new Sect? ye are not sound Crom. Not sound? Gard. Not sound I say Crom. Would you were halfe so honest: Mens prayers then would seeke you, not their feares Gard. I shall remember this bold Language Crom. Doe. Remember your bold life too Cham. This is too much; Forbeare for shame my Lords Gard. I haue done Crom. And I Cham. Then thus for you my Lord, it stands agreed I take it, by all voyces: That forthwith, You be conuaid to th' Tower a Prisoner; There to remaine till the Kings further pleasure Be knowne vnto vs: are you all agreed Lords All. We are Cran. Is there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to th' Tower my Lords? Gard. What other, Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome: Let some o'th' Guard be ready there. Enter the Guard. Cran. For me? Must I goe like a Traytor thither? Gard. Receiue him, And see him safe i'th' Tower Cran. Stay good my Lords, I haue a little yet to say. Looke there my Lords, By vertue of that Ring, I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruell men, and giue it To a most Noble Iudge, the King my Maister Cham. This is the Kings Ring Sur. 'Tis no counterfeit Suff. 'Ts the right Ring, by Heau'n: I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a rowling, 'Twold fall vpon our selues Norf. Doe you thinke my Lords The King will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? Cham. Tis now too certaine; How much more is his Life in value with him? Would I were fairely out on't Crom. My mind gaue me, In seeking tales and Informations Against this man, whose honesty the Diuell And his Disciples onely enuy at, Ye blew the fire that burnes ye: now haue at ye. Enter King frowning on them, takes his Seate. Gard. Dread Soueraigne, How much are we bound to Heauen, In dayly thankes, that gaue vs such a Prince; Not onely good and wise, but most religious: One that in all obedience, makes the Church The cheefe ayme of his Honour, and to strengthen That holy duty out of deare respect, His Royall selfe in Iudgement comes to heare The cause betwixt her, and this great offender Kin. You were euer good at sodaine Commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not To heare such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin, and base to hide offences, To me you cannot reach. You play the Spaniell, And thinke with wagging of your tongue to win me: But whatsoere thou tak'st me for; I'm sure Thou hast a cruell Nature and a bloody. Good man sit downe: Now let me see the proudest Hee, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee. By all that's holy, he had better starue, Then but once thinke his place becomes thee not Sur. May it please your Grace; - Kin. No Sir, it doe's not please me, I had thought, I had had men of some vnderstanding, And wisedome of my Councell; but I finde none: Was it discretion Lords, to let this man, This good man (few of you deserue that Title) This honest man, wait like a lowsie Foot-boy At Chamber dore? and one, as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this? Did my Commission Bid ye so farre forget your selues? I gaue ye Power, as he was a Counsellour to try him, Not as a Groome: There's some of ye, I see, More out of Malice then Integrity, Would trye him to the vtmost, had ye meane, Which ye shall neuer haue while I liue Chan. Thus farre My most dread Soueraigne, may it like your Grace, To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos'd Concerning his Imprisonment, was rather (If there be faith in men) meant for his Tryall, And faire purgation to the world then malice, I'm sure in me Kin. Well, well my Lords respect him, Take him, and vse him well; hee's worthy of it. I will say thus much for him, if a Prince May be beholding to a Subiect; I Am for his loue and seruice, so to him. Make me no more adoe, but all embrace him; Be friends for shame my Lords: My Lord of Canterbury I haue a Suite which you must not deny mee. That is, a faire young Maid that yet wants Baptisme, You must be Godfather, and answere for her Cran. The greatest Monarch now aliue may glory In such an honour: how may I deserue it, That am a poore and humble Subiect to you? Kin. Come, come my Lord, you'd spare your spoones; You shall haue two noble Partners with you: the old Duchesse of Norfolke, and Lady Marquesse Dorset? will these please you? Once more my Lord of Winchester, I charge you Embrace, and loue this man Gard. With a true heart, And Brother; loue I doe it Cran. And let Heauen Witnesse how deare, I hold this Confirmation Kin. Good Man, those ioyfull teares shew thy true hearts, The common voyce I see is verified Of thee, which sayes thus: Doe my Lord of Canterbury A shrewd turne, and hee's your friend for euer: Come Lords, we trifle time away: I long To haue this young one made a Christian. As I haue made ye one Lords, one remaine: So I grow stronger, you more Honour gaine. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 5.scene 3

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for scene 3 based on the provided context.

The council is in session with the Lord Chancellor presiding over it. Cranmer is summoned inside and informed that he has been changed with spreading heresies in the kingdom. Since these may prove dangerous Gardiner proposes swift and strong action to deal with the situation. Cranmer denies the accusations and requests to be brought face to face with his accusers. His request is denied, followed by a heated argument between Gardiner and Cromwell with the former accusing the latter of being in favor of the new sect espoused by Cranmer. The chancellor brings the meeting to order and it is decided that Cranmer be confined to the Tower. Cranmer pleads with them to reconsider but it is to no avail. Finally he brings out the Kings ring and asks to be judged by the King himself. The counselors recognize the ring as indeed being the kings and regret bringing Cranmer to trial, for now they fear the Kings displeasure. The King enters and Gardiner tries to placate the angry monarch but without success. He expresses his displeasure at their harsh treatment of one of their fellow counselors. He then praises Cranmer and commend them all to befriend him. When this is done, the King request Cranmer to baptize his daughter and to be one of her god parents.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 3--------- Noyse and Tumult within: Enter Porter and his man. Port. You'l leaue your noyse anon ye Rascals: doe you take the Court for Parish Garden: ye rude Slaues, leaue your gaping Within. Good M[aster]. Porter I belong to th' Larder Port. Belong to th' Gallowes, and be hang'd ye Rogue: Is this a place to roare in? Fetch me a dozen Crab-tree staues, and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em: Ile scratch your heads; you must be seeing Christenings? Do you looke for Ale, and Cakes heere, you rude Raskalls? Man. Pray Sir be patient; 'tis as much impossible, Vnlesse wee sweepe 'em from the dore with Cannons, To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleepe On May-day Morning, which will neuer be: We may as well push against Powles as stirre 'em Por. How got they in, and be hang'd? Man. Alas I know not, how gets the Tide in? As much as one sound Cudgell of foure foote, (You see the poore remainder) could distribute, I made no spare Sir Port. You did nothing Sir Man. I am not Sampson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand, To mow 'em downe before me: but if I spar'd any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or shee, Cuckold or Cuckold-maker: Let me ne're hope to see a Chine againe, And that I would not for a Cow, God saue her Within. Do you heare M[aster]. Porter? Port. I shall be with you presently, good M[aster]. Puppy, Keepe the dore close Sirha Man. What would you haue me doe? Por. What should you doe, But knock 'em downe by th' dozens? Is this More fields to muster in? Or haue wee some strange Indian with the great Toole, come to Court, the women so besiege vs? Bless me, what a fry of Fornication is at dore? On my Christian Conscience this one Christening will beget a thousand, here will bee Father, God-father, and all together Man. The Spoones will be the bigger Sir: There is a fellow somewhat neere the doore, he should be a Brasier by his face, for o' my conscience twenty of the Dogdayes now reigne in's Nose; all that stand about him are vnder the Line, they need no other pennance: that FireDrake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his Nose discharged against mee; hee stands there like a Morter-piece to blow vs. There was a Habberdashers Wife of small wit, neere him, that rail'd vpon me, till her pinck'd porrenger fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the State. I mist the Meteor once, and hit that Woman, who cryed out Clubbes, when I might see from farre, some forty Truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o'th' Strond where she was quartered; they fell on, I made good my place; at length they came to th' broome staffe to me, I defide 'em stil, when sodainly a File of Boyes behind 'em, loose shot, deliuer'd such a showre of Pibbles, that I was faine to draw mine Honour in, and let 'em win the Worke, the Diuell was amongst 'em I thinke surely Por. These are the youths that thunder at a Playhouse, and fight for bitten Apples, that no Audience but the tribulation of Tower Hill, or the Limbes of Limehouse, their deare Brothers are able to endure. I haue some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three dayes; besides the running Banquet of two Beadles, that is to come. Enter Lord Chamberlaine. Cham. Mercy o' me: what a Multitude are heere? They grow still too; from all Parts they are comming, As if we kept a Faire heere? Where are these Porters? These lazy knaues? Y'haue made a fine hand fellowes? Theres a trim rabble let in: are all these Your faithfull friends o'th' Suburbs? We shall haue Great store of roome no doubt, left for the Ladies, When they passe backe from the Christening? Por. And't please your Honour, We are but men; and what so many may doe, Not being torne a pieces, we haue done: An Army cannot rule 'em Cham. As I liue, If the King blame me for't; Ile lay ye all By th' heeles, and sodainly: and on your heads Clap round Fines for neglect: y'are lazy knaues, And heere ye lye baiting of Bombards, when Ye should doe Seruice. Harke the Trumpets sound, Th'are come already from the Christening, Go breake among the preasse, and finde away out To let the Troope passe fairely; or Ile finde A Marshallsey, shall hold ye play these two Monthes Por. Make way there, for the Princesse Man. You great fellow, Stand close vp, or Ile make your head ake Por. You i'th' Chamblet, get vp o'th' raile, Ile pecke you o're the pales else. Exeunt. ----------SCENE 3--------- Noyse and Tumult within: Enter Porter and his man. Port. You'l leaue your noyse anon ye Rascals: doe you take the Court for Parish Garden: ye rude Slaues, leaue your gaping Within. Good M[aster]. Porter I belong to th' Larder Port. Belong to th' Gallowes, and be hang'd ye Rogue: Is this a place to roare in? Fetch me a dozen Crab-tree staues, and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em: Ile scratch your heads; you must be seeing Christenings? Do you looke for Ale, and Cakes heere, you rude Raskalls? Man. Pray Sir be patient; 'tis as much impossible, Vnlesse wee sweepe 'em from the dore with Cannons, To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleepe On May-day Morning, which will neuer be: We may as well push against Powles as stirre 'em Por. How got they in, and be hang'd? Man. Alas I know not, how gets the Tide in? As much as one sound Cudgell of foure foote, (You see the poore remainder) could distribute, I made no spare Sir Port. You did nothing Sir Man. I am not Sampson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colebrand, To mow 'em downe before me: but if I spar'd any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or shee, Cuckold or Cuckold-maker: Let me ne're hope to see a Chine againe, And that I would not for a Cow, God saue her Within. Do you heare M[aster]. Porter? Port. I shall be with you presently, good M[aster]. Puppy, Keepe the dore close Sirha Man. What would you haue me doe? Por. What should you doe, But knock 'em downe by th' dozens? Is this More fields to muster in? Or haue wee some strange Indian with the great Toole, come to Court, the women so besiege vs? Bless me, what a fry of Fornication is at dore? On my Christian Conscience this one Christening will beget a thousand, here will bee Father, God-father, and all together Man. The Spoones will be the bigger Sir: There is a fellow somewhat neere the doore, he should be a Brasier by his face, for o' my conscience twenty of the Dogdayes now reigne in's Nose; all that stand about him are vnder the Line, they need no other pennance: that FireDrake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his Nose discharged against mee; hee stands there like a Morter-piece to blow vs. There was a Habberdashers Wife of small wit, neere him, that rail'd vpon me, till her pinck'd porrenger fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the State. I mist the Meteor once, and hit that Woman, who cryed out Clubbes, when I might see from farre, some forty Truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o'th' Strond where she was quartered; they fell on, I made good my place; at length they came to th' broome staffe to me, I defide 'em stil, when sodainly a File of Boyes behind 'em, loose shot, deliuer'd such a showre of Pibbles, that I was faine to draw mine Honour in, and let 'em win the Worke, the Diuell was amongst 'em I thinke surely Por. These are the youths that thunder at a Playhouse, and fight for bitten Apples, that no Audience but the tribulation of Tower Hill, or the Limbes of Limehouse, their deare Brothers are able to endure. I haue some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three dayes; besides the running Banquet of two Beadles, that is to come. Enter Lord Chamberlaine. Cham. Mercy o' me: what a Multitude are heere? They grow still too; from all Parts they are comming, As if we kept a Faire heere? Where are these Porters? These lazy knaues? Y'haue made a fine hand fellowes? Theres a trim rabble let in: are all these Your faithfull friends o'th' Suburbs? We shall haue Great store of roome no doubt, left for the Ladies, When they passe backe from the Christening? Por. And't please your Honour, We are but men; and what so many may doe, Not being torne a pieces, we haue done: An Army cannot rule 'em Cham. As I liue, If the King blame me for't; Ile lay ye all By th' heeles, and sodainly: and on your heads Clap round Fines for neglect: y'are lazy knaues, And heere ye lye baiting of Bombards, when Ye should doe Seruice. Harke the Trumpets sound, Th'are come already from the Christening, Go breake among the preasse, and finde away out To let the Troope passe fairely; or Ile finde A Marshallsey, shall hold ye play these two Monthes Por. Make way there, for the Princesse Man. You great fellow, Stand close vp, or Ile make your head ake Por. You i'th' Chamblet, get vp o'th' raile, Ile pecke you o're the pales else. Exeunt.

Henry VIII.act 5.scene 4

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for scene 4 based on the provided context.

The common people are crowding the palace court, eager to witness the new princes at her christening. The Porter and his man attempt vainly to bring the multitude to order. The people are imperious to authority and have overpowered those who tried to hold them back. An angry lord Chamberlain informs the porter that if the King blames him for this mob, he will ensure that the porters are imprisoned. As the royal party comes out after the christening, the porter and his man part the crowd to ensure their unhindered progress.

----------ACT 5, SCENE 4--------- Enter Trumpets sounding: Then two Aldermen, L[ord]. Maior, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolke with his Marshals Staffe, Duke of Suffolke, two Noblemen, bearing great standing Bowles for the Christening Guifts: Then foure Noblemen bearing a Canopy, vnder which the Dutchesse of Norfolke, Godmother, bearing the Childe richly habited in a Mantle, &c. Traine borne by a Lady: Then followes the Marchionesse Dorset, the other Godmother, and Ladies. The Troope passe once about the Stage, and Garter speakes. Gart. Heauen From thy endlesse goodnesse, send prosperous life, Long, and euer happie, to the high and Mighty Princesse of England Elizabeth. Flourish. Enter King and Guard. Cran. And to your Royall Grace, & the good Queen, My Noble Partners, and my selfe thus pray All comfort, ioy in this most gracious Lady, Heauen euer laid vp to make Parents happy, May hourely fall vpon ye Kin. Thanke you good Lord Archbishop: What is her Name? Cran. Elizabeth Kin. Stand vp Lord, With this Kisse, take my Blessing: God protect thee, Into whose hand, I giue thy Life Cran. Amen Kin. My Noble Gossips, y'haue beene too Prodigall; I thanke ye heartily: So shall this Lady, When she ha's so much English Cran. Let me speake Sir, For Heauen now bids me; and the words I vtter, Let none thinke Flattery; for they'l finde 'em Truth. This Royall Infant, Heauen still moue about her; Though in her Cradle; yet now promises Vpon this Land a thousand thousand Blessings, Which Time shall bring to ripenesse: She shall be, (But few now liuing can behold that goodnesse) A Patterne to all Princes liuing with her, And all that shall succeed: Saba was neuer More couetous of Wisedome, and faire Vertue Then this pure Soule shall be. All Princely Graces That mould vp such a mighty Piece as this is, With all the Vertues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall Nurse her, Holy and Heauenly thoughts still Counsell her: She shall be lou'd and fear'd. Her owne shall blesse her; Her Foes shake like a Field of beaten Corne, And hang their heads with sorrow: Good growes with her. In her dayes, Euery Man shall eate in safety, Vnder his owne Vine what he plants; and sing The merry Songs of Peace to all his Neighbours. God shall be truely knowne, and those about her, From her shall read the perfect way of Honour, And by those claime their greatnesse; not by Blood. Nor shall this peace sleepe with her: But as when The Bird of Wonder dyes, the Mayden Phoenix, Her Ashes new create another Heyre, As great in admiration as her selfe. So shall she leaue her Blessednesse to One, (When Heauen shal call her from this clowd of darknes) Who, from the sacred Ashes of her Honour Shall Star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Loue, Truth, Terror, That were the Seruants to this chosen Infant, Shall then be his, and like a Vine grow to him; Where euer the bright Sunne of Heauen shall shine, His Honour, and the greatnesse of his Name, Shall be, and make new Nations. He shall flourish, And like a Mountaine Cedar, reach his branches, To all the Plaines about him: Our Childrens Children Shall see this, and blesse Heauen Kin. Thou speakest wonders Cran. She shall be to the happinesse of England, An aged Princesse; many dayes shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to Crowne it. Would I had knowne no more: But she must dye, She must, the Saints must haue her; yet a Virgin, A most vnspotted Lilly shall she passe To th' ground, and all the World shall mourne her Kin. O Lord Archbishop Thou hast made me now a man, neuer before This happy Child, did I get any thing. This Oracle of comfort, ha's so pleas'd me, That when I am in Heauen, I shall desire To see what this Child does, and praise my Maker. I thanke ye all. To you my good Lord Maior, And you good Brethren, I am much beholding: I haue receiu'd much Honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankfull. Lead the way Lords, Ye must all see the Queene, and she must thanke ye, She will be sicke els. This day, no man thinke 'Has businesse at his house; for all shall stay: This Little-One shall make it Holy-day. Exeunt. THE EPILOGVE. Tis ten to one, this Play can neuer please All that are heere: Some come to take their ease, And sleepe an Act or two; but those we feare W'haue frighted with our Trumpets: so 'tis cleare, They'l say tis naught. Others to heare the City Abus'd extreamly, and to cry that's witty, Which wee haue not done neither; that I feare All the expected good w'are like to heare. For this Play at this time, is onely in The mercifull construction of good women, For such a one we shew'd 'em: If they smile, And say twill doe; I know within a while, All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap, If they hold, when their Ladies bid 'em clap. ----------SCENE 4--------- Enter Trumpets sounding: Then two Aldermen, L[ord]. Maior, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolke with his Marshals Staffe, Duke of Suffolke, two Noblemen, bearing great standing Bowles for the Christening Guifts: Then foure Noblemen bearing a Canopy, vnder which the Dutchesse of Norfolke, Godmother, bearing the Childe richly habited in a Mantle, &c. Traine borne by a Lady: Then followes the Marchionesse Dorset, the other Godmother, and Ladies. The Troope passe once about the Stage, and Garter speakes. Gart. Heauen From thy endlesse goodnesse, send prosperous life, Long, and euer happie, to the high and Mighty Princesse of England Elizabeth. Flourish. Enter King and Guard. Cran. And to your Royall Grace, & the good Queen, My Noble Partners, and my selfe thus pray All comfort, ioy in this most gracious Lady, Heauen euer laid vp to make Parents happy, May hourely fall vpon ye Kin. Thanke you good Lord Archbishop: What is her Name? Cran. Elizabeth Kin. Stand vp Lord, With this Kisse, take my Blessing: God protect thee, Into whose hand, I giue thy Life Cran. Amen Kin. My Noble Gossips, y'haue beene too Prodigall; I thanke ye heartily: So shall this Lady, When she ha's so much English Cran. Let me speake Sir, For Heauen now bids me; and the words I vtter, Let none thinke Flattery; for they'l finde 'em Truth. This Royall Infant, Heauen still moue about her; Though in her Cradle; yet now promises Vpon this Land a thousand thousand Blessings, Which Time shall bring to ripenesse: She shall be, (But few now liuing can behold that goodnesse) A Patterne to all Princes liuing with her, And all that shall succeed: Saba was neuer More couetous of Wisedome, and faire Vertue Then this pure Soule shall be. All Princely Graces That mould vp such a mighty Piece as this is, With all the Vertues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall Nurse her, Holy and Heauenly thoughts still Counsell her: She shall be lou'd and fear'd. Her owne shall blesse her; Her Foes shake like a Field of beaten Corne, And hang their heads with sorrow: Good growes with her. In her dayes, Euery Man shall eate in safety, Vnder his owne Vine what he plants; and sing The merry Songs of Peace to all his Neighbours. God shall be truely knowne, and those about her, From her shall read the perfect way of Honour, And by those claime their greatnesse; not by Blood. Nor shall this peace sleepe with her: But as when The Bird of Wonder dyes, the Mayden Phoenix, Her Ashes new create another Heyre, As great in admiration as her selfe. So shall she leaue her Blessednesse to One, (When Heauen shal call her from this clowd of darknes) Who, from the sacred Ashes of her Honour Shall Star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Loue, Truth, Terror, That were the Seruants to this chosen Infant, Shall then be his, and like a Vine grow to him; Where euer the bright Sunne of Heauen shall shine, His Honour, and the greatnesse of his Name, Shall be, and make new Nations. He shall flourish, And like a Mountaine Cedar, reach his branches, To all the Plaines about him: Our Childrens Children Shall see this, and blesse Heauen Kin. Thou speakest wonders Cran. She shall be to the happinesse of England, An aged Princesse; many dayes shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to Crowne it. Would I had knowne no more: But she must dye, She must, the Saints must haue her; yet a Virgin, A most vnspotted Lilly shall she passe To th' ground, and all the World shall mourne her Kin. O Lord Archbishop Thou hast made me now a man, neuer before This happy Child, did I get any thing. This Oracle of comfort, ha's so pleas'd me, That when I am in Heauen, I shall desire To see what this Child does, and praise my Maker. I thanke ye all. To you my good Lord Maior, And you good Brethren, I am much beholding: I haue receiu'd much Honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankfull. Lead the way Lords, Ye must all see the Queene, and she must thanke ye, She will be sicke els. This day, no man thinke 'Has businesse at his house; for all shall stay: This Little-One shall make it Holy-day. Exeunt. THE EPILOGVE. Tis ten to one, this Play can neuer please All that are heere: Some come to take their ease, And sleepe an Act or two; but those we feare W'haue frighted with our Trumpets: so 'tis cleare, They'l say tis naught. Others to heare the City Abus'd extreamly, and to cry that's witty, Which wee haue not done neither; that I feare All the expected good w'are like to heare. For this Play at this time, is onely in The mercifull construction of good women, For such a one we shew'd 'em: If they smile, And say twill doe; I know within a while, All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap, If they hold, when their Ladies bid 'em clap.

Henry VIII.act ii.scene i

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for act ii, scene iii based on the provided context.

Anne Bullen and her attendant, Old Lady, discuss the downfall of Queen Katharine outside the queen's quarters. Anne is saddened that Katharine lived for so long without reproach and knew of no plots against her, yet is nonetheless about to fall from grace. Anne thinks Katharine's demise will be all the more bitter because Katharine has known such heights, and she suggests it may be better to have been born poor yet be happy than to be rich and miserable. Feeling so sorry for Katharine, Anne declares that she herself would never want to be a queen. The Old Lady assures her that she would, since Anne has a woman's heart and, therefore, necessarily desires wealth, eminence, and sovereignty. The Old Lady says she would consent to be a queen for mere pocket change, while Anne insists that nothing could convince her. The Lord Chamberlain enters, with a message from the king, who has such a high opinion of Anne that he wants to honor her with a new title and an increased annual income. Anne says the only thing she can give in return is thanks, and she prays for the well being of the king. On his way out, Lord Chamberlain notes to himself that Anne has such a wonderful mix of beauty and honor that she can't help but have attracted the king's eye, and he suspects that "from this lady may proceed a gem/ To lighten all this isle" . The Old Lady exclaims that she has been working at the court for 16 years and has had no improvement in her situation, where Anne has received these blessings almost without trying. Anne's new title, given merely as a sign of respect and without requiring any obligation, promises more future gifts, in the Old Lady's opinion. Anne quiets the Old Lady and worries what will happen next. But she asks the Old Lady not to mention her new title to Katharine before returning to comfort the queen.

----------ACT II, SCENE I--------- Enter two Gentlemen at seuerall Doores. 1. Whether away so fast? 2. O, God saue ye: Eu'n to the Hall, to heare what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham 1. Ile saue you That labour Sir. All's now done but the Ceremony Of bringing backe the Prisoner 2. Were you there ? 1. Yes indeed was I 2. Pray speake what ha's happen'd 1. You may guesse quickly what 2. Is he found guilty? 1. Yes truely is he, And condemn'd vpon't 2. I am sorry fort 1. So are a number more 2. But pray how past it? 1. Ile tell you in a little. The great Duke Came to the Bar; where, to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty, and alleadged Many sharpe reasons to defeat the Law. The Kings Atturney on the contrary, Vrg'd on the Examinations, proofes, confessions Of diuers witnesses, which the Duke desir'd To him brought viua voce to his face; At which appear'd against him, his Surueyor Sir Gilbert Pecke his Chancellour, and Iohn Car, Confessor to him, with that Diuell Monke, Hopkins, that made this mischiefe 2. That was hee That fed him with his Prophecies 1. The same, All these accus'd him strongly, which he faine Would haue flung from him; but indeed he could not; And so his Peeres vpon this euidence, Haue found him guilty of high Treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly for life: But all Was either pittied in him, or forgotten 2. After all this, how did he beare himselfe? 1. When he was brought agen to th' Bar, to heare His Knell rung out, his Iudgement, he was stir'd With such an Agony, he sweat extreamly, And somthing spoke in choller, ill, and hasty: But he fell to himselfe againe, and sweetly, In all the rest shew'd a most Noble patience 2. I doe not thinke he feares death 1. Sure he does not, He neuer was so womanish, the cause He may a little grieue at 2. Certainly, The Cardinall is the end of this 1. Tis likely, By all coniectures: First Kildares Attendure; Then Deputy of Ireland, who remou'd Earle Surrey, was sent thither, and in hast too, Least he should helpe his Father 2. That tricke of State Was a deepe enuious one, 1. At his returne, No doubt he will requite it; this is noted (And generally) who euer the King fauours, The Cardnall instantly will finde imployment, And farre enough from Court too 2. All the Commons Hate him perniciously, and o' my Conscience Wish him ten faddom deepe: This Duke as much They loue and doate on: call him bounteous Buckingham, The Mirror of all courtesie. Enter Buckingham from his Arraignment, Tipstaues before him, the Axe with the edge towards him, Halberds on each side, accompanied with Sir Thomas Louell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir Walter Sands, and common people, &c. 1. Stay there Sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speake of 2. Let's stand close and behold him Buck. All good people, You that thus farre haue come to pitty me; Heare what I say, and then goe home and lose me. I haue this day receiu'd a Traitors iudgement, And by that name must dye; yet Heauen beare witnes, And if I haue a Conscience, let it sincke me, Euen as the Axe falls, if I be not faithfull. The Law I beare no mallice for my death, T'has done vpon the premises, but Iustice: But those that sought it, I could wish more Christians: (Be what they will) I heartily forgiue 'em; Yet let 'em looke they glory not in mischiefe; Nor build their euils on the graues of great men; For then, my guiltlesse blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I ne're hope, Nor will I sue, although the King haue mercies More then I dare make faults. You few that lou'd me, And dare be bold to weepe for Buckingham, His Noble Friends and Fellowes; whom to leaue Is only bitter to him, only dying: Goe with me like good Angels to my end, And as the long diuorce of Steele fals on me, Make of your Prayers one sweet Sacrifice, And lift my Soule to Heauen. Lead on a Gods name Louell. I doe beseech your Grace, for charity If euer any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgiue me frankly Buck. Sir Thomas Louell, I as free forgiue you As I would be forgiuen: I forgiue all. There cannot be those numberlesse offences Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with: No blacke Enuy shall make my Graue. Commend mee to his Grace: And if he speake of Buckingham; pray tell him, You met him halfe in Heauen: my vowes and prayers Yet are the Kings; and till my Soule forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him. May he liue Longer then I haue time to tell his yeares; Euer belou'd and louing, may his Rule be; And when old Time shall lead him to his end, Goodnesse and he, fill vp one Monument Lou. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace; Then giue my Charge vp to Sir Nicholas Vaux, Who vndertakes you to your end Vaux. Prepare there, The Duke is comming: See the Barge be ready; And fit it with such furniture as suites The Greatnesse of his Person Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my State now will but mocke me. When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable, And Duke of Buckingham: now, poore Edward Bohun; Yet I am richer then my base Accusers, That neuer knew what Truth meant: I now seale it; And with that bloud will make 'em one day groane for't. My noble Father Henry of Buckingham, Who first rais'd head against Vsurping Richard, Flying for succour to his Seruant Banister, Being distrest; was by that wretch betraid, And without Tryall, fell; Gods peace be with him. Henry the Seauenth succeeding, truly pittying My Fathers losse; like a most Royall Prince Restor'd me to my Honours: and out of ruines Made my Name once more Noble. Now his Sonne, Henry the Eight, Life, Honour, Name and all That made me happy; at one stroake ha's taken For euer from the World. I had my Tryall, And must needs say a Noble one; which makes me A little happier then my wretched Father: Yet thus farre we are one in Fortunes; both Fell by our Seruants, by those Men we lou'd most: A most vnnaturall and faithlesse Seruice. Heauen ha's an end in all: yet, you that heare me, This from a dying man receiue as certaine: Where you are liberall of your loues and Councels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends, And giue your hearts to; when they once perceiue The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, neuer found againe But where they meane to sinke ye: all good people Pray for me, I must now forsake ye; the last houre Of my long weary life is come vpon me: Farewell; and when you would say somthing that is sad, Speake how I fell. I haue done; and God forgiue me. Exeunt. Duke and Traine. 1. O, this is full of pitty; Sir, it cals I feare, too many curses on their heads That were the Authors 2. If the Duke be guiltlesse, 'Tis full of woe: yet I can giue you inckling Of an ensuing euill, if it fall, Greater then this 1. Good Angels keepe it from vs: What may it be? you doe not doubt my faith Sir? 2. This Secret is so weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceale it 1. Let me haue it: I doe not talke much 2. I am confident; You shall Sir: Did you not of late dayes heare A buzzing of a Separation Betweene the King and Katherine? 1. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumor; and allay those tongues That durst disperse it 2. But that slander Sir, Is found a truth now: for it growes agen Fresher then e're it was; and held for certaine The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinall, Or some about him neere, haue out of malice To the good Queene, possest him with a scruple That will vndoe her: To confirme this too, Cardinall Campeius is arriu'd, and lately, As all thinke for this busines 1. Tis the Cardinall; And meerely to reuenge him on the Emperour, For not bestowing on him at his asking, The Archbishopricke of Toledo, this is purpos'd 2. I thinke You haue hit the marke; but is't not cruell, That she should feele the smart of this: the Cardinall Will haue his will, and she must fall 1. 'Tis wofull. Wee are too open heere to argue this: Let's thinke in priuate more. Exeunt. ----------ACT II, SCENE III--------- Enter Lord Chamberlaine, reading this Letter. My Lord, the Horses your Lordship sent for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the North. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinalls, by Commission, and maine power tooke 'em from me, with this reason: his maister would bee seru'd before a Subiect, if not before the King, which stop'd our mouthes Sir. I feare he will indeede; well, let him haue them; hee will haue all I thinke. Enter to the Lord Chamberlaine, the Dukes of Norfolke and Suffolke. Norf. Well met my Lord Chamberlaine Cham. Good day to both your Graces Suff. How is the King imployd? Cham. I left him priuate, Full of sad thoughts and troubles Norf. What's the cause? Cham. It seemes the Marriage with his Brothers Wife Ha's crept too neere his Conscience Suff. No, his Conscience Ha's crept too neere another Ladie Norf. Tis so; This is the Cardinals doing: The King-Cardinall, That blinde Priest, like the eldest Sonne of Fortune, Turnes what he list. The King will know him one day Suff. Pray God he doe, Hee'l neuer know himselfe else Norf. How holily he workes in all his businesse, And with what zeale? For now he has crackt the League Between vs & the Emperor (the Queens great Nephew) He diues into the Kings Soule, and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the Conscience, Feares, and despaires, and all these for his Marriage. And out of all these, to restore the King, He counsels a Diuorce, a losse of her That like a Iewell, ha's hung twenty yeares About his necke, yet neuer lost her lustre; Of her that loues him with that excellence, That Angels loue good men with: Euen of her, That when the greatest stroake of Fortune falls Will blesse the King: and is not this course pious? Cham. Heauen keep me from such councel: tis most true These newes are euery where, euery tongue speaks 'em, And euery true heart weepes for't. All that dare Looke into these affaires, see this maine end, The French Kings Sister. Heauen will one day open The Kings eyes, that so long haue slept vpon This bold bad man Suff. And free vs from his slauery Norf. We had need pray, And heartily, for our deliuerance; Or this imperious man will worke vs all From Princes into Pages: all mens honours Lie like one lumpe before him, to be fashion'd Into what pitch he please Suff. For me, my Lords, I loue him not, nor feare him, there's my Creede: As I am made without him, so Ile stand, If the King please: his Curses and his blessings Touch me alike: th'are breath I not beleeue in. I knew him, and I know him: so I leaue him To him that made him proud; the Pope Norf. Let's in; And with some other busines, put the King From these sad thoughts, that work too much vpon him: My Lord, youle beare vs company? Cham. Excuse me, The King ha's sent me otherwhere: Besides You'l finde a most vnfit time to disturbe him: Health to your Lordships Norfolke. Thankes my good Lord Chamberlaine. Exit Lord Chamberlaine, and the King drawes the Curtaine and sits reading pensiuely. Suff. How sad he lookes; sure he is much afflicted Kin. Who's there? Ha? Norff. Pray God he be not angry Kin. Who's there I say? How dare you thrust your selues Into my priuate Meditations? Who am I? Ha? Norff. A gracious King, that pardons all offences Malice ne're meant: Our breach of Duty this way, Is businesse of Estate; in which, we come To know your Royall pleasure Kin. Ye are too bold: Go too; Ile make ye know your times of businesse: Is this an howre for temporall affaires? Ha? Enter Wolsey and Campeius with a Commission. Who's there? my good Lord Cardinall? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded Conscience; Thou art a cure fit for a King; you'r welcome Most learned Reuerend Sir, into our Kingdome, Vse vs, and it: My good Lord, haue great care, I be not found a Talker Wol. Sir, you cannot; I would your Grace would giue vs but an houre Of priuate conference Kin. We are busie; goe Norff. This Priest ha's no pride in him? Suff. Not to speake of: I would not be so sicke though for his place: But this cannot continue Norff. If it doe, Ile venture one; haue at him Suff. I another. Exeunt. Norfolke and Suffolke. Wol. Your Grace ha's giuen a President of wisedome Aboue all Princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voyce of Christendome: Who can be angry now? What Enuy reach you? The Spaniard tide by blood and fauour to her, Must now confesse, if they haue any goodnesse, The Tryall, iust and Noble. All the Clerkes, (I meane the learned ones in Christian Kingdomes) Haue their free voyces. Rome (the Nurse of Iudgement) Inuited by your Noble selfe, hath sent One generall Tongue vnto vs. This good man, This iust and learned Priest, Cardnall Campeius, Whom once more, I present vnto your Highnesse Kin. And once more in mine armes I bid him welcome, And thanke the holy Conclaue for their loues, They haue sent me such a Man, I would haue wish'd for Cam. Your Grace must needs deserue all strangers loues, You are so Noble: To your Highnesse hand I tender my Commission; by whose vertue, The Court of Rome commanding. You my Lord Cardinall of Yorke, are ioyn'd with me their Seruant, In the vnpartiall iudging of this Businesse Kin. Two equall men: The Queene shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? Wol. I know your Maiesty, ha's alwayes lou'd her So deare in heart, not to deny her that A Woman of lesse Place might aske by Law; Schollers allow'd freely to argue for her Kin. I, and the best she shall haue; and my fauour To him that does best, God forbid els: Cardinall, Prethee call Gardiner to me, my new Secretary. I find him a fit fellow. Enter Gardiner. Wol. Giue me your hand: much ioy & fauour to you; You are the Kings now Gard. But to be commanded For euer by your Grace, whose hand ha's rais'd me Kin. Come hither Gardiner. Walkes and whispers. Camp. My Lord of Yorke, was not one Doctor Pace In this mans place before him? Wol. Yes, he was Camp. Was he not held a learned man? Wol. Yes surely Camp. Beleeue me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Euen of your selfe Lord Cardinall Wol. How? of me? Camp. They will not sticke to say, you enuide him; And fearing he would rise (he was so vertuous) Kept him a forraigne man still, which so greeu'd him, That he ran mad, and dide Wol. Heau'ns peace be with him: That's Christian care enough: for liuing Murmurers, There's places of rebuke. He was a Foole; For he would needs be vertuous. That good Fellow, If I command him followes my appointment, I will haue none so neere els. Learne this Brother, We liue not to be grip'd by meaner persons Kin. Deliuer this with modesty to th' Queene. Exit Gardiner. The most conuenient place, that I can thinke of For such receipt of Learning, is Black-Fryers: There ye shall meete about this waighty busines. My Wolsey, see it furnish'd, O my Lord, Would it not grieue an able man to leaue So sweet a Bedfellow? But Conscience, Conscience; O 'tis a tender place, and I must leaue her. Exeunt. ----------ACT II, SCENE IV--------- Trumpets, Sennet, and Cornets. Enter two Vergers, with short siluer wands; next them two Scribes in the habite of Doctors; after them, the Bishop of Canterbury alone; after him, the Bishops of Lincolne, Ely, Rochester, and S[aint]. Asaph: Next them, with some small distance, followes a Gentleman bearing the Purse, with the great Seale, and a Cardinals Hat: Then two Priests, bearing each a Siluer Crosse: Then a Gentleman Vsher bareheaded, accompanyed with a Sergeant at Armes, bearing a Siluer Mace: Then two Gentlemen bearing two great Siluer Pillers: After them, side by side, the two Cardinals, two Noblemen, with the Sword and Mace. The King takes place vnder the Cloth of State. The two Cardinalls sit vnder him as Iudges. The Queene takes place some distance from the King. The Bishops place themselues on each side the Court in manner of a Consistory: Below them the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the Attendants stand in conuenient order about the Stage. Car. Whil'st our Commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded King. What's the need? It hath already publiquely bene read, And on all sides th' Authority allow'd, You may then spare that time Car. Bee't so, proceed Scri. Say, Henry K[ing]. of England, come into the Court Crier. Henry King of England, &c King. Heere Scribe. Say, Katherine Queene of England, Come into the Court Crier. Katherine Queene of England, &c. The Queene makes no answer, rises out of her Chaire, goes about the Court, comes to the King, and kneeles at his Feete. Then speakes. Sir, I desire you do me Right and Iustice, And to bestow your pitty on me; for I am a most poore Woman, and a Stranger, Borne out of your Dominions: hauing heere No Iudge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equall Friendship and Proceeding. Alas Sir: In what haue I offended you? What cause Hath my behauiour giuen to your displeasure, That thus you should proceede to put me off, And take your good Grace from me? Heauen witnesse, I haue bene to you, a true and humble Wife, At all times to your will conformable: Euer in feare to kindle your Dislike, Yea, subiect to your Countenance: Glad, or sorry, As I saw it inclin'd? When was the houre I euer contradicted your Desire? Or made it not mine too? Or which of your Friends Haue I not stroue to loue, although I knew He were mine Enemy? What Friend of mine, That had to him deriu'd your Anger, did I Continue in my Liking? Nay, gaue notice He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call to minde, That I haue beene your Wife, in this Obedience, Vpward of twenty years, and haue bene blest With many Children by you. If in the course And processe of this time, you can report, And proue it too, against mine Honor, aught; My bond to Wedlocke, or my Loue and Dutie Against your Sacred Person; in Gods name Turne me away: and let the fowl'st Contempt Shut doore vpon me, and so giue me vp To the sharp'st kinde of Iustice. Please you, Sir, The King your Father, was reputed for A Prince most Prudent; of an excellent And vnmatch'd Wit, and Iudgement. Ferdinand My Father, King of Spaine, was reckon'd one The wisest Prince, that there had reign'd, by many A yeare before. It is not to be question'd, That they had gather'd a wise Councell to them Of euery Realme, that did debate this Businesse, Who deem'd our Marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you Sir, to spare me, till I may Be by my Friends in Spaine, aduis'd; whose Counsaile I will implore. If not, i'th' name of God Your pleasure be fulfill'd Wol. You haue heere Lady, (And of your choice) these Reuerend Fathers, men Of singular Integrity, and Learning; Yea, the elect o'th' Land, who are assembled To pleade your Cause. It shall be therefore bootlesse, That longer you desire the Court, as well For your owne quiet, as to rectifie What is vnsetled in the King Camp. His Grace Hath spoken well, and iustly: Therefore Madam, It's fit this Royall Session do proceed, And that (without delay) their Arguments Be now produc'd, and heard Qu. Lord Cardinall, to you I speake Wol. Your pleasure, Madam Qu. Sir, I am about to weepe; but thinking that We are a Queene (or long haue dream'd so) certaine The daughter of a King, my drops of teares, Ile turne to sparkes of fire Wol. Be patient yet Qu. I will, when you are humble; Nay before, Or God will punish me. I do beleeue (Induc'd by potent Circumstances) that You are mine Enemy, and make my Challenge, You shall not be my Iudge. For it is you Haue blowne this Coale, betwixt my Lord, and me; (Which Gods dew quench) therefore, I say againe, I vtterly abhorre; yea, from my Soule Refuse you for my Iudge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious Foe, and thinke not At all a Friend to truth Wol. I do professe You speake not like your selfe: who euer yet Haue stood to Charity, and displayd th' effects Of disposition gentle, and of wisedome, Ore-topping womans powre. Madam, you do me wrong I haue no Spleene against you, nor iniustice For you, or any: how farre I haue proceeded, Or how farre further (Shall) is warranted By a Commission from the Consistorie, Yea, the whole Consistorie of Rome. You charge me, That I haue blowne this Coale: I do deny it, The King is present: If it be knowne to him, That I gainsay my Deed, how may he wound, And worthily my Falsehood, yea, as much As you haue done my Truth. If he know That I am free of your Report, he knowes I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the Cure is to Remoue these Thoughts from you. The which before His Highnesse shall speake in, I do beseech You (gracious Madam) to vnthinke your speaking, And to say so no more Queen. My Lord, My Lord, I am a simple woman, much too weake T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek, & humble-mouth'd You signe your Place, and Calling, in full seeming, With Meekenesse and Humilitie: but your Heart Is cramm'd with Arrogancie, Spleene, and Pride. You haue by Fortune, and his Highnesse fauors, Gone slightly o're lowe steppes, and now are mounted Where Powres are your Retainers, and your words (Domestickes to you) serue your will, as't please Your selfe pronounce their Office. I must tell you, You tender more your persons Honor, then Your high profession Spirituall. That agen I do refuse you for my Iudge, and heere Before you all, Appeale vnto the Pope, To bring my whole Cause 'fore his Holinesse, And to be iudg'd by him. She Curtsies to the King, and offers to depart. Camp. The Queene is obstinate, Stubborne to Iustice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainfull to be tride by't; tis not well. Shee's going away Kin. Call her againe Crier. Katherine. Q[ueene]. of England, come into the Court Gent.Vsh. Madam, you are cald backe Que. What need you note it? pray you keep your way, When you are cald returne. Now the Lord helpe, They vexe me past my patience, pray you passe on; I will not tarry: no, nor euer more Vpon this businesse my appearance make, In any of their Courts. Exit Queene, and her Attendants. Kin. Goe thy wayes Kate, That man i'th' world, who shall report he ha's A better Wife, let him in naught be trusted, For speaking false in that; thou art alone (If thy rare qualities, sweet gentlenesse, Thy meeknesse Saint-like, Wife-like Gouernment, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Soueraigne and Pious els, could speake thee out) The Queene of earthly Queenes: Shee's Noble borne; And like her true Nobility, she ha's Carried her selfe towards me Wol. Most gracious Sir, In humblest manner I require your Highnes, That it shall please you to declare in hearing Of all these eares (for where I am rob'd and bound, There must I be vnloos'd, although not there At once, and fully satisfide) whether euer I Did broach this busines to your Highnes, or Laid any scruple in your way, which might Induce you to the question on't: or euer Haue to you, but with thankes to God for such A Royall Lady, spake one, the least word that might Be to the preiudice of her present State, Or touch of her good Person? Kin. My Lord Cardinall, I doe excuse you; yea, vpon mine Honour, I free you from't: You are not to be taught That you haue many enemies, that know not Why they are so; but like to Village Curres, Barke when their fellowes doe. By some of these The Queene is put in anger; y'are excus'd: But will you be more iustifi'de? You euer Haue wish'd the sleeping of this busines, neuer desir'd It to be stir'd; but oft haue hindred, oft The passages made toward it; on my Honour, I speake my good Lord Cardnall, to this point; And thus farre cleare him. Now, what mou'd me too't, I will be bold with time and your attention: Then marke th' inducement. Thus it came; giue heede too't: My Conscience first receiu'd a tendernes, Scruple, and pricke, on certaine Speeches vtter'd By th' Bishop of Bayon, then French Embassador, Who had beene hither sent on the debating And Marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleance, and Our Daughter Mary: I'th' Progresse of this busines, Ere a determinate resolution, hee (I meane the Bishop) did require a respite, Wherein he might the King his Lord aduertise, Whether our Daughter were legitimate, Respecting this our Marriage with the Dowager, Sometimes our Brothers Wife. This respite shooke The bosome of my Conscience, enter'd me; Yea, with a spitting power, and made to tremble The region of my Breast, which forc'd such way, That many maz'd considerings, did throng And prest in with this Caution. First, me thought I stood not in the smile of Heauen, who had Commanded Nature, that my Ladies wombe If it conceiu'd a male-child by me, should Doe no more Offices of life too't; then The Graue does to th' dead: For her Male Issue, Or di'de where they were made, or shortly after This world had ayr'd them. Hence I tooke a thought, This was a Iudgement on me, that my Kingdome (Well worthy the best Heyre o'th' World) should not Be gladded in't by me. Then followes, that I weigh'd the danger which my Realmes stood in By this my Issues faile, and that gaue to me Many a groaning throw: thus hulling in The wild Sea of my Conscience, I did steere Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present heere together: that's to say, I meant to rectifie my Conscience, which I then did feele full sicke, and yet not well, By all the Reuerend Fathers of the Land, And Doctors learn'd. First I began in priuate, With you my Lord of Lincolne; you remember How vnder my oppression I did reeke When I first mou'd you B.Lin. Very well my Liedge Kin. I haue spoke long, be pleas'd your selfe to say How farre you satisfide me Lin. So please your Highnes, The question did at first so stagger me, Bearing a State of mighty moment in't, And consequence of dread, that I committed The daringst Counsaile which I had to doubt, And did entreate your Highnes to this course, Which you are running heere Kin. I then mou'd you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leaue To make this present Summons vnsolicited. I left no Reuerend Person in this Court; But by particular consent proceeded Vnder your hands and Seales; therefore goe on, For no dislike i'th' world against the person Of the good Queene; but the sharpe thorny points Of my alleadged reasons, driues this forward: Proue but our Marriage lawfull, by my Life And Kingly Dignity, we are contented To weare our mortall State to come, with her, (Katherine our Queene) before the primest Creature That's Parragon'd o'th' World Camp. So please your Highnes, The Queene being absent, 'tis a needfull fitnesse, That we adiourne this Court till further day; Meane while, must be an earnest motion Made to the Queene to call backe her Appeale She intends vnto his Holinesse Kin. I may perceiue These Cardinals trifle with me: I abhorre This dilatory sloth, and trickes of Rome. My learn'd and welbeloued Seruant Cranmer, Prethee returne, with thy approch: I know, My comfort comes along: breake vp the Court; I say, set on. Exeunt., in manner as they enter'd.

Henry VIII.prologue

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for prologue; act i, scene i based on the provided context.

The figure of the Prologue comes on stage and explains that what follows is a serious play. The events to come will draw the audience's pity, bringing some to tears, but there will be much truth told, as well. Those hoping for a bawdy humorous play will be disappointed. The Prologue asks the audience to imagine that the noble characters of the play are alive, and he urges them to watch as their mightiness nevertheless brings them misery. The Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Lord Abergavenny enter the scene. Buckingham greets Norfolk and asks him how he has been since they met in France. Buckingham was sick and confined to his tent while Norfolk was witness to grandiose displays by the king of France and the king of England at a field in France, where the two forces met to show off their respective glories. Norfolk relates the glamorous scene and how well it went off. Buckingham asks who had planned it, and Norfolk says it was all organized by Cardinal Wolsey. When he hears this, Buckingham rails against Wolsey's ambitious nature. Norfolk weakly defends him, but Abergavenny agrees that Wolsey displays undue pride. Buckingham insists that nobles paid for the trip to France, and Wolsey gave the least honor to those who spent the most. Abergavenny speaks of nobles forced to sell off their property to afford to keep up with the court. Norfolk agrees that the peace between England and France may be more costly than is reasonable. But he warns Buckingham that the Cardinal is a powerful man, prone to revenging himself on those who speak badly of him. Just then Wolsey enters the scene with his aides. Glaring at Buckingham, he asks if one of Buckingham's estate overseers has arrived to give testimony against Buckingham. His aides say the man has arrived, and Wolsey and his train depart. Buckingham declares that he thinks Wolsey is plotting against him. He thinks Wolsey is on his way to gossip to the king, so he determines to rush to the king's quarters first. Norfolk strongly urges Buckingham to calm down, to not let his anger become so enflamed that he injures his own case. Buckingham agrees to calm down but repeats that he thinks Wolsey is corrupt and treasonous. Buckingham goes through the charges he would make against Wolsey to the king: he is prone to mischief; he engineered the entire arrangement with France to benefit himself; he deals with Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, and king of Spain behind the king's back; and he buys and sells his honor to his own advantage. Norfolk is sorry to hear these charges and wonders if there could be mistake, but Buckingham insists there is no mistake. Brandon, the sergeant-at-arms, enters, and announces he has arrived to arrest Buckingham in the name of the king and to take him to the Tower. Buckingham says goodbye to Abergavenny, but Brandon intends to arrest Abergavenny, too, along with several of their comrades. Both swear to obey the decrees of the king and submit to arrest. Buckingham sees he is done for and bids farewell to Norfolk.

----------PROLOGUE--------- I Come no more to make you laugh, Things now, That beare a Weighty, and a Serious Brow, Sad, high, and working, full of State and Woe: Such Noble Scoenes, as draw the Eye to flow We now present. Those that can Pitty, heere May (if they thinke it well) let fall a Teare, The Subiect will deserue it. Such as giue Their Money out of hope they may beleeue, May heere finde Truth too. Those that come to see Onely a show or two, and so agree, The Play may passe: If they be still, and willing, Ile vndertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short houres. Onely they That come to heare a Merry, Bawdy Play, A noyse of Targets: Or to see a Fellow In a long Motley Coate, garded with Yellow, Will be deceyu'd. For gentle Hearers, know To ranke our chosen Truth with such a show As Foole, and Fight is, beside forfeyting Our owne Braines, and the Opinion that we bring To make that onely true, we now intend, Will leaue vs neuer an vnderstanding Friend. Therefore, for Goodnesse sake, and as you are knowne The First and Happiest Hearers of the Towne, Be sad, as we would make ye. Thinke ye see The very Persons of our Noble Story, As they were Liuing: Thinke you see them Great, And follow'd with the generall throng, and sweat Of thousand Friends: Then, in a moment, see How soone this Mightinesse, meets Misery: And if you can be merry then, Ile say, A Man may weepe vpon his Wedding day. ----------PROLOGUE; ACT I, SCENE I--------- I Come no more to make you laugh, Things now, That beare a Weighty, and a Serious Brow, Sad, high, and working, full of State and Woe: Such Noble Scoenes, as draw the Eye to flow We now present. Those that can Pitty, heere May (if they thinke it well) let fall a Teare, The Subiect will deserue it. Such as giue Their Money out of hope they may beleeue, May heere finde Truth too. Those that come to see Onely a show or two, and so agree, The Play may passe: If they be still, and willing, Ile vndertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short houres. Onely they That come to heare a Merry, Bawdy Play, A noyse of Targets: Or to see a Fellow In a long Motley Coate, garded with Yellow, Will be deceyu'd. For gentle Hearers, know To ranke our chosen Truth with such a show As Foole, and Fight is, beside forfeyting Our owne Braines, and the Opinion that we bring To make that onely true, we now intend, Will leaue vs neuer an vnderstanding Friend. Therefore, for Goodnesse sake, and as you are knowne The First and Happiest Hearers of the Towne, Be sad, as we would make ye. Thinke ye see The very Persons of our Noble Story, As they were Liuing: Thinke you see them Great, And follow'd with the generall throng, and sweat Of thousand Friends: Then, in a moment, see How soone this Mightinesse, meets Misery: And if you can be merry then, Ile say, A Man may weepe vpon his Wedding day. ----------PROLOGUE--------- I Come no more to make you laugh, Things now, That beare a Weighty, and a Serious Brow, Sad, high, and working, full of State and Woe: Such Noble Scoenes, as draw the Eye to flow We now present. Those that can Pitty, heere May (if they thinke it well) let fall a Teare, The Subiect will deserue it. Such as giue Their Money out of hope they may beleeue, May heere finde Truth too. Those that come to see Onely a show or two, and so agree, The Play may passe: If they be still, and willing, Ile vndertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short houres. Onely they That come to heare a Merry, Bawdy Play, A noyse of Targets: Or to see a Fellow In a long Motley Coate, garded with Yellow, Will be deceyu'd. For gentle Hearers, know To ranke our chosen Truth with such a show As Foole, and Fight is, beside forfeyting Our owne Braines, and the Opinion that we bring To make that onely true, we now intend, Will leaue vs neuer an vnderstanding Friend. Therefore, for Goodnesse sake, and as you are knowne The First and Happiest Hearers of the Towne, Be sad, as we would make ye. Thinke ye see The very Persons of our Noble Story, As they were Liuing: Thinke you see them Great, And follow'd with the generall throng, and sweat Of thousand Friends: Then, in a moment, see How soone this Mightinesse, meets Misery: And if you can be merry then, Ile say, A Man may weepe vpon his Wedding day. ----------THE PROLOGUE--------- I Come no more to make you laugh, Things now, That beare a Weighty, and a Serious Brow, Sad, high, and working, full of State and Woe: Such Noble Scoenes, as draw the Eye to flow We now present. Those that can Pitty, heere May (if they thinke it well) let fall a Teare, The Subiect will deserue it. Such as giue Their Money out of hope they may beleeue, May heere finde Truth too. Those that come to see Onely a show or two, and so agree, The Play may passe: If they be still, and willing, Ile vndertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short houres. Onely they That come to heare a Merry, Bawdy Play, A noyse of Targets: Or to see a Fellow In a long Motley Coate, garded with Yellow, Will be deceyu'd. For gentle Hearers, know To ranke our chosen Truth with such a show As Foole, and Fight is, beside forfeyting Our owne Braines, and the Opinion that we bring To make that onely true, we now intend, Will leaue vs neuer an vnderstanding Friend. Therefore, for Goodnesse sake, and as you are knowne The First and Happiest Hearers of the Towne, Be sad, as we would make ye. Thinke ye see The very Persons of our Noble Story, As they were Liuing: Thinke you see them Great, And follow'd with the generall throng, and sweat Of thousand Friends: Then, in a moment, see How soone this Mightinesse, meets Misery: And if you can be merry then, Ile say, A Man may weepe vpon his Wedding day.

Idylls of the King.chapte

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of dedication, utilizing the provided context.

These Idylls are consecrated in tears and are dedicated to the memory of one who loved them as if he had seen his own image in them. He was a man who seemed in all his virtues and fine qualities to be none other than Arthur's ideal knight. Now he is gone, and England prays that his sons will be as noble as he was and will be worthy of their father, Albert the Good. The queen must reign alone, in splendor and in solitude, for he is gone, but she is royal and will endure. In his closing lines to the queen, the poet writes: . . . May all love,His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow thee,The love of all thy sons encompass thee,The love of all thy daughters cherish thee,The love of all thy people comfort thee,Till God's love set thee at his side again!

----------DEDICATION--------- Dedication These to His Memory--since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself--I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears-- These Idylls. And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my king's ideal knight, 'Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it; Who loved one only and who clave to her--' Her--over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone: We know him now: all narrow jealousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise, With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly; Not swaying to this faction or to that; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground For pleasure; but through all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot: for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his? Or how should England dreaming of his sons Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor-- Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day-- Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace-- Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good. Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made One light together, but has past and leaves The Crown a lonely splendour. May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God's love set Thee at his side again! ----------TO THE QUEEN--------- To the Queen O loyal to the royal in thyself, And loyal to thy land, as this to thee-- Bear witness, that rememberable day, When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince Who scarce had plucked his flickering life again From halfway down the shadow of the grave, Past with thee through thy people and their love, And London rolled one tide of joy through all Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry, The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime-- Thunderless lightnings striking under sea From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard A strain to shame us 'keep you to yourselves; So loyal is too costly! friends--your love Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go.' Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? What shock has fooled her since, that she should speak So feebly? wealthier--wealthier--hour by hour! The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas? There rang her voice, when the full city pealed Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their crown Are loyal to their own far sons, who love Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her throne In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness: if she knows And dreads it we are fallen. --But thou, my Queen, Not for itself, but through thy living love For one to whom I made it o'er his grave Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul, Ideal manhood closed in real man, Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost, Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak, And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one Touched by the adulterous finger of a time That hovered between war and wantonness, And crownings and dethronements: take withal Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, Waverings of every vane with every wind, And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life, Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice, Or Art with poisonous honey stolen from France, And that which knows, but careful for itself, And that which knows not, ruling that which knows To its own harm: the goal of this great world Lies beyond sight: yet--if our slowly-grown And crowned Republic's crowning common-sense, That saved her many times, not fail--their fears Are morning shadows huger than the shapes That cast them, not those gloomier which forego The darkness of that battle in the West, Where all of high and holy dies away. ----------DEDICATION--------- Dedication These to His Memory--since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself--I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears-- These Idylls. And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my king's ideal knight, 'Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it; Who loved one only and who clave to her--' Her--over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone: We know him now: all narrow jealousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise, With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly; Not swaying to this faction or to that; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground For pleasure; but through all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot: for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his? Or how should England dreaming of his sons Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor-- Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day-- Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace-- Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good. Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made One light together, but has past and leaves The Crown a lonely splendour. May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God's love set Thee at his side again!

Incidents in the Life of

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chapter i|chapter ii|chapter iii

The Slaves' New Year's Day Harriet explains that Dr. Flint was wealthy, with a house in town, many farms, and about fifty slaves. Slaves in the south were hired on January 1st and work until Christmas Eve. After a few holidays, auctions were held. Slaves that were unwilling to go with their new masters were whipped. Harriet contrasts the happy time freed women enjoyed on New Year's Eve with the apprehension and fear that slave women felt

----------CHAPTER I--------- I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs. His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was two years younger than myself--a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her mother and his three children free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War; and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me; but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a little girl when she was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and her children from the profits. Upon these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved profitable; and each year she laid by a little, which was saved for a fund to purchase her children. Her master died, and the property was divided among his heirs. The widow had her dower in the hotel which she continued to keep open. My grandmother remained in her service as a slave; but her children were divided among her master's children. As she had five, Benjamin, the youngest one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference in our ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven hundred and twenty dollars were paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow to my grandmother, but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with renewed energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her mistress one day begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon. The reader probably knows that no promise or writing given to a slave is legally binding; for, according to Southern laws, a slave, _being_ property, can _hold_ no property. When my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely to her honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave! To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother Willie and I often received portions of the crackers, cakes, and preserves, she made to sell; and after we ceased to be children we were indebted to her for many more important services. Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I learned, by the talk around me, that I was a slave. My mother's mistress was the daughter of my grandmother's mistress. She was the foster sister of my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother's breast. In fact, my mother had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress might obtain sufficient food. They played together as children; and, when they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to her whiter foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her children should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she kept her word. They all spoke kindly of my dead mother, who had been a slave merely in name, but in nature was noble and womanly. I grieved for her, and my young mind was troubled with the thought who would now take care of me and my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her mistress; and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable duties were imposed on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I was always glad to do her bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as my young years would permit. I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently, with a heart as free from care as that of any free-born white child. When she thought I was tired, she would send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were happy days--too happy to last. The slave child had no thought for the morrow; but there came that blight, which too surely waits on every human being born to be a chattel. When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I prayed in my heart that she might live! I loved her; for she had been almost like a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died, and they buried her in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her grave. I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to begin to think of the future; and again and again I asked myself what they would do with me. I felt sure I should never find another mistress so kind as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that her children should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would be so. They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my mother's love and faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a faithful slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block. After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister's daughter, a child of five years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the precepts of God's Word: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them." But I was her slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her neighbor. I would give much to blot out from my memory that one great wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy days I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a slave, I bless her memory. She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed among her relatives. Five of them were my grandmother's children, and had shared the same milk that nourished her mother's children. Notwithstanding my grandmother's long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the horses they tend. ----------CHAPTER II--------- Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he daily detested the name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me, and I didn't know which I ought to go to first." "You are _my_ child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water." Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth. When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone. I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, "Come with me, Linda;" and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led me apart from the people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead." Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend. The good grandmother tried to comfort me. "Who knows the ways of God?" said she. "Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to come." Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a mother to her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and strengthened by her love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be allowed to go to my father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to go for flowers, that my mistress's house might be decorated for an evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach; presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters. The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my dear mother. There were those who knew my father's worth, and respected his memory. My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried to comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come by and by." "You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall have to stay here all our days; we shall never be free." I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We held daily controversies upon this subject. Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's house. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my grandmother's house, where there was always something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to _her_ for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to generation. My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold. On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up, proclaiming that there would be a "public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it. She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently, "Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was generally known, and every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for _you_." Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant her freedom. At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of every thing. Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly what size they ought to be. Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram it down her throat till she choked. They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been well cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach was stronger than the dog's; but her sufferings afterwards proved that he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a whole day and night. When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied up to the joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that situation he was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall; in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his "O, pray don't, massa," rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with his wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being the father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very fair. I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader's hands, she said. "You _promised_ to treat me well." To which he replied, "You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!" She had forgotten that it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child. From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white. In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and take me!" Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she exclaimed. "I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too." The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor child will soon be in heaven, too." "Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the like of her and her bastard." The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her, feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't grieve so, mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me." Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life. ----------CHAPTER III--------- Dr. Flint owned a fine residence in town, several farms, and about fifty slaves, besides hiring a number by the year. Hiring-day at the south takes place on the 1st of January. On the 2d, the slaves are expected to go to their new masters. On a farm, they work until the corn and cotton are laid. They then have two holidays. Some masters give them a good dinner under the trees. This over, they work until Christmas eve. If no heavy charges are meantime brought against them, they are given four or five holidays, whichever the master or overseer may think proper. Then comes New Year's eve; and they gather together their little alls, or more properly speaking, their little nothings, and wait anxiously for the dawning of day. At the appointed hour the grounds are thronged with men, women, and children, waiting, like criminals, to hear their doom pronounced. The slave is sure to know who is the most humane, or cruel master, within forty miles of him. It is easy to find out, on that day, who clothes and feeds his slaves well; for he is surrounded by a crowd, begging, "Please, massa, hire me this year. I will work _very_ hard, massa." If a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped, or locked up in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to run away during the year. Should he chance to change his mind, thinking it justifiable to violate an extorted promise, woe unto him if he is caught! The whip is used till the blood flows at his feet; and his stiffened limbs are put in chains, to be dragged in the field for days and days! If he lives until the next year, perhaps the same man will hire him again, without even giving him an opportunity of going to the hiring-ground. After those for hire are disposed of, those for sale are called up. O, you happy free women, contrast _your_ New Year's day with that of the poor bond-woman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the light of the day is blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where, and gifts are showered upon you. Even hearts that have been estranged from you soften at this season, and lips that have been silent echo back, "I wish you a happy New Year." Children bring their little offerings, and raise their rosy lips for a caress. They are your own, and no hand but that of death can take them from you. But to the slave mother New Year's day comes laden with peculiar sorrows. She sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children who may all be torn from her the next morning; and often does she wish that she and they might die before the day dawns. She may be an ignorant creature, degraded by the system that has brutalized her from childhood; but she has a mother's instincts, and is capable of feeling a mother's agonies. On one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to the auction-block. She knew that _some_ of them would be taken from her; but they took _all_. The children were sold to a slave-trader, and their mother was bought by a man in her own town. Before night her children were all far away. She begged the trader to tell her where he intended to take them; this he refused to do. How _could_ he, when he knew he would sell them, one by one, wherever he could command the highest price? I met that mother in the street, and her wild, haggard face lives to-day in my mind. She wrung her hands in anguish, and exclaimed, "Gone! All gone! Why _don't_ God kill me?" I had no words wherewith to comfort her. Instances of this kind are of daily, yea, of hourly occurrence. Slaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of getting rid of _old_ slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their service. I knew an old woman, who for seventy years faithfully served her master. She had become almost helpless, from hard labor and disease. Her owners moved to Alabama, and the old black woman was left to be sold to any body who would give twenty dollars for her.

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chapter v|chapter vi

The Jealous Mistress Harriet continued to suffer from Dr. Flint's dogging of her steps. Her mistress could have helped these young slaves, but it was apparently a crime to want to be virtuous. Dr. Flint used exceedingly clever means to try and find Harriet and speak to her of vile things, and she would respond to him in anger. He grew enraged and her situation worsened daily. When Harriet turned sixteen, it was obvious that Mrs. Flint despised her very presence. She was incensed when she found out that Dr. Flint had selected Harriet to sleep with their daughter in his apartment. She called Harriet in and asked her to answer her questions honestly. Harriet promised to do so, and Mrs. Flint asked her to tell her everything that has happened between her husband and Harriet. Harriet complied. Mrs. Flint's face showed rage, grief, and hopelessness. She often wept. As she was not a refined woman, Harriet bore the brunt of her jealousy and anger. Harriet was made to sleep in a room adjoining her mistress's own. Mrs. Flint behaved so strangely that Harriet feared for her own life. She tried to trick her husband into confessing but he was too wily. Thankfully they never whipped her because the whole town knew her and this would have exposed Dr. Flint's conduct. Harriet's grandmother began to notice things and tried to find ways to buy her, but Dr. Flint always protested that she belonged to his daughter. Harriet ruminated on the evils of slavery, mentioning that northerners were also complicit in sending fugitives back to the south and delighting in marrying their daughters to slaveholders. She believed that this "peculiar institution" deadened morality, but she gives a few examples of white people in which virtue was not wholly extinct

----------CHAPTER V--------- During the first years of my service in Dr. Flint's family, I was accustomed to share some indulgences with the children of my mistress. Though this seemed to me no more than right, I was grateful for it, and tried to merit the kindness by the faithful discharge of my duties. But I now entered on my fifteenth year--a sad epoch in the life of a slave girl. My master began to whisper foul words in my ear. Young as I was, I could not remain ignorant of their import. I tried to treat them with indifference or contempt. The master's age, my extreme youth, and the fear that his conduct would be reported to my grandmother, made him bear this treatment for many months. He was a crafty man, and resorted to many means to accomplish his purposes. Sometimes he had stormy, terrific ways, that made his victims tremble; sometimes he assumed a gentleness that he thought must surely subdue. Of the two, I preferred his stormy moods, although they left me trembling. He tried his utmost to corrupt the pure principles my grandmother had instilled. He peopled my young mind with unclean images, such as only a vile monster could think of. I turned from him with disgust and hatred. But he was my master. I was compelled to live under the same roof with him--where I saw a man forty years my senior daily violating the most sacred commandments of nature. He told me I was his property; that I must be subject to his will in all things. My soul revolted against the mean tyranny. But where could I turn for protection? No matter whether the slave girl be as black as ebony or as fair as her mistress. In either case, there is no shadow of law to protect her from insult, from violence, or even from death; all these are inflicted by fiends who bear the shape of men. The mistress, who ought to protect the helpless victim, has no other feelings towards her but those of jealousy and rage. The degradation, the wrongs, the vices, that grow out of slavery, are more than I can describe. They are greater than you would willingly believe. Surely, if you credited one half the truths that are told you concerning the helpless millions suffering in this cruel bondage, you at the north would not help to tighten the yoke. You surely would refuse to do for the master, on your own soil, the mean and cruel work which trained bloodhounds and the lowest class of whites do for him at the south. Every where the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows. Even the little child, who is accustomed to wait on her mistress and her children, will learn, before she is twelve years old, why it is that her mistress hates such and such a one among the slaves. Perhaps the child's own mother is among those hated ones. She listens to violent outbreaks of jealous passion, and cannot help understanding what is the cause. She will become prematurely knowing in evil things. Soon she will learn to tremble when she hears her master's footfall. She will be compelled to realize that she is no longer a child. If God has bestowed beauty upon her, it will prove her greatest curse. That which commands admiration in the white woman only hastens the degradation of the female slave. I know that some are too much brutalized by slavery to feel the humiliation of their position; but many slaves feel it most acutely, and shrink from the memory of it. I cannot tell how much I suffered in the presence of these wrongs, nor how I am still pained by the retrospect. My master met me at every turn, reminding me that I belonged to him, and swearing by heaven and earth that he would compel me to submit to him. If I went out for a breath of fresh air, after a day of unwearied toil, his footsteps dogged me. If I knelt by my mother's grave, his dark shadow fell on me even there. The light heart which nature had given me became heavy with sad forebodings. The other slaves in my master's house noticed the change. Many of them pitied me; but none dared to ask the cause. They had no need to inquire. They knew too well the guilty practices under that roof; and they were aware that to speak of them was an offence that never went unpunished. I longed for some one to confide in. I would have given the world to have laid my head on my grandmother's faithful bosom, and told her all my troubles. But Dr. Flint swore he would kill me, if I was not as silent as the grave. Then, although my grandmother was all in all to me, I feared her as well as loved her. I had been accustomed to look up to her with a respect bordering upon awe. I was very young, and felt shamefaced about telling her such impure things, especially as I knew her to be very strict on such subjects. Moreover, she was a woman of a high spirit. She was usually very quiet in her demeanor; but if her indignation was once roused, it was not very easily quelled. I had been told that she once chased a white gentleman with a loaded pistol, because he insulted one of her daughters. I dreaded the consequences of a violent outbreak; and both pride and fear kept me silent. But though I did not confide in my grandmother, and even evaded her vigilant watchfulness and inquiry, her presence in the neighborhood was some protection to me. Though she had been a slave, Dr. Flint was afraid of her. He dreaded her scorching rebukes. Moreover, she was known and patronized by many people; and he did not wish to have his villany made public. It was lucky for me that I did not live on a distant plantation, but in a town not so large that the inhabitants were ignorant of each other's affairs. Bad as are the laws and customs in a slaveholding community, the doctor, as a professional man, deemed it prudent to keep up some outward show of decency. O, what days and nights of fear and sorrow that man caused me! Reader, it is not to awaken sympathy for myself that I am telling you truthfully what I suffered in slavery. I do it to kindle a flame of compassion in your hearts for my sisters who are still in bondage, suffering as I once suffered. I once saw two beautiful children playing together. One was a fair white child; the other was her slave, and also her sister. When I saw them embracing each other, and heard their joyous laughter, I turned sadly away from the lovely sight. I foresaw the inevitable blight that would fall on the little slave's heart. I knew how soon her laughter would be changed to sighs. The fair child grew up to be a still fairer woman. From childhood to womanhood her pathway was blooming with flowers, and overarched by a sunny sky. Scarcely one day of her life had been clouded when the sun rose on her happy bridal morning. How had those years dealt with her slave sister, the little playmate of her childhood? She, also, was very beautiful; but the flowers and sunshine of love were not for her. She drank the cup of sin, and shame, and misery, whereof her persecuted race are compelled to drink. In view of these things, why are ye silent, ye free men and women of the north? Why do your tongues falter in maintenance of the right? Would that I had more ability! But my heart is so full, and my pen is so weak! There are noble men and women who plead for us, striving to help those who cannot help themselves. God bless them! God give them strength and courage to go on! God bless those, every where, who are laboring to advance the cause of humanity! ----------CHAPTER VI--------- I would ten thousand times rather that my children should be the half-starved paupers of Ireland than to be the most pampered among the slaves of America. I would rather drudge out my life on a cotton plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to live with an unprincipled master and a jealous mistress. The felon's home in a penitentiary is preferable. He may repent, and turn from the error of his ways, and so find peace; but it is not so with a favorite slave. She is not allowed to have any pride of character. It is deemed a crime in her to wish to be virtuous. Mrs. Flint possessed the key to her husband's character before I was born. She might have used this knowledge to counsel and to screen the young and the innocent among her slaves; but for them she had no sympathy. They were the objects of her constant suspicion and malevolence. She watched her husband with unceasing vigilance; but he was well practised in means to evade it. What he could not find opportunity to say in words he manifested in signs. He invented more than were ever thought of in a deaf and dumb asylum. I let them pass, as if I did not understand what he meant; and many were the curses and threats bestowed on me for my stupidity. One day he caught me teaching myself to write. He frowned, as if he was not well pleased; but I suppose he came to the conclusion that such an accomplishment might help to advance his favorite scheme. Before long, notes were often slipped into my hand. I would return them, saying, "I can't read them, sir." "Can't you?" he replied; "then I must read them to you." He always finished the reading by asking, "Do you understand?" Sometimes he would complain of the heat of the tea room, and order his supper to be placed on a small table in the piazza. He would seat himself there with a well-satisfied smile, and tell me to stand by and brush away the flies. He would eat very slowly, pausing between the mouthfuls. These intervals were employed in describing the happiness I was so foolishly throwing away, and in threatening me with the penalty that finally awaited my stubborn disobedience. He boasted much of the forbearance he had exercised towards me, and reminded me that there was a limit to his patience. When I succeeded in avoiding opportunities for him to talk to me at home, I was ordered to come to his office, to do some errand. When there, I was obliged to stand and listen to such language as he saw fit to address to me. Sometimes I so openly expressed my contempt for him that he would become violently enraged, and I wondered why he did not strike me. Circumstanced as he was, he probably thought it was better policy to be forebearing. But the state of things grew worse and worse daily. In desperation I told him that I must and would apply to my grandmother for protection. He threatened me with death, and worse than death, if I made any complaint to her. Strange to say, I did not despair. I was naturally of a buoyant disposition, and always I had a hope of somehow getting out of his clutches. Like many a poor, simple slave before me, I trusted that some threads of joy would yet be woven into my dark destiny. I had entered my sixteenth year, and every day it became more apparent that my presence was intolerable to Mrs. Flint. Angry words frequently passed between her and her husband. He had never punished me himself, and he would not allow any body else to punish me. In that respect, she was never satisfied; but, in her angry moods, no terms were too vile for her to bestow upon me. Yet I, whom she detested so bitterly, had far more pity for her than he had, whose duty it was to make her life happy. I never wronged her, or wished to wrong her, and one word of kindness from her would have brought me to her feet. After repeated quarrels between the doctor and his wife, he announced his intention to take his youngest daughter, then four years old, to sleep in his apartment. It was necessary that a servant should sleep in the same room, to be on hand if the child stirred. I was selected for that office, and informed for what purpose that arrangement had been made. By managing to keep within sight of people, as much as possible, during the day time, I had hitherto succeeded in eluding my master, though a razor was often held to my throat to force me to change this line of policy. At night I slept by the side of my great aunt, where I felt safe. He was too prudent to come into her room. She was an old woman, and had been in the family many years. Moreover, as a married man, and a professional man, he deemed it necessary to save appearances in some degree. But he resolved to remove the obstacle in the way of his scheme; and he thought he had planned it so that he should evade suspicion. He was well aware how much I prized my refuge by the side of my old aunt, and he determined to dispossess me of it. The first night the doctor had the little child in his room alone. The next morning, I was ordered to take my station as nurse the following night. A kind Providence interposed in my favor. During the day Mrs. Flint heard of this new arrangement, and a storm followed. I rejoiced to hear it rage. After a while my mistress sent for me to come to her room. Her first question was, "Did you know you were to sleep in the doctor's room?" "Yes, ma'am." "Who told you?" "My master." "Will you answer truly all the questions I ask?" "Yes, ma'am." "Tell me, then, as you hope to be forgiven, are you innocent of what I have accused you?" "I am." She handed me a Bible, and said, "Lay your hand on your heart, kiss this holy book, and swear before God that you tell me the truth." I took the oath she required, and I did it with a clear conscience. "You have taken God's holy word to testify your innocence," said she. "If you have deceived me, beware! Now take this stool, sit down, look me directly in the face, and tell me all that has passed between your master and you." I did as she ordered. As I went on with my account her color changed frequently, she wept, and sometimes groaned. She spoke in tones so sad, that I was touched by her grief. The tears came to my eyes; but I was soon convinced that her emotions arose from anger and wounded pride. She felt that her marriage vows were desecrated, her dignity insulted; but she had no compassion for the poor victim of her husband's perfidy. She pitied herself as a martyr; but she was incapable of feeling for the condition of shame and misery in which her unfortunate, helpless slave was placed. Yet perhaps she had some touch of feeling for me; for when the conference was ended, she spoke kindly, and promised to protect me. I should have been much comforted by this assurance if I could have had confidence in it; but my experiences in slavery had filled me with distrust. She was not a very refined woman, and had not much control over her passions. I was an object of her jealousy, and, consequently, of her hatred; and I knew I could not expect kindness or confidence from her under the circumstances in which I was placed. I could not blame her. Slaveholders' wives feel as other women would under similar circumstances. The fire of her temper kindled from small-sparks, and now the flame became so intense that the doctor was obliged to give up his intended arrangement. I knew I had ignited the torch, and I expected to suffer for it afterwards; but I felt too thankful to my mistress for the timely aid she rendered me to care much about that. She now took me to sleep in a room adjoining her own. There I was an object of her especial care, though not to her especial comfort, for she spent many a sleepless night to watch over me. Sometimes I woke up, and found her bending over me. At other times she whispered in my ear, as though it was her husband who was speaking to me, and listened to hear what I would answer. If she startled me, on such occasions, she would glide stealthily away; and the next morning she would tell me I had been talking in my sleep, and ask who I was talking to. At last, I began to be fearful for my life. It had been often threatened; and you can imagine, better than I can describe, what an unpleasant sensation it must produce to wake up in the dead of night and find a jealous woman bending over you. Terrible as this experience was, I had fears that it would give place to one more terrible. My mistress grew weary of her vigils; they did not prove satisfactory. She changed her tactics. She now tried the trick of accusing my master of crime, in my presence, and gave my name as the author of the accusation. To my utter astonishment, he replied, "I don't believe it; but if she did acknowledge it, you tortured her into exposing me." Tortured into exposing him! Truly, Satan had no difficulty in distinguishing the color of his soul! I understood his object in making this false representation. It was to show me that I gained nothing by seeking the protection of my mistress; that the power was still all in his own hands. I pitied Mrs. Flint. She was a second wife, many years the junior of her husband; and the hoary-headed miscreant was enough to try the patience of a wiser and better woman. She was completely foiled, and knew not how to proceed. She would gladly have had me flogged for my supposed false oath; but, as I have already stated, the doctor never allowed any one to whip me. The old sinner was politic. The application of the lash might have led to remarks that would have exposed him in the eyes of his children and grandchildren. How often did I rejoice that I lived in a town where all the inhabitants knew each other! If I had been on a remote plantation, or lost among the multitude of a crowded city, I should not be a living woman at this day. The secrets of slavery are concealed like those of the Inquisition. My master was, to my knowledge, the father of eleven slaves. But did the mothers dare to tell who was the father of their children? Did the other slaves dare to allude to it, except in whispers among themselves? No, indeed! They knew too well the terrible consequences. My grandmother could not avoid seeing things which excited her suspicions. She was uneasy about me, and tried various ways to buy me; but the never-changing answer was always repeated: "Linda does not belong to _me_. She is my daughter's property, and I have no legal right to sell her." The conscientious man! He was too scrupulous to _sell_ me; but he had no scruples whatever about committing a much greater wrong against the helpless young girl placed under his guardianship, as his daughter's property. Sometimes my persecutor would ask me whether I would like to be sold. I told him I would rather be sold to any body than to lead such a life as I did. On such occasions he would assume the air of a very injured individual, and reproach me for my ingratitude. "Did I not take you into the house, and make you the companion of my own children?" he would say. "Have _I_ ever treated you like a negro? I have never allowed you to be punished, not even to please your mistress. And this is the recompense I get, you ungrateful girl!" I answered that he had reasons of his own for screening me from punishment, and that the course he pursued made my mistress hate me and persecute me. If I wept, he would say, "Poor child! Don't cry! don't cry! I will make peace for you with your mistress. Only let me arrange matters in my own way. Poor, foolish girl! you don't know what is for your own good. I would cherish you. I would make a lady of you. Now go, and think of all I have promised you." I did think of it. Reader, I draw no imaginary pictures of southern homes. I am telling you the plain truth. Yet when victims make their escape from the wild beast of Slavery, northerners consent to act the part of bloodhounds, and hunt the poor fugitive back into his den, "full of dead men's bones, and all uncleanness." Nay, more, they are not only willing, but proud, to give their daughters in marriage to slaveholders. The poor girls have romantic notions of a sunny clime, and of the flowering vines that all the year round shade a happy home. To what disappointments are they destined! The young wife soon learns that the husband in whose hands she has placed her happiness pays no regard to his marriage vows. Children of every shade of complexion play with her own fair babies, and too well she knows that they are born unto him of his own household. Jealousy and hatred enter the flowery home, and it is ravaged of its loveliness. Southern women often marry a man knowing that he is the father of many little slaves. They do not trouble themselves about it. They regard such children as property, as marketable as the pigs on the plantation; and it is seldom that they do not make them aware of this by passing them into the slave-trader's hands as soon as possible, and thus getting them out of their sight. I am glad to say there are some honorable exceptions. I have myself known two southern wives who exhorted their husbands to free those slaves towards whom they stood in a "parental relation;" and their request was granted. These husbands blushed before the superior nobleness of their wives' natures. Though they had only counselled them to do that which it was their duty to do, it commanded their respect, and rendered their conduct more exemplary. Concealment was at an end, and confidence took the place of distrust. Though this bad institution deadens the moral sense, even in white women, to a fearful extent, it is not altogether extinct. I have heard southern ladies say of Mr. Such a one, "He not only thinks it no disgrace to be the father of those little niggers, but he is not ashamed to call himself their master. I declare, such things ought not to be tolerated in any decent society!"

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter viii with the given context.

chapter vii|chapter viii

What Slaves Are Taught To Think Of The North Slaves were often misled about the conditions in the north. Slaveowners would venture there and then return with tales of how terrible it was for freed men and women. Slaves believed these stories, but Harriet would learn that they were not true. Similarly, some northerners who came south were swayed by what they saw and walked away thinking "God created the Africans to be slaves. She ruminates on the fact that slaves are inferior to white men only because they have been so brutalized; "it is the ignorance in which white men compel him to live" that creates this situation

----------CHAPTER VII--------- Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, "Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!" But when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved and I indulged the hope that the dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind; Nor words a language; nor e'en men mankind. Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate hell. There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free born man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young girl's first love. But when I reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr. Flint was too willful and arbitrary a man to consent to that arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sort of opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home I should be just as much in her husband's power as I had previously been,--for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her. Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. "I will have you peeled and pickled, my lady," said she, "if I ever hear you mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending _my_ children with the children of that nigger?" The girl to whom she said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his helpless offspring. Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She had long suspected all was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes. This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint's, who often visited the house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great influence with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I was aware that my lover's being a free-born man would prove a great objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose. How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next morning, a message was brought to me: "Master wants you in his study." I found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, "I have half a mind to kill you on the spot." At last he broke the silence, and that was a relief to both of us. "So you want to be married, do you?" said he, "and to a free nigger." "Yes, sir." "Well, I'll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger fellow you honor so highly. If you _must_ have a husband, you may take up with one of my slaves." What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of _his_ slaves, even if my heart had been interested! I replied, "Don't you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?" "Do you love this nigger?" said he, abruptly. "Yes, sir." "How dare you tell me so!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight pause, he added, "I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt above the insults of such puppies." I replied, "If he is a puppy, I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not believe me to be a virtuous woman." He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, "You have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!" There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to reflect on what I had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, "Do you know what you have said?" "Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it." "Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,--that I can kill you, if I please?" "You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do as you like with me." "Silence!" he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. "By heavens, girl, you forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?" "I know I have been disrespectful, sir," I replied; "but you drove me to it; I couldn't help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me there than there is here." "You deserve to go there," said he, "and to be under such treatment, that you would forget the meaning of the word _peace_. It would do you good. It would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that fellow's name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I will cowhide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I'll teach you a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject." Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I never shall again. Somebody has called it "the atmosphere of hell;" and I believe it is so. For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me; to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base proposals of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it, and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was doing myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up his mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following day. The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to stop at his office on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter, and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, "I am your daughter's property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you please." He said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However that might be, I was determined that I would never go to Louisiana with him. Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint's eldest son was sent to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with _him_. That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields to work. Is it strange, that I was not proud of these protectors? As for the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a bloodhound. Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the corner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. "When is mistress to be married?" said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man! that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in the street! Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was an intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I knew they must "follow the condition of the mother." What a terrible blight that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For _his_ sake, I felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt lonely and desolate. Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by the reflection that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden freak of my master. If he had known how we loved each other, I think he would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was strongly opposed to her children's undertaking any such project. She had not forgotten poor Benjamin's sufferings, and she was afraid that if another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself, "William _must_ be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him." Many a slave sister has formed the same plans. ----------CHAPTER VIII--------- Slaveholders pride themselves upon being honorable men; but if you were to hear the enormous lies they tell their slaves, you would have small respect for their veracity. I have spoken plain English. Pardon me. I cannot use a milder term. When they visit the north, and return home, they tell their slaves of the runaways they have seen, and describe them to be in the most deplorable condition. A slaveholder once told me that he had seen a runaway friend of mine in New York, and that she besought him to take her back to her master, for she was literally dying of starvation; that many days she had only one cold potato to eat, and at other times could get nothing at all. He said he refused to take her, because he knew her master would not thank him for bringing such a miserable wretch to his house. He ended by saying to me, "This is the punishment she brought on herself for running away from a kind master." This whole story was false. I afterwards staid with that friend in New York, and found her in comfortable circumstances. She had never thought of such a thing as wishing to go back to slavery. Many of the slaves believe such stories, and think it is not worth while to exchange slavery for such a hard kind of freedom. It is difficult to persuade such that freedom could make them useful men, and enable them to protect their wives and children. If those heathen in our Christian land had as much teaching as some Hindoos, they would think otherwise. They would know that liberty is more valuable than life. They would begin to understand their own capabilities, and exert themselves to become men and women. But while the Free States sustain a law which hurls fugitives back into slavery, how can the slaves resolve to become men? There are some who strive to protect wives and daughters from the insults of their masters; but those who have such sentiments have had advantages above the general mass of slaves. They have been partially civilized and Christianized by favorable circumstances. Some are bold enough to _utter_ such sentiments to their masters. O, that there were more of them! Some poor creatures have been so brutalized by the lash that they will sneak out of the way to give their masters free access to their wives and daughters. Do you think this proves the black man to belong to an inferior order of beings? What would _you_ be, if you had been born and brought up a slave, with generations of slaves for ancestors? I admit that the black man _is_ inferior. But what is it that makes him so? It is the ignorance in which white men compel him to live; it is the torturing whip that lashes manhood out of him; it is the fierce bloodhounds of the South, and the scarcely less cruel human bloodhounds of the north, who enforce the Fugitive Slave Law. _They_ do the work. Southern gentlemen indulge in the most contemptuous expressions about the Yankees, while they, on their part, consent to do the vilest work for them, such as the ferocious bloodhounds and the despised negro-hunters are employed to do at home. When southerners go to the north, they are proud to do them honor; but the northern man is not welcome south of Mason and Dixon's line, unless he suppresses every thought and feeling at variance with their "peculiar institution." Nor is it enough to be silent. The masters are not pleased, unless they obtain a greater degree of subservience than that; and they are generally accommodated. Do they respect the northerner for this? I trow not. Even the slaves despise "a northern man with southern principles;" and that is the class they generally see. When northerners go to the south to reside, they prove very apt scholars. They soon imbibe the sentiments and disposition of their neighbors, and generally go beyond their teachers. Of the two, they are proverbially the hardest masters. They seem to satisfy their consciences with the doctrine that God created the Africans to be slaves. What a libel upon the heavenly Father, who "made of one blood all nations of men!" And then who _are_ Africans? Who can measure the amount of Anglo-Saxon blood coursing in the veins of American slaves? I have spoken of the pains slaveholders take to give their slaves a bad opinion of the north; but, notwithstanding this, intelligent slaves are aware that they have many friends in the Free States. Even the most ignorant have some confused notions about it. They knew that I could read; and I was often asked if I had seen any thing in the newspapers about white folks over in the big north, who were trying to get their freedom for them. Some believe that the abolitionists have already made them free, and that it is established by law, but that their masters prevent the law from going into effect. One woman begged me to get a newspaper and read it over. She said her husband told her that the black people had sent word to the queen of 'Merica that they were all slaves; that she didn't believe it, and went to Washington city to see the president about it. They quarrelled; she drew her sword upon him, and swore that he should help her to make them all free. That poor, ignorant woman thought that America was governed by a Queen, to whom the President was subordinate. I wish the President was subordinate to Queen Justice.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter x based on the provided context.

chapter x|chapter xi

A Perilous Passage In The Slave Girl's Life Dr. Flint concocts a plan to build Harriet a small house in a secluded place outside of town so he could continue to pursue her. Harriet was determined that this should not happen. She alludes to moral failing, and explains that the memory of this experience made her ashamed and sorrowful. But she tells the reader that she had promised to tell the truth. She laments that there were happy women who never had to deal with these offensive things, and were sheltered and could choose their own lovers. After this disclaimer, she writes of a white man in town who was kind to her. He was unmarried and expressed a desire to help her. She soon grew to have feelings for him. His name was Mr. Sands. Harriet knew that Dr. Flint would be irate if he learned that she favored another, and, learning that the Dr. was actually building the house in the woods, decided to take the "headlong plunge" by sleeping with Mr. Sands. This is hard for her to relate to the reader, but she comments "I feel that the slave woman ought not to be judged by the same standard as others. One day Dr. Flint told her that the house was almost ready, and she responded by saying she would never go there because she would be a mother in a few months' time. He was filled with "dumb amazement. Harriet went to Aunt Marthy's house for solace, but her grandmother could barely look at her in her disgrace. She ordered Harriet out and told her she never wanted to see her again. Harriet had nowhere else to go and wandered around for some time in the woods. She prayed for death but it did not come. She finally went to the home of a woman who had been a friend of her mother's. The woman sheltered her, but Harriet longed only for her grandmother. The latter finally came; Harriet told her everything about Dr. Flint's persecutions and her plan, and her grandmother forgave her

----------CHAPTER X--------- After my lover went away, Dr. Flint contrived a new plan. He seemed to have an idea that my fear of my mistress was his greatest obstacle. In the blandest tones, he told me that he was going to build a small house for me, in a secluded place, four miles away from the town. I shuddered; but I was constrained to listen, while he talked of his intention to give me a home of my own, and to make a lady of me. Hitherto, I had escaped my dreaded fate, by being in the midst of people. My grandmother had already had high words with my master about me. She had told him pretty plainly what she thought of his character, and there was considerable gossip in the neighborhood about our affairs, to which the open-mouthed jealousy of Mrs. Flint contributed not a little. When my master said he was going to build a house for me, and that he could do it with little trouble and expense, I was in hopes something would happen to frustrate his scheme; but I soon heard that the house was actually begun. I vowed before my Maker that I would never enter it: I had rather toil on the plantation from dawn till dark; I had rather live and die in jail, than drag on, from day to day, through such a living death. I was determined that the master, whom I so hated and loathed, who had blighted the prospects of my youth, and made my life a desert, should not, after my long struggle with him, succeed at last in trampling his victim under his feet. I would do any thing, every thing, for the sake of defeating him. What _could_ I do? I thought and thought, till I became desperate, and made a plunge into the abyss. And now, reader, I come to a period in my unhappy life, which I would gladly forget if I could. The remembrance fills me with sorrow and shame. It pains me to tell you of it; but I have promised to tell you the truth, and I will do it honestly, let it cost me what it may. I will not try to screen myself behind the plea of compulsion from a master; for it was not so. Neither can I plead ignorance or thoughtlessness. For years, my master had done his utmost to pollute my mind with foul images, and to destroy the pure principles inculcated by my grandmother, and the good mistress of my childhood. The influences of slavery had had the same effect on me that they had on other young girls; they had made me prematurely knowing, concerning the evil ways of the world. I knew what I did, and I did it with deliberate calculation. But, O, ye happy women, whose purity has been sheltered from childhood, who have been free to choose the objects of your affection, whose homes are protected by law, do not judge the poor desolate slave girl too severely! If slavery had been abolished, I, also, could have married the man of my choice; I could have had a home shielded by the laws; and I should have been spared the painful task of confessing what I am now about to relate; but all my prospects had been blighted by slavery. I wanted to keep myself pure; and, under the most adverse circumstances, I tried hard to preserve my self-respect; but I was struggling alone in the powerful grasp of the demon Slavery; and the monster proved too strong for me. I felt as if I was forsaken by God and man; as if all my efforts must be frustrated; and I became reckless in my despair. I have told you that Dr. Flint's persecutions and his wife's jealousy had given rise to some gossip in the neighborhood. Among others, it chanced that a white unmarried gentleman had obtained some knowledge of the circumstances in which I was placed. He knew my grandmother, and often spoke to me in the street. He became interested for me, and asked questions about my master, which I answered in part. He expressed a great deal of sympathy, and a wish to aid me. He constantly sought opportunities to see me, and wrote to me frequently. I was a poor slave girl, only fifteen years old. So much attention from a superior person was, of course, flattering; for human nature is the same in all. I also felt grateful for his sympathy, and encouraged by his kind words. It seemed to me a great thing to have such a friend. By degrees, a more tender feeling crept into my heart. He was an educated and eloquent gentleman; too eloquent, alas, for the poor slave girl who trusted in him. Of course I saw whither all this was tending. I knew the impassable gulf between us; but to be an object of interest to a man who is not married, and who is not her master, is agreeable to the pride and feelings of a slave, if her miserable situation has left her any pride or sentiment. It seems less degrading to give one's self, than to submit to compulsion. There is something akin to freedom in having a lover who has no control over you, except that which he gains by kindness and attachment. A master may treat you as rudely as he pleases, and you dare not speak; moreover, the wrong does not seem so great with an unmarried man, as with one who has a wife to be made unhappy. There may be sophistry in all this; but the condition of a slave confuses all principles of morality, and, in fact, renders the practice of them impossible. When I found that my master had actually begun to build the lonely cottage, other feelings mixed with those I have described. Revenge, and calculations of interest, were added to flattered vanity and sincere gratitude for kindness. I knew nothing would enrage Dr. Flint so much as to know that I favored another, and it was something to triumph over my tyrant even in that small way. I thought he would revenge himself by selling me, and I was sure my friend, Mr. Sands, would buy me. He was a man of more generosity and feeling than my master, and I thought my freedom could be easily obtained from him. The crisis of my fate now came so near that I was desperate. I shuddered to think of being the mother of children that should be owned by my old tyrant. I knew that as soon as a new fancy took him, his victims were sold far off to get rid of them; especially if they had children. I had seen several women sold, with babies at the breast. He never allowed his offspring by slaves to remain long in sight of himself and his wife. Of a man who was not my master I could ask to have my children well supported; and in this case, I felt confident I should obtain the boon. I also felt quite sure that they would be made free. With all these thoughts revolving in my mind, and seeing no other way of escaping the doom I so much dreaded, I made a headlong plunge. Pity me, and pardon me, O virtuous reader! You never knew what it is to be a slave; to be entirely unprotected by law or custom; to have the laws reduce you to the condition of a chattel, entirely subject to the will of another. You never exhausted your ingenuity in avoiding the snares, and eluding the power of a hated tyrant; you never shuddered at the sound of his footsteps, and trembled within hearing of his voice. I know I did wrong. No one can feel it more sensibly than I do. The painful and humiliating memory will haunt me to my dying day. Still, in looking back, calmly, on the events of my life, I feel that the slave woman ought not to be judged by the same standard as others. The months passed on. I had many unhappy hours. I secretly mourned over the sorrow I was bringing on my grandmother, who had so tried to shield me from harm. I knew that I was the greatest comfort of her old age, and that it was a source of pride to her that I had not degraded myself, like most of the slaves. I wanted to confess to her that I was no longer worthy of her love; but I could not utter the dreaded words. As for Dr. Flint, I had a feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the thought of telling _him_. From time to time he told me of his intended arrangements, and I was silent. At last, he came and told me the cottage was completed, and ordered me to go to it. I told him I would never enter it. He said, "I have heard enough of such talk as that. You shall go, if you are carried by force; and you shall remain there." I replied, "I will never go there. In a few months I shall be a mother." He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house without a word. I thought I should be happy in my triumph over him. But now that the truth was out, and my relatives would hear of it, I felt wretched. Humble as were their circumstances, they had pride in my good character. Now, how could I look at them in the face? My self-respect was gone! I had resolved that I would be virtuous, though I was a slave. I had said, "Let the storm beat! I will brave it till I die." And now, how humiliated I felt! I went to my grandmother. My lips moved to make confession, but the words stuck in my throat. I sat down in the shade of a tree at her door and began to sew. I think she saw something unusual was the matter with me. The mother of slaves is very watchful. She knows there is no security for her children. After they have entered their teens she lives in daily expectation of trouble. This leads to many questions. If the girl is of a sensitive nature, timidity keeps her from answering truthfully, and this well-meant course has a tendency to drive her from maternal counsels. Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman, and accused me concerning her husband. My grandmother, whose suspicions had been previously awakened, believed what she said. She exclaimed, "O Linda! Has it come to this? I had rather see you dead than to see you as you now are. You are a disgrace to your dead mother." She tore from my fingers my mother's wedding ring and her silver thimble. "Go away!" she exclaimed, "and never come to my house, again." Her reproaches fell so hot and heavy, that they left me no chance to answer. Bitter tears, such as the eyes never shed but once, were my only answer. I rose from my seat, but fell back again, sobbing. She did not speak to me; but the tears were running down her furrowed cheeks, and they scorched me like fire. She had always been so kind to me! _So_ kind! How I longed to throw myself at her feet, and tell her all the truth! But she had ordered me to go, and never to come there again. After a few minutes, I mustered strength, and started to obey her. With what feelings did I now close that little gate, which I used to open with such an eager hand in my childhood! It closed upon me with a sound I never heard before. Where could I go? I was afraid to return to my master's. I walked on recklessly, not caring where I went, or what would become of me. When I had gone four or five miles, fatigue compelled me to stop. I sat down on the stump of an old tree. The stars were shining through the boughs above me. How they mocked me, with their bright, calm light! The hours passed by, and as I sat there alone a chilliness and deadly sickness came over me. I sank on the ground. My mind was full of horrid thoughts. I prayed to die; but the prayer was not answered. At last, with great effort I roused myself, and walked some distance further, to the house of a woman who had been a friend of my mother. When I told her why I was there, she spoke soothingly to me; but I could not be comforted. I thought I could bear my shame if I could only be reconciled to my grandmother. I longed to open my heart to her. I thought if she could know the real state of the case, and all I had been bearing for years, she would perhaps judge me less harshly. My friend advised me to send for her. I did so; but days of agonizing suspense passed before she came. Had she utterly forsaken me? No. She came at last. I knelt before her, and told her the things that had poisoned my life; how long I had been persecuted; that I saw no way of escape; and in an hour of extremity I had become desperate. She listened in silence. I told her I would bear any thing and do any thing, if in time I had hopes of obtaining her forgiveness. I begged of her to pity me, for my dead mother's sake. And she did pity me. She did not say, "I forgive you;" but she looked at me lovingly, with her eyes full of tears. She laid her old hand gently on my head, and murmured, "Poor child! Poor child!" ----------CHAPTER XI--------- I returned to my good grandmother's house. She had an interview with Mr. Sands. When she asked him why he could not have left her one ewe lamb,--whether there were not plenty of slaves who did not care about character,--he made no answer, but he spoke kind and encouraging words. He promised to care for my child, and to buy me, be the conditions what they might. I had not seen Dr. Flint for five days. I had never seen him since I made the avowal to him. He talked of the disgrace I had brought on myself; how I had sinned against my master, and mortified my old grandmother. He intimated that if I had accepted his proposals, he, as a physician, could have saved me from exposure. He even condescended to pity me. Could he have offered wormwood more bitter? He, whose persecutions had been the cause of my sin! "Linda," said he, "though you have been criminal towards me, I feel for you, and I can pardon you if you obey my wishes. Tell me whether the fellow you wanted to marry is the father of your child. If you deceive me, you shall feel the fires of hell." I did not feel as proud as I had done. My strongest weapon with him was gone. I was lowered in my own estimation, and had resolved to bear his abuse in silence. But when he spoke contemptuously of the lover who had always treated me honorably; when I remembered that but for _him_ I might have been a virtuous, free, and happy wife, I lost my patience. "I have sinned against God and myself," I replied; "but not against you." He clinched his teeth, and muttered, "Curse you!" He came towards me, with ill-suppressed rage, and exclaimed, "You obstinate girl! I could grind your bones to powder! You have thrown yourself away on some worthless rascal. You are weak-minded, and have been easily persuaded by those who don't care a straw for you. The future will settle accounts between us. You are blinded now; but hereafter you will be convinced that your master was your best friend. My lenity towards you is a proof of it. I might have punished you in many ways. I might have whipped till you fell dead under the lash. But I wanted you to live; I would have bettered your condition. Others cannot do it. You are my slave. Your mistress, disgusted by your conduct, forbids you to return to the house; therefore I leave you here for the present; but I shall see you often. I will call to-morrow." He came with frowning brows, that showed a dissatisfied state of mind. After asking about my health, he inquired whether my board was paid, and who visited me. He then went on to say that he had neglected his duty; that as a physician there were certain things that he ought to have explained to me. Then followed talk such as would have made the most shameless blush. He ordered me to stand up before him. I obeyed. "I command you," said he, "to tell me whether the father of your child is white or black." I hesitated. "Answer me this instant!" he exclaimed. I did answer. He sprang upon me like a wolf, and grabbed my arm as if he would have broken it. "Do you love him?" said he, in a hissing tone. "I am thankful that I do not despise him," I replied. He raised his hand to strike me; but it fell again. I don't know what arrested the blow. He sat down, with lips tightly compressed. At last he spoke. "I came here," said he, "to make you a friendly proposition; but your ingratitude chafes me beyond endurance. You turn aside all my good intentions towards you. I don't know what it is that keeps me from killing you." Again he rose, as if he had a mind to strike me. But he resumed. "On one condition I will forgive your insolence and crime. You must henceforth have no communication of any kind with the father of your child. You must not ask any thing from him, or receive any thing from him. I will take care of you and your child. You had better promise this at once, and not wait till you are deserted by him. This is the last act of mercy I shall show towards you." I said something about being unwilling to have my child supported by a man who had cursed it and me also. He rejoined, that a woman who had sunk to my level had no right to expect any thing else. He asked, for the last time, would I accept his kindness? I answered that I would not. "Very well," said he; "then take the consequences of your wayward course. Never look to me for help. You are my slave, and shall always be my slave. I will never sell you, that you may depend upon." Hope died away in my heart as he closed the door after him. I had calculated that in his rage he would sell me to a slave-trader; and I knew the father of my child was on the watch to buy me. About this time my uncle Phillip was expected to return from a voyage. The day before his departure I had officiated as bridesmaid to a young friend. My heart was then ill at ease, but my smiling countenance did not betray it. Only a year had passed; but what fearful changes it had wrought! My heart had grown gray in misery. Lives that flash in sunshine, and lives that are born in tears, receive their hue from circumstances. None of us know what a year may bring forth. I felt no joy when they told me my uncle had come. He wanted to see me, though he knew what had happened. I shrank from him at first; but at last consented that he should come to my room. He received me as he always had done. O, how my heart smote me when I felt his tears on my burning cheeks! The words of my grandmother came to my mind,--"Perhaps your mother and father are taken from the evil days to come." My disappointed heart could now praise God that it was so. But why, thought I, did my relatives ever cherish hopes for me? What was there to save me from the usual fate of slave girls? Many more beautiful and more intelligent than I had experienced a similar fate, or a far worse one. How could they hope that I should escape? My uncle's stay was short, and I was not sorry for it. I was too ill in mind and body to enjoy my friends as I had done. For some weeks I was unable to leave my bed. I could not have any doctor but my master, and I would not have him sent for. At last, alarmed by my increasing illness, they sent for him. I was very weak and nervous; and as soon as he entered the room, I began to scream. They told him my state was very critical. He had no wish to hasten me out of the world, and he withdrew. When my babe was born, they said it was premature. It weighed only four pounds; but God let it live. I heard the doctor say I could not survive till morning. I had often prayed for death; but now I did not want to die, unless my child could die too. Many weeks passed before I was able to leave my bed. I was a mere wreck of my former self. For a year there was scarcely a day when I was free from chills and fever. My babe also was sickly. His little limbs were often racked with pain. Dr. Flint continued his visits, to look after my health; and he did not fail to remind me that my child was an addition to his stock of slaves. I felt too feeble to dispute with him, and listened to his remarks in silence. His visits were less frequent; but his busy spirit could not remain quiet. He employed my brother in his office; and he was made the medium of frequent notes and messages to me. William was a bright lad, and of much use to the doctor. He had learned to put up medicines, to leech, cup, and bleed. He had taught himself to read and spell. I was proud of my brother, and the old doctor suspected as much. One day, when I had not seen him for several weeks, I heard his steps approaching the door. I dreaded the encounter, and hid myself. He inquired for me, of course; but I was nowhere to be found. He went to his office, and despatched William with a note. The color mounted to my brother's face when he gave it to me; and he said, "Don't you hate me, Linda, for bringing you these things?" I told him I could not blame him; he was a slave, and obliged to obey his master's will. The note ordered me to come to his office. I went. He demanded to know where I was when he called. I told him I was at home. He flew into a passion, and said he knew better. Then he launched out upon his usual themes,--my crimes against him, and my ingratitude for his forbearance. The laws were laid down to me anew, and I was dismissed. I felt humiliated that my brother should stand by, and listen to such language as would be addressed only to a slave. Poor boy! He was powerless to defend me; but I saw the tears, which he vainly strove to keep back. The manifestation of feeling irritated the doctor. William could do nothing to please him. One morning he did not arrive at the office so early as usual; and that circumstance afforded his master an opportunity to vent his spleen. He was put in jail. The next day my brother sent a trader to the doctor, with a request to be sold. His master was greatly incensed at what he called his insolence. He said he had put him there, to reflect upon his bad conduct, and he certainly was not giving any evidence of repentance. For two days he harassed himself to find somebody to do his office work; but every thing went wrong without William. He was released, and ordered to take his old stand, with many threats, if he was not careful about his future behavior. As the months passed on, my boy improved in health. When he was a year old, they called him beautiful. The little vine was taking deep root in my existence, though its clinging fondness excited a mixture of love and pain. When I was most sorely oppressed I found a solace in his smiles. I loved to watch his infant slumbers; but always there was a dark cloud over my enjoyment. I could never forget that he was a slave. Sometimes I wished that he might die in infancy. God tried me. My darling became very ill. The bright eyes grew dull, and the little feet and hands were so icy cold that I thought death had already touched them. I had prayed for his death, but never so earnestly as I now prayed for his life; and my prayer was heard. Alas, what mockery it is for a slave mother to try to pray back her dying child to life! Death is better than slavery. It was a sad thought that I had no name to give my child. His father caressed him and treated him kindly, whenever he had a chance to see him. He was not unwilling that he should bear his name; but he had no legal claim to it; and if I had bestowed it upon him, my master would have regarded it as a new crime, a new piece of insolence, and would, perhaps, revenge it on the boy. O, the serpent of Slavery has many and poisonous fangs!

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter xiv, utilizing the provided context.

chapter xii|chapter xiv

Another Link To Life Harriet explains that she had not returned to Dr. Flint's house since the birth of her child. He still visited her and labored to convince her of how she had lowered herself. She knew that she had no chance of having a better life. What made her the most despairing was when he threatened to sell her child. Harriet learned she was to be a mother again, and Dr. Flint became crazed. He cut her hair extremely short and once pushed her down a flight of stairs. He was like a "restless spirit from the pits" and visited her daily. Harriet had her baby and was disconsolate when she learned it was a girl, since slave girls have "wrongs, and sufferings, and mortifications peculiarly their own. One day when Dr. Flint was out of town Harriet had her children christened. They could not take their father's name so they took the name of Harriet's father. Harriet felt ashamed that her lot was so different than that of her own mother, who had been married and could give her children their father's name

----------CHAPTER XII--------- Not far from this time Nat Turner's insurrection broke out; and the news threw our town into great commotion. Strange that they should be alarmed, when their slaves were so "contented and happy"! But so it was. It was always the custom to have a muster every year. On that occasion every white man shouldered his musket. The citizens and the so-called country gentlemen wore military uniforms. The poor whites took their places in the ranks in every-day dress, some without shoes, some without hats. This grand occasion had already passed; and when the slaves were told there was to be another muster, they were surprised and rejoiced. Poor creatures! They thought it was going to be a holiday. I was informed of the true state of affairs, and imparted it to the few I could trust. Most gladly would I have proclaimed it to every slave; but I dared not. All could not be relied on. Mighty is the power of the torturing lash. By sunrise, people were pouring in from every quarter within twenty miles of the town. I knew the houses were to be searched; and I expected it would be done by country bullies and the poor whites. I knew nothing annoyed them so much as to see colored people living in comfort and respectability; so I made arrangements for them with especial care. I arranged every thing in my grandmother's house as neatly as possible. I put white quilts on the beds, and decorated some of the rooms with flowers. When all was arranged, I sat down at the window to watch. Far as my eye could reach, it rested on a motley crowd of soldiers. Drums and fifes were discoursing martial music. The men were divided into companies of sixteen, each headed by a captain. Orders were given, and the wild scouts rushed in every direction, wherever a colored face was to be found. It was a grand opportunity for the low whites, who had no negroes of their own to scourge. They exulted in such a chance to exercise a little brief authority, and show their subserviency to the slaveholders; not reflecting that the power which trampled on the colored people also kept themselves in poverty, ignorance, and moral degradation. Those who never witnessed such scenes can hardly believe what I know was inflicted at this time on innocent men, women, and children, against whom there was not the slightest ground for suspicion. Colored people and slaves who lived in remote parts of the town suffered in an especial manner. In some cases the searchers scattered powder and shot among their clothes, and then sent other parties to find them, and bring them forward as proof that they were plotting insurrection. Every where men, women, and children were whipped till the blood stood in puddles at their feet. Some received five hundred lashes; others were tied hands and feet, and tortured with a bucking paddle, which blisters the skin terribly. The dwellings of the colored people, unless they happened to be protected by some influential white person, who was nigh at hand, were robbed of clothing and every thing else the marauders thought worth carrying away. All day long these unfeeling wretches went round, like a troop of demons, terrifying and tormenting the helpless. At night, they formed themselves into patrol bands, and went wherever they chose among the colored people, acting out their brutal will. Many women hid themselves in woods and swamps, to keep out of their way. If any of the husbands or fathers told of these outrages, they were tied up to the public whipping post, and cruelly scourged for telling lies about white men. The consternation was universal. No two people that had the slightest tinge of color in their faces dared to be seen talking together. I entertained no positive fears about our household, because we were in the midst of white families who would protect us. We were ready to receive the soldiers whenever they came. It was not long before we heard the tramp of feet and the sound of voices. The door was rudely pushed open; and in they tumbled, like a pack of hungry wolves. They snatched at every thing within their reach. Every box, trunk, closet, and corner underwent a thorough examination. A box in one of the drawers containing some silver change was eagerly pounced upon. When I stepped forward to take it from them, one of the soldiers turned and said angrily, "What d'ye foller us fur? D'ye s'pose white folks is come to steal?" I replied, "You have come to search; but you have searched that box, and I will take it, if you please." At that moment I saw a white gentleman who was friendly to us; and I called to him, and asked him to have the goodness to come in and stay till the search was over. He readily complied. His entrance into the house brought in the captain of the company, whose business it was to guard the outside of the house, and see that none of the inmates left it. This officer was Mr. Litch, the wealthy slaveholder whom I mentioned, in the account of neighboring planters, as being notorious for his cruelty. He felt above soiling his hands with the search. He merely gave orders; and, if a bit of writing was discovered, it was carried to him by his ignorant followers, who were unable to read. My grandmother had a large trunk of bedding and table cloths. When that was opened, there was a great shout of surprise; and one exclaimed, "Where'd the damned niggers git all dis sheet an' table clarf?" My grandmother, emboldened by the presence of our white protector said, "You may be sure we didn't pilfer 'em from _your_ houses." "Look here, mammy," said a grim-looking fellow without any coat, "you seem to feel mighty gran' 'cause you got all them 'ere fixens. White folks oughter have 'em all." His remarks were interrupted by a chorus of voices shouting, "We's got 'em! We's got 'em! Dis 'ere yaller gal's got letters!" There was a general rush for the supposed letter, which, upon examination, proved to be some verses written to me by a friend. In packing away my things, I had overlooked them. When their captain informed them of their contents, they seemed much disappointed. He inquired of me who wrote them. I told him it was one of my friends. "Can you read them?" he asked. When I told him I could, he swore, and raved, and tore the paper into bits. "Bring me all your letters!" said he, in commanding tone. I told him I had none. "Don't be afraid," he continued, in an insinuating way. "Bring them all to me. Nobody shall do you any harm." Seeing I did not move to obey him, his pleasant tone changed to oaths and threats. "Who writes to you? half free niggers?" inquired he. I replied, "O, no; most of my letters are from white people. Some request me to burn them after they are read, and some I destroy without reading." An exclamation of surprise from some of the company put a stop to our conversation. Some silver spoons which ornamented an old-fashioned buffet had just been discovered. My grandmother was in the habit of preserving fruit for many ladies in the town, and of preparing suppers for parties; consequently she had many jars of preserves. The closet that contained these was next invaded, and the contents tasted. One of them, who was helping himself freely, tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, and said, "Wal done! Don't wonder de niggers want to kill all de white folks, when dey live on 'sarves" [meaning preserves]. I stretched out my hand to take the jar, saying, "You were not sent here to search for sweetmeats." "And what _were_ we sent for?" said the captain, bristling up to me. I evaded the question. The search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn us. They next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush and vine, with no better success. The captain called his men together, and, after a short consultation, the order to march was given. As they passed out of the gate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a malediction on the house. He said it ought to be burned to the ground, and each of its inmates receive thirty-nine lashes. We came out of this affair very fortunately; not losing any thing except some wearing apparel. Towards evening the turbulence increased. The soldiers, stimulated by drink, committed still greater cruelties. Shrieks and shouts continually rent the air. Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under the window curtain. I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored people, each white man, with his musket upraised, threatening instant death if they did not stop their shrieks. Among the prisoners was a respectable old colored minister. They had found a few parcels of shot in his house, which his wife had for years used to balance her scales. For this they were going to shoot him on Court House Green. What a spectacle was that for a civilized country! A rabble, staggering under intoxication, assuming to be the administrators of justice! The better class of the community exerted their influence to save the innocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded, by keeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated. At last the white citizens found that their own property was not safe from the lawless rabble they had summoned to protect them. They rallied the drunken swarm, drove them back into the country, and set a guard over the town. The next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored people that lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were committed with perfect impunity. Every day for a fortnight, if I looked out, I saw horsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles, and compelled by the lash to keep up with their speed, till they arrived at the jail yard. Those who had been whipped too unmercifully to walk were washed with brine, tossed into a cart, and carried to jail. One black man, who had not fortitude to endure scourging, promised to give information about the conspiracy. But it turned out that he knew nothing at all. He had not even heard the name of Nat Turner. The poor fellow had, however, made up a story, which augmented his own sufferings and those of the colored people. The day patrol continued for some weeks, and at sundown a night guard was substituted. Nothing at all was proved against the colored people, bond or free. The wrath of the slaveholders was somewhat appeased by the capture of Nat Turner. The imprisoned were released. The slaves were sent to their masters, and the free were permitted to return to their ravaged homes. Visiting was strictly forbidden on the plantations. The slaves begged the privilege of again meeting at their little church in the woods, with their burying ground around it. It was built by the colored people, and they had no higher happiness than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour out their hearts in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the church was demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a certain portion of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There, when every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction had been pronounced, the minister said, "Come down, now, my colored friends." They obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine, in commemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, "God is your Father, and all ye are brethren." ----------CHAPTER XIV--------- I had not returned to my master's house since the birth of my child. The old man raved to have me thus removed from his immediate power; but his wife vowed, by all that was good and great, she would kill me if I came back; and he did not doubt her word. Sometimes he would stay away for a season. Then he would come and renew the old threadbare discourse about his forbearance and my ingratitude. He labored, most unnecessarily, to convince me that I had lowered myself. The venomous old reprobate had no need of descanting on that theme. I felt humiliated enough. My unconscious babe was the ever-present witness of my shame. I listened with silent contempt when he talked about my having forfeited _his_ good opinion; but I shed bitter tears that I was no longer worthy of being respected by the good and pure. Alas! slavery still held me in its poisonous grasp. There was no chance for me to be respectable. There was no prospect of being able to lead a better life. Sometimes, when my master found that I still refused to accept what he called his kind offers, he would threaten to sell my child. "Perhaps that will humble you," said he. Humble _me_! Was I not already in the dust? But his threat lacerated my heart. I knew the law gave him power to fulfil it; for slaveholders have been cunning enough to enact that "the child shall follow the condition of the _mother_," not of the _father_, thus taking care that licentiousness shall not interfere with avarice. This reflection made me clasp my innocent babe all the more firmly to my heart. Horrid visions passed through my mind when I thought of his liability to fall into the slave trader's hands. I wept over him, and said, "O my child! perhaps they will leave you in some cold cabin to die, and then throw you into a hole, as if you were a dog." When Dr. Flint learned that I was again to be a mother, he was exasperated beyond measure. He rushed from the house, and returned with a pair of shears. I had a fine head of hair; and he often railed about my pride of arranging it nicely. He cut every hair close to my head, storming and swearing all the time. I replied to some of his abuse, and he struck me. Some months before, he had pitched me down stairs in a fit of passion; and the injury I received was so serious that I was unable to turn myself in bed for many days. He then said, "Linda, I swear by God I will never raise my hand against you again;" but I knew that he would forget his promise. After he discovered my situation, he was like a restless spirit from the pit. He came every day; and I was subjected to such insults as no pen can describe. I would not describe them if I could; they were too low, too revolting. I tried to keep them from my grandmother's knowledge as much as I could. I knew she had enough to sadden her life, without having my troubles to bear. When she saw the doctor treat me with violence, and heard him utter oaths terrible enough to palsy a man's tongue, she could not always hold her peace. It was natural and motherlike that she should try to defend me; but it only made matters worse. When they told me my new-born babe was a girl, my heart was heavier than it had ever been before. Slavery is terrible for men; but it is far more terrible for women. Superadded to the burden common to all, _they_ have wrongs, and sufferings, and mortifications peculiarly their own. Dr. Flint had sworn that he would make me suffer, to my last day, for this new crime against _him_, as he called it; and as long as he had me in his power he kept his word. On the fourth day after the birth of my babe, he entered my room suddenly, and commanded me to rise and bring my baby to him. The nurse who took care of me had gone out of the room to prepare some nourishment, and I was alone. There was no alternative. I rose, took up my babe, and crossed the room to where he sat. "Now stand there," said he, "till I tell you to go back!" My child bore a strong resemblance to her father, and to the deceased Mrs. Sands, her grandmother. He noticed this; and while I stood before him, trembling with weakness, he heaped upon me and my little one every vile epithet he could think of. Even the grandmother in her grave did not escape his curses. In the midst of his vituperations I fainted at his feet. This recalled him to his senses. He took the baby from my arms, laid it on the bed, dashed cold water in my face, took me up, and shook me violently, to restore my consciousness before any one entered the room. Just then my grandmother came in, and he hurried out of the house. I suffered in consequence of this treatment; but I begged my friends to let me die, rather than send for the doctor. There was nothing I dreaded so much as his presence. My life was spared; and I was glad for the sake of my little ones. Had it not been for these ties to life, I should have been glad to be released by death, though I had lived only nineteen years. Always it gave me a pang that my children had no lawful claim to a name. Their father offered his; but, if I had wished to accept the offer, I dared not while my master lived. Moreover, I knew it would not be accepted at their baptism. A Christian name they were at least entitled to; and we resolved to call my boy for our dear good Benjamin, who had gone far away from us. My grandmother belonged to the church; and she was very desirous of having the children christened. I knew Dr. Flint would forbid it, and I did not venture to attempt it. But chance favored me. He was called to visit a patient out of town, and was obliged to be absent during Sunday. "Now is the time," said my grandmother; "we will take the children to church, and have them christened." When I entered the church, recollections of my mother came over me, and I felt subdued in spirit. There she had presented me for baptism, without any reason to feel ashamed. She had been married, and had such legal rights as slavery allows to a slave. The vows had at least been sacred to _her_, and she had never violated them. I was glad she was not alive, to know under what different circumstances her grandchildren were presented for baptism. Why had my lot been so different from my mother's? _Her_ master had died when she was a child; and she remained with her mistress till she married. She was never in the power of any master; and thus she escaped one class of the evils that generally fall upon slaves. When my baby was about to be christened, the former mistress of my father stepped up to me, and proposed to give it her Christian name. To this I added the surname of my father, who had himself no legal right to it; for my grandfather on the paternal side was a white gentleman. What tangled skeins are the genealogies of slavery! I loved my father; but it mortified me to be obliged to bestow his name on my children. When we left the church, my father's old mistress invited me to go home with her. She clasped a gold chain round my baby's neck. I thanked her for this kindness; but I did not like the emblem. I wanted no chain to be fastened on my daughter, not even if its links were of gold. How earnestly I prayed that she might never feel the weight of slavery's chain, whose iron entereth into the soul!

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter xv using the context provided.

chapter xv|chapter xvii

Continued Persecutions Harriet realized she would rather see her children killed than fall into the hands of Dr. Flint. Her children grew to fear him. One day he came to say that her lover had asked to buy her but that he had refused. Harriet said she did not know the man he was speaking of, and Dr. Flint grew so enraged that he pushed her son Benny across the room, knocking him out. Following this the Dr. became even more intense in his persecutions. This treatment of Harriet even began to wear her grandmother down, who had spent a life witnessing "incessant strife. The Dr. finally told Harriet that he planned on setting her and her children up on his plantation in a cottage of their own with only minimal work to do. If she refused that offer, he would send them all to his son's plantation where they would be treated as all slaves were. After thinking about it, and realizing she needed to foil her master and save her children, she told him she would go to his son's plantation. This information devastated her grandmother, who begged her to reconsider, but Harriet had "secret hopes" and "woman's pride" and felt that she could figure out a way to save her children without resorting to following the whims of Dr. Flint

----------CHAPTER XV--------- My children grew finely; and Dr. Flint would often say to me, with an exulting smile. "These brats will bring me a handsome sum of money one of these days." I thought to myself that, God being my helper, they should never pass into his hands. It seemed to me I would rather see them killed than have them given up to his power. The money for the freedom of myself and my children could be obtained; but I derived no advantage from that circumstance. Dr. Flint loved money, but he loved power more. After much discussion, my friends resolved on making another trial. There was a slaveholder about to leave for Texas, and he was commissioned to buy me. He was to begin with nine hundred dollars, and go up to twelve. My master refused his offers. "Sir," said he, "she don't belong to me. She is my daughter's property, and I have no right to sell her. I mistrust that you come from her paramour. If so, you may tell him that he cannot buy her for any money; neither can he buy her children." The doctor came to see me the next day, and my heart beat quicker as he entered. I never had seen the old man tread with so majestic a step. He seated himself and looked at me with withering scorn. My children had learned to be afraid of him. The little one would shut her eyes and hide her face on my shoulder whenever she saw him; and Benny, who was now nearly five years old, often inquired, "What makes that bad man come here so many times? Does he want to hurt us?" I would clasp the dear boy in my arms, trusting that he would be free before he was old enough to solve the problem. And now, as the doctor sat there so grim and silent, the child left his play and came and nestled up by me. At last my tormentor spoke. "So you are left in disgust, are you?" said he. "It is no more than I expected. You remember I told you years ago that you would be treated so. So he is tired of you? Ha! ha! ha! The virtuous madam don't like to hear about it, does she? Ha! ha! ha!" There was a sting in his calling me virtuous madam. I no longer had the power of answering him as I had formerly done. He continued: "So it seems you are trying to get up another intrigue. Your new paramour came to me, and offered to buy you; but you may be assured you will not succeed. You are mine; and you shall be mine for life. There lives no human being that can take you out of slavery. I would have done it; but you rejected my kind offer." I told him I did not wish to get up any intrigue; that I had never seen the man who offered to buy me. "Do you tell me I lie?" exclaimed he, dragging me from my chair. "Will you say again that you never saw that man?" I answered, "I do say so." He clinched my arm with a volley of oaths. Ben began to scream, and I told him to go to his grandmother. "Don't you stir a step, you little wretch!" said he. The child drew nearer to me, and put his arms round me, as if he wanted to protect me. This was too much for my enraged master. He caught him up and hurled him across the room. I thought he was dead, and rushed towards him to take him up. "Not yet!" exclaimed the doctor. "Let him lie there till he comes to." "Let me go! Let me go!" I screamed, "or I will raise the whole house." I struggled and got away; but he clinched me again. Somebody opened the door, and he released me. I picked up my insensible child, and when I turned my tormentor was gone. Anxiously, I bent over the little form, so pale and still; and when the brown eyes at last opened, I don't know whether I was very happy. All the doctor's former persecutions were renewed. He came morning, noon, and night. No jealous lover ever watched a rival more closely than he watched me and the unknown slaveholder, with whom he accused me of wishing to get up an intrigue. When my grandmother was out of the way he searched every room to find him. In one of his visits, he happened to find a young girl, whom he had sold to a trader a few days previous. His statement was, that he sold her because she had been too familiar with the overseer. She had had a bitter life with him, and was glad to be sold. She had no mother, and no near ties. She had been torn from all her family years before. A few friends had entered into bonds for her safety, if the trader would allow her to spend with them the time that intervened between her sale and the gathering up of his human stock. Such a favor was rarely granted. It saved the trader the expense of board and jail fees, and though the amount was small, it was a weighty consideration in a slavetrader's mind. Dr. Flint always had an aversion to meeting slaves after he had sold them. He ordered Rose out of the house; but he was no longer her master, and she took no notice of him. For once the crushed Rose was the conqueror. His gray eyes flashed angrily upon her; but that was the extent of his power. "How came this girl here?" he exclaimed. "What right had you to allow it, when you knew I had sold her?" I answered, "This is my grandmother's house, and Rose came to see her. I have no right to turn any body out of doors, that comes here for honest purposes." He gave me the blow that would have fallen upon Rose if she had still been his slave. My grandmother's attention had been attracted by loud voices, and she entered in time to see a second blow dealt. She was not a woman to let such an outrage, in her own house, go unrebuked. The doctor undertook to explain that I had been insolent. Her indignant feelings rose higher and higher, and finally boiled over in words. "Get out of my house!" she exclaimed. "Go home, and take care of your wife and children, and you will have enough to do, without watching my family." He threw the birth of my children in her face, and accused her of sanctioning the life I was leading. She told him I was living with her by compulsion of his wife; that he needn't accuse her, for he was the one to blame; he was the one who had caused all the trouble. She grew more and more excited as she went on. "I tell you what, Dr. Flint," said she, "you ain't got many more years to live, and you'd better be saying your prayers. It will take 'em all, and more too, to wash the dirt off your soul." "Do you know whom you are talking to?" he exclaimed. She replied, "Yes, I know very well who I am talking to." He left the house in a great rage. I looked at my grandmother. Our eyes met. Their angry expression had passed away, but she looked sorrowful and weary--weary of incessant strife. I wondered that it did not lessen her love for me; but if it did she never showed it. She was always kind, always ready to sympathize with my troubles. There might have been peace and contentment in that humble home if it had not been for the demon Slavery. The winter passed undisturbed by the doctor. The beautiful spring came; and when Nature resumes her loveliness, the human soul is apt to revive also. My drooping hopes came to life again with the flowers. I was dreaming of freedom again; more for my children's sake than my own. I planned and I planned. Obstacles hit against plans. There seemed no way of overcoming them; and yet I hoped. Back came the wily doctor. I was not at home when he called. A friend had invited me to a small party, and to gratify her I went. To my great consternation, a messenger came in haste to say that Dr. Flint was at my grandmother's, and insisted on seeing me. They did not tell him where I was, or he would have come and raised a disturbance in my friend's house. They sent me a dark wrapper, I threw it on and hurried home. My speed did not save me; the doctor had gone away in anger. I dreaded the morning, but I could not delay it; it came, warm and bright. At an early hour the doctor came and asked me where I had been last night. I told him. He did not believe me, and sent to my friend's house to ascertain the facts. He came in the afternoon to assure me he was satisfied that I had spoken the truth. He seemed to be in a facetious mood, and I expected some jeers were coming. "I suppose you need some recreation," said he, "but I am surprised at your being there, among those negroes. It was not the place for _you_. Are you _allowed_ to visit such people?" I understood this covert fling at the white gentleman who was my friend; but I merely replied, "I went to visit my friends, and any company they keep is good enough for me." He went on to say, "I have seen very little of you of late, but my interest in you is unchanged. When I said I would have no more mercy on you I was rash. I recall my words. Linda, you desire freedom for yourself and your children, and you can obtain it only through me. If you agree to what I am about to propose, you and they shall be free. There must be no communication of any kind between you and their father. I will procure a cottage, where you and the children can live together. Your labor shall be light, such as sewing for my family. Think what is offered you, Linda--a home and freedom! Let the past be forgotten. If I have been harsh with you at times, your willfulness drove me to it. You know I exact obedience from my own children, and I consider you as yet a child." He paused for an answer, but I remained silent. "Why don't you speak?" said he. "What more do you wait for?" "Nothing, sir." "Then you accept my offer?" "No, sir." His anger was ready to break loose; but he succeeded in curbing it, and replied, "You have answered without thought. But I must let you know there are two sides to my proposition; if you reject the bright side, you will be obliged to take the dark one. You must either accept my offer, or you and your children shall be sent to your young master's plantation, there to remain till your young mistress is married; and your children shall fare like the rest of the negro children. I give you a week to consider it." He was shrewd; but I knew he was not to be trusted. I told him I was ready to give my answer now. "I will not receive it now," he replied. "You act too much from impulse. Remember that you and your children can be free a week from to-day if you choose." On what a monstrous chance hung the destiny of my children! I knew that my master's offer was a snare, and that if I entered it escape would be impossible. As for his promise, I knew him so well that I was sure if he gave me free papers, they would be so managed as to have no legal value. The alternative was inevitable. I resolved to go to the plantation. But then I thought how completely I should be in his power, and the prospect was appalling. Even if I should kneel before him, and implore him to spare me, for the sake of my children, I knew he would spurn me with his foot, and my weakness would be his triumph. Before the week expired, I heard that young Mr. Flint was about to be married to a lady of his own stamp. I foresaw the position I should occupy in his establishment. I had once been sent to the plantation for punishment, and fear of the son had induced the father to recall me very soon. My mind was made up; I was resolved that I would foil my master and save my children, or I would perish in the attempt. I kept my plans to myself; I knew that friends would try to dissuade me from them, and I would not wound their feelings by rejecting their advice. On the decisive day the doctor came, and said he hoped I had made a wise choice. "I am ready to go to the plantation, sir," I replied. "Have you thought how important your decision is to your children?" said he. I told him I had. "Very well. Go to the plantation, and my curse go with you," he replied. "Your boy shall be put to work, and he shall soon be sold; and your girl shall be raised for the purpose of selling well. Go your own ways!" He left the room with curses, not to be repeated. As I stood rooted to the spot, my grandmother came and said, "Linda, child, what did you tell him?" I answered that I was going to the plantation. "_Must_ you go?" said she. "Can't something be done to stop it?" I told her it was useless to try; but she begged me not to give up. She said she would go to the doctor, and remind him how long and how faithfully she had served in the family, and how she had taken her own baby from her breast to nourish his wife. She would tell him I had been out of the family so long they would not miss me; that she would pay them for my time, and the money would procure a woman who had more strength for the situation than I had. I begged her not to go; but she persisted in saying, "He will listen to _me_, Linda." She went, and was treated as I expected. He coolly listened to what she said, but denied her request. He told her that what he did was for my good, that my feelings were entirely above my situation, and that on the plantation I would receive treatment that was suitable to my behavior. My grandmother was much cast down. I had my secret hopes; but I must fight my battle alone. I had a woman's pride, and a mother's love for my children; and I resolved that out of the darkness of this hour a brighter dawn should rise for them. My master had power and law on his side; I had a determined will. There is might in each. ----------CHAPTER XVII--------- Mr. Flint was hard pushed for house servants, and rather than lose me he had restrained his malice. I did my work faithfully, though not, of course, with a willing mind. They were evidently afraid I should leave them. Mr. Flint wished that I should sleep in the great house instead of the servants' quarters. His wife agreed to the proposition, but said I mustn't bring my bed into the house, because it would scatter feathers on her carpet. I knew when I went there that they would never think of such a thing as furnishing a bed of any kind for me and my little ones. I therefore carried my own bed, and now I was forbidden to use it. I did as I was ordered. But now that I was certain my children were to be put in their power, in order to give them a stronger hold on me, I resolved to leave them that night. I remembered the grief this step would bring upon my dear old grandmother, and nothing less than the freedom of my children would have induced me to disregard her advice. I went about my evening work with trembling steps. Mr. Flint twice called from his chamber door to inquire why the house was not locked up. I replied that I had not done my work. "You have had time enough to do it," said he. "Take care how you answer me!" I shut all the windows, locked all the doors, and went up to the third story, to wait till midnight. How long those hours seemed, and how fervently I prayed that God would not forsake me in this hour of utmost need! I was about to risk every thing on the throw of a die; and if I failed, O what would become of me and my poor children? They would be made to suffer for my fault. At half past twelve I stole softly down stairs. I stopped on the second floor, thinking I heard a noise. I felt my way down into the parlor, and looked out of the window. The night was so intensely dark that I could see nothing. I raised the window very softly and jumped out. Large drops of rain were falling, and the darkness bewildered me. I dropped on my knees, and breathed a short prayer to God for guidance and protection. I groped my way to the road, and rushed towards the town with almost lightning speed. I arrived at my grandmother's house, but dared not see her. She would say, "Linda, you are killing me;" and I knew that would unnerve me. I tapped softly at the window of a room, occupied by a woman, who had lived in the house several years. I knew she was a faithful friend, and could be trusted with my secret. I tapped several times before she heard me. At last she raised the window, and I whispered, "Sally, I have run away. Let me in, quick." She opened the door softly, and said in low tones, "For God's sake, don't. Your grandmother is trying to buy you and de chillern. Mr. Sands was here last week. He tole her he was going away on business, but he wanted her to go ahead about buying you and de chillern, and he would help her all he could. Don't run away, Linda. Your grandmother is all bowed down wid trouble now." I replied, "Sally, they are going to carry my children to the plantation to-morrow; and they will never sell them to any body so long as they have me in their power. Now, would you advise me to go back?" "No, chile, no," answered she. "When dey finds you is gone, dey won't want de plague ob de chillern; but where is you going to hide? Dey knows ebery inch ob dis house." I told her I had a hiding-place, and that was all it was best for her to know. I asked her to go into my room as soon as it was light, and take all my clothes out of my trunk, and pack them in hers; for I knew Mr. Flint and the constable would be there early to search my room. I feared the sight of my children would be too much for my full heart; but I could not go into the uncertain future without one last look. I bent over the bed where lay my little Benny and baby Ellen. Poor little ones! fatherless and motherless! Memories of their father came over me. He wanted to be kind to them; but they were not all to him, as they were to my womanly heart. I knelt and prayed for the innocent little sleepers. I kissed them lightly, and turned away. As I was about to open the street door, Sally laid her hand on my shoulder, and said, "Linda, is you gwine all alone? Let me call your uncle." "No, Sally," I replied, "I want no one to be brought into trouble on my account." I went forth into the darkness and rain. I ran on till I came to the house of the friend who was to conceal me. Early the next morning Mr. Flint was at my grandmother's inquiring for me. She told him she had not seen me, and supposed I was at the plantation. He watched her face narrowly, and said, "Don't you know any thing about her running off?" She assured him that she did not. He went on to say, "Last night she ran off without the least provocation. We had treated her very kindly. My wife liked her. She will soon be found and brought back. Are her children with you?" When told that they were, he said, "I am very glad to hear that. If they are here, she cannot be far off. If I find out that any of my niggers have had any thing to do with this damned business, I'll give 'em five hundred lashes." As he started to go to his father's, he turned round and added, persuasively, "Let her be brought back, and she shall have her children to live with her." The tidings made the old doctor rave and storm at a furious rate. It was a busy day for them. My grandmother's house was searched from top to bottom. As my trunk was empty, they concluded I had taken my clothes with me. Before ten o'clock every vessel northward bound was thoroughly examined, and the law against harboring fugitives was read to all on board. At night a watch was set over the town. Knowing how distressed my grandmother would be, I wanted to send her a message; but it could not be done. Every one who went in or out of her house was closely watched. The doctor said he would take my children, unless she became responsible for them; which of course she willingly did. The next day was spent in searching. Before night, the following advertisement was posted at every corner, and in every public place for miles round:-- $300 REWARD! Ran away from the subscriber, an intelligent, bright, mulatto girl, named Linda, 21 years of age. Five feet four inches high. Dark eyes, and black hair inclined to curl; but it can be made straight. Has a decayed spot on a front tooth. She can read and write, and in all probability will try to get to the Free States. All persons are forbidden, under penalty of law, to harbor or employ said slave. $150 will be given to whoever takes her in the state, and $300 if taken out of the state and delivered to me, or lodged in jail. Dr. Flint.

cliffnotes

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chapter xix|chapter xx|chapter xxi

New Perils Dr. Flint's exasperation manifested itself in taking revenge out on Harriet's family. He jailed her uncle Phillip, accusing him of aiding Harriet. Phillip remained quiet, but Harriet feared he would crack under the Dr. s cruelty and insults. The search for Harriet was renewed, as it was rumored that she was in the vicinity. It became clear that Harriet could stay there no longer; the house where she stayed was searched and she trembled under the floorboards. It was not easy for Harriet to go north, so another plan was devised. Betty brought Harriet a suit of sailor's clothes. Peter, another young colored man whom Harriet knew had been a friend of her father's, conducted her through the town. She felt revived by being out of doors. No one recognized her in her disguise. She arrived at the wharf. Her Aunt Nancy's husband was a seafaring man and had agreed to help her. He took her on his small boat and told her the plan was for her to hide in Snaky Swamp until her uncle Phillip prepared a hiding place for her. She was terrified of the swamp and passed a miserable night due to the vicious mosquitoes and massive snakes. Finally Peter, the young man who was her guide, told her that a place for her to hide was prepared at her grandmother's place. Harriet was surprised, since she knew that the Flints were aware of every square inch of that house. She put her disguise back on and was led through the streets. Once she passed by the father of her children but he did not recognize her

----------CHAPTER XIX--------- The Doctor came back from New York, of course without accomplishing his purpose. He had expended considerable money, and was rather disheartened. My brother and the children had now been in jail two months, and that also was some expense. My friends thought it was a favorable time to work on his discouraged feelings. Mr. Sands sent a speculator to offer him nine hundred dollars for my brother William, and eight hundred for the two children. These were high prices, as slaves were then selling; but the offer was rejected. If it had been merely a question of money, the doctor would have sold any boy of Benny's age for two hundred dollars; but he could not bear to give up the power of revenge. But he was hard pressed for money, and he revolved the matter in his mind. He knew that if he could keep Ellen till she was fifteen, he could sell her for a high price; but I presume he reflected that she might die, or might be stolen away. At all events, he came to the conclusion that he had better accept the slave-trader's offer. Meeting him in the street, he inquired when he would leave town. "To-day, at ten o'clock," he replied. "Ah, do you go so soon?" said the doctor. "I have been reflecting upon your proposition, and I have concluded to let you have the three negroes if you will say nineteen hundred dollars." After some parley, the trader agreed to his terms. He wanted the bill of sale drawn up and signed immediately, as he had a great deal to attend to during the short time he remained in town. The doctor went to the jail and told William he would take him back into his service if he would promise to behave himself but he replied that he would rather be sold. "And you _shall_ be sold, you ungrateful rascal!" exclaimed the doctor. In less than an hour the money was paid, the papers were signed, sealed, and delivered, and my brother and children were in the hands of the trader. It was a hurried transaction; and after it was over, the doctor's characteristic caution returned. He went back to the speculator, and said, "Sir, I have come to lay you under obligations of a thousand dollars not to sell any of those negroes in this state." "You come too late," replied the trader; "our bargain is closed." He had, in fact, already sold them to Mr. Sands, but he did not mention it. The doctor required him to put irons on "that rascal, Bill," and to pass through the back streets when he took his gang out of town. The trader was privately instructed to concede to his wishes. My good old aunt went to the jail to bid the children good by, supposing them to be the speculator's property, and that she should never see them again. As she held Benny in her lap, he said, "Aunt Nancy, I want to show you something." He led her to the door and showed her a long row of marks, saying, "Uncle Will taught me to count. I have made a mark for every day I have been here, and it is sixty days. It is a long time; and the speculator is going to take me and Ellen away. He's a bad man. It's wrong for him to take grandmother's children. I want to go to my mother." My grandmother was told that the children would be restored to her, but she was requested to act as if they were really to be sent away. Accordingly, she made up a bundle of clothes and went to the jail. When she arrived, she found William handcuffed among the gang, and the children in the trader's cart. The scene seemed too much like reality. She was afraid there might have been some deception or mistake. She fainted, and was carried home. When the wagon stopped at the hotel, several gentlemen came out and proposed to purchase William, but the trader refused their offers, without stating that he was already sold. And now came the trying hour for that drove of human beings, driven away like cattle, to be sold they knew not where. Husbands were torn from wives, parents from children, never to look upon each other again this side the grave. There was wringing of hands and cries of despair. Dr. Flint had the supreme satisfaction of seeing the wagon leave town, and Mrs. Flint had the gratification of supposing that my children were going "as far as wind and water would carry them." According to agreement, my uncle followed the wagon some miles, until they came to an old farm house. There the trader took the irons from William, and as he did so, he said, "You are a damned clever fellow. I should like to own you myself. Them gentlemen that wanted to buy you said you was a bright, honest chap, and I must git you a good home. I guess your old master will swear to-morrow, and call himself an old fool for selling the children. I reckon he'll never git their mammy back again. I expect she's made tracks for the north. Good by, old boy. Remember, I have done you a good turn. You must thank me by coaxing all the pretty gals to go with me next fall. That's going to be my last trip. This trading in niggers is a bad business for a fellow that's got any heart. Move on, you fellows!" And the gang went on, God alone knows where. Much as I despise and detest the class of slave-traders, whom I regard as the vilest wretches on earth, I must do this man the justice to say that he seemed to have some feeling. He took a fancy to William in the jail, and wanted to buy him. When he heard the story of my children, he was willing to aid them in getting out of Dr. Flint's power, even without charging the customary fee. My uncle procured a wagon and carried William and the children back to town. Great was the joy in my grandmother's house! The curtains were closed, and the candles lighted. The happy grandmother cuddled the little ones to her bosom. They hugged her, and kissed her, and clapped their hands, and shouted. She knelt down and poured forth one of her heartfelt prayers of thanksgiving to God. The father was present for a while; and though such a "parental relation" as existed between him and my children takes slight hold on the hearts or consciences of slaveholders, it must be that he experienced some moments of pure joy in witnessing the happiness he had imparted. I had no share in the rejoicings of that evening. The events of the day had not come to my knowledge. And now I will tell you something that happened to me; though you will, perhaps, think it illustrates the superstition of slaves. I sat in my usual place on the floor near the window, where I could hear much that was said in the street without being seen. The family had retired for the night, and all was still. I sat there thinking of my children, when I heard a low strain of music. A band of serenaders were under the window, playing "Home, sweet home." I listened till the sounds did not seem like music, but like the moaning of children. It seemed as if my heart would burst. I rose from my sitting posture, and knelt. A streak of moonlight was on the floor before me, and in the midst of it appeared the forms of my two children. They vanished; but I had seen them distinctly. Some will call it a dream, others a vision. I know not how to account for it, but it made a strong impression on my mind, and I felt certain something had happened to my little ones. I had not seen Betty since morning. Now I heard her softly turning the key. As soon as she entered, I clung to her, and begged her to let me know whether my children were dead, or whether they were sold; for I had seen their spirits in my room, and I was sure something had happened to them. "Lor, chile," said she, putting her arms round me, "you's got de high-sterics. I'll sleep wid you to-night, 'cause you'll make a noise, and ruin missis. Something has stirred you up mightily. When you is done cryin, I'll talk wid you. De chillern is well, and mighty happy. I seed 'em myself. Does dat satisfy you? Dar, chile, be still! Somebody vill hear you." I tried to obey her. She lay down, and was soon sound asleep; but no sleep would come to my eyelids. At dawn, Betty was up and off to the kitchen. The hours passed on, and the vision of the night kept constantly recurring to my thoughts. After a while I heard the voices of two women in the entry. In one of them I recognized the housemaid. The other said to her, "Did you know Linda Brent's children was sold to the speculator yesterday. They say ole massa Flint was mighty glad to see 'em drove out of town; but they say they've come back agin. I 'spect it's all their daddy's doings. They say he's bought William too. Lor! how it will take hold of ole massa Flint! I'm going roun' to aunt Marthy's to see 'bout it." I bit my lips till the blood came to keep from crying out. Were my children with their grandmother, or had the speculator carried them off? The suspense was dreadful. Would Betty _never_ come, and tell me the truth about it? At last she came, and I eagerly repeated what I had overheard. Her face was one broad, bright smile. "Lor, you foolish ting!" said she. "I'se gwine to tell you all 'bout it. De gals is eating thar breakfast, and missus tole me to let her tell you; but, poor creeter! t'aint right to keep you waitin', and I'se gwine to tell you. Brudder, chillern, all is bought by de daddy! I'se laugh more dan nuff, tinking 'bout ole massa Flint. Lor, how he _vill_ swar! He's got ketched dis time, any how; but I must be getting out o' dis, or dem gals vill come and ketch _me_." Betty went off laughing; and I said to myself, "Can it be true that my children are free? I have not suffered for them in vain. Thank God!" Great surprise was expressed when it was known that my children had returned to their grandmother's. The news spread through the town, and many a kind word was bestowed on the little ones. Dr. Flint went to my grandmother's to ascertain who was the owner of my children, and she informed him. "I expected as much," said he. "I am glad to hear it. I have had news from Linda lately, and I shall soon have her. You need never expect to see _her_ free. She shall be my slave as long as I live, and when I am dead she shall be the slave of my children. If I ever find out that you or Phillip had anything to do with her running off I'll kill him. And if I meet William in the street, and he presumes to look at me, I'll flog him within an inch of his life. Keep those brats out of my sight!" As he turned to leave, my grandmother said something to remind him of his own doings. He looked back upon her, as if he would have been glad to strike her to the ground. I had my season of joy and thanksgiving. It was the first time since my childhood that I had experienced any real happiness. I heard of the old doctor's threats, but they no longer had the same power to trouble me. The darkest cloud that hung over my life had rolled away. Whatever slavery might do to me, it could not shackle my children. If I fell a sacrifice, my little ones were saved. It was well for me that my simple heart believed all that had been promised for their welfare. It is always better to trust than to doubt. ----------CHAPTER XX--------- The doctor, more exasperated than ever, again tried to revenge himself on my relatives. He arrested uncle Phillip on the charge of having aided my flight. He was carried before a court, and swore truly that he knew nothing of my intention to escape, and that he had not seen me since I left my master's plantation. The doctor then demanded that he should give bail for five hundred dollars that he would have nothing to do with me. Several gentlemen offered to be security for him; but Mr. Sands told him he had better go back to jail, and he would see that he came out without giving bail. The news of his arrest was carried to my grandmother, who conveyed it to Betty. In the kindness of her heart, she again stowed me away under the floor; and as she walked back and forth, in the performance of her culinary duties, she talked apparently to herself, but with the intention that I should hear what was going on. I hoped that my uncle's imprisonment would last but few days; still I was anxious. I thought it likely Dr. Flint would do his utmost to taunt and insult him, and I was afraid my uncle might lose control of himself, and retort in some way that would be construed into a punishable offence; and I was well aware that in court his word would not be taken against any white man's. The search for me was renewed. Something had excited suspicions that I was in the vicinity. They searched the house I was in. I heard their steps and their voices. At night, when all were asleep, Betty came to release me from my place of confinement. The fright I had undergone, the constrained posture, and the dampness of the ground, made me ill for several days. My uncle was soon after taken out of prison; but the movements of all my relatives, and of all our friends, were very closely watched. We all saw that I could not remain where I was much longer. I had already staid longer than was intended, and I knew my presence must be a source of perpetual anxiety to my kind benefactress. During this time, my friends had laid many plans for my escape, but the extreme vigilance of my persecutors made it impossible to carry them into effect. One morning I was much startled by hearing somebody trying to get into my room. Several keys were tried, but none fitted. I instantly conjectured it was one of the housemaids; and I concluded she must either have heard some noise in the room, or have noticed the entrance of Betty. When my friend came, at her usual time, I told her what had happened. "I knows who it was," said she. "Tend upon it, 'twas dat Jenny. Dat nigger allers got de debble in her." I suggested that she might have seen or heard something that excited her curiosity. "Tut! tut! chile!" exclaimed Betty, "she ain't seen notin', nor hearn notin'. She only 'spects something. Dat's all. She wants to fine out who hab cut and make my gownd. But she won't nebber know. Dat's sartin. I'll git missis to fix her." I reflected a moment, and said, "Betty, I must leave here to-night." "Do as you tink best, poor chile," she replied. "I'se mighty 'fraid dat 'ere nigger vill pop on you some time." She reported the incident to her mistress, and received orders to keep Jenny busy in the kitchen till she could see my uncle Phillip. He told her he would send a friend for me that very evening. She told him she hoped I was going to the north, for it was very dangerous for me to remain any where in the vicinity. Alas, it was not an easy thing, for one in my situation, to go to the north. In order to leave the coast quite clear for me, she went into the country to spend the day with her brother, and took Jenny with her. She was afraid to come and bid me good by, but she left a kind message with Betty. I heard her carriage roll from the door, and I never again saw her who had so generously befriended the poor, trembling fugitive! Though she was a slaveholder, to this day my heart blesses her! I had not the slightest idea where I was going. Betty brought me a suit of sailor's clothes,--jacket, trowsers, and tarpaulin hat. She gave me a small bundle, saying I might need it where I was going. In cheery tones, she exclaimed, "I'se _so_ glad you is gwine to free parts! Don't forget ole Betty. P'raps I'll come 'long by and by." I tried to tell her how grateful I felt for all her kindness. But she interrupted me. "I don't want no tanks, honey. I'se glad I could help you, and I hope de good Lord vill open de path for you. I'se gwine wid you to de lower gate. Put your hands in your pockets, and walk ricketty, like de sailors." I performed to her satisfaction. At the gate I found Peter, a young colored man, waiting for me. I had known him for years. He had been an apprentice to my father, and had always borne a good character. I was not afraid to trust to him. Betty bade me a hurried good by, and we walked off. "Take courage, Linda," said my friend Peter. "I've got a dagger, and no man shall take you from me, unless he passes over my dead body." It was a long time since I had taken a walk out of doors, and the fresh air revived me. It was also pleasant to hear a human voice speaking to me above a whisper. I passed several people whom I knew, but they did not recognize me in my disguise. I prayed internally that, for Peter's sake, as well as my own, nothing might occur to bring out his dagger. We walked on till we came to the wharf. My aunt Nancy's husband was a seafaring man, and it had been deemed necessary to let him into our secret. He took me into his boat, rowed out to a vessel not far distant, and hoisted me on board. We three were the only occupants of the vessel. I now ventured to ask what they proposed to do with me. They said I was to remain on board till near dawn, and then they would hide me in Snaky Swamp, till my uncle Phillip had prepared a place of concealment for me. If the vessel had been bound north, it would have been of no avail to me, for it would certainly have been searched. About four o'clock, we were again seated in the boat, and rowed three miles to the swamp. My fear of snakes had been increased by the venomous bite I had received, and I dreaded to enter this hiding place. But I was in no situation to choose, and I gratefully accepted the best that my poor, persecuted friends could do for me. Peter landed first, and with a large knife cut a path through bamboos and briers of all descriptions. He came back, took me in his arms, and carried me to a seat made among the bamboos. Before we reached it, we were covered with hundreds of mosquitos. In an hour's time they had so poisoned my flesh that I was a pitiful sight to behold. As the light increased, I saw snake after snake crawling round us. I had been accustomed to the sight of snakes all my life, but these were larger than any I had ever seen. To this day I shudder when I remember that morning. As evening approached, the number of snakes increased so much that we were continually obliged to thrash them with sticks to keep them from crawling over us. The bamboos were so high and so thick that it was impossible to see beyond a very short distance. Just before it became dark we procured a seat nearer to the entrance of the swamp, being fearful of losing our way back to the boat. It was not long before we heard the paddle of oars, and the low whistle, which had been agreed upon as a signal. We made haste to enter the boat, and were rowed back to the vessel. I passed a wretched night; for the heat of the swamp, the mosquitos, and the constant terror of snakes, had brought on a burning fever. I had just dropped asleep, when they came and told me it was time to go back to that horrid swamp. I could scarcely summon courage to rise. But even those large, venomous snakes were less dreadful to my imagination than the white men in that community called civilized. This time Peter took a quantity of tobacco to burn, to keep off the mosquitos. It produced the desired effect on them, but gave me nausea and severe headache. At dark we returned to the vessel. I had been so sick during the day, that Peter declared I should go home that night, if the devil himself was on patrol. They told me a place of concealment had been provided for me at my grandmother's. I could not imagine how it was possible to hide me in her house, every nook and corner of which was known to the Flint family. They told me to wait and see. We were rowed ashore, and went boldly through the streets, to my grandmother's. I wore my sailor's clothes, and had blackened my face with charcoal. I passed several people whom I knew. The father of my children came so near that I brushed against his arm; but he had no idea who it was. "You must make the most of this walk," said my friend Peter, "for you may not have another very soon." I thought his voice sounded sad. It was kind of him to conceal from me what a dismal hole was to be my home for a long, long time. ----------CHAPTER XXI--------- A small shed had been added to my grandmother's house years ago. Some boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between these boards and the roof was a very small garret, never occupied by any thing but rats and mice. It was a pent roof, covered with nothing but shingles, according to the southern custom for such buildings. The garret was only nine feet long and seven wide. The highest part was three feet high, and sloped down abruptly to the loose board floor. There was no admission for either light or air. My uncle Phillip, who was a carpenter, had very skilfully made a concealed trap-door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had been doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom opened upon a piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I entered the house. The air was stifling; the darkness total. A bed had been spread on the floor. I could sleep quite comfortably on one side; but the slope was so sudden that I could not turn on my other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice ran over my bed; but I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched may, when a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by the noises I heard; for in my small den day and night were all the same. I suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not comfortless. I heard the voices of my children. There was joy and there was sadness in the sound. It made my tears flow. How I longed to speak to them! I was eager to look on their faces; but there was no hole, no crack, through which I could peep. This continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of light. Yet I would have chosen this, rather than my lot as a slave, though white people considered it an easy one; and it was so compared with the fate of others. I was never cruelly overworked; I was never lacerated with the whip from head to foot; I was never so beaten and bruised that I could not turn from one side to the other; I never had my heel-strings cut to prevent my running away; I was never chained to a log and forced to drag it about, while I toiled in the fields from morning till night; I was never branded with hot iron, or torn by bloodhounds. On the contrary, I had always been kindly treated, and tenderly cared for, until I came into the hands of Dr. Flint. I had never wished for freedom till then. But though my life in slavery was comparatively devoid of hardships, God pity the woman who is compelled to lead such a life! My food was passed up to me through the trap-door my uncle had contrived; and my grandmother, my uncle Phillip, and aunt Nancy would seize such opportunities as they could, to mount up there and chat with me at the opening. But of course this was not safe in the daytime. It must all be done in darkness. It was impossible for me to move in an erect position, but I crawled about my den for exercise. One day I hit my head against something, and found it was a gimlet. My uncle had left it sticking there when he made the trap-door. I was as rejoiced as Robinson Crusoe could have been at finding such a treasure. It put a lucky thought into my head. I said to myself, "Now I will have some light. Now I will see my children." I did not dare to begin my work during the daytime, for fear of attracting attention. But I groped round; and having found the side next the street, where I could frequently see my children, I stuck the gimlet in and waited for evening. I bored three rows of holes, one above another; then I bored out the interstices between. I thus succeeded in making one hole about an inch long and an inch broad. I sat by it till late into the night, to enjoy the little whiff of air that floated in. In the morning I watched for my children. The first person I saw in the street was Dr. Flint. I had a shuddering, superstitious feeling that it was a bad omen. Several familiar faces passed by. At last I heard the merry laugh of children, and presently two sweet little faces were looking up at me, as though they knew I was there, and were conscious of the joy they imparted. How I longed to _tell_ them I was there! My condition was now a little improved. But for weeks I was tormented by hundreds of little red insects, fine as a needle's point, that pierced through my skin, and produced an intolerable burning. The good grandmother gave me herb teas and cooling medicines, and finally I got rid of them. The heat of my den was intense, for nothing but thin shingles protected me from the scorching summer's sun. But I had my consolations. Through my peeping-hole I could watch the children, and when they were near enough, I could hear their talk. Aunt Nancy brought me all the news she could hear at Dr. Flint's. From her I learned that the doctor had written to New York to a colored woman, who had been born and raised in our neighborhood, and had breathed his contaminating atmosphere. He offered her a reward if she could find out any thing about me. I know not what was the nature of her reply; but he soon after started for New York in haste, saying to his family that he had business of importance to transact. I peeped at him as he passed on his way to the steamboat. It was a satisfaction to have miles of land and water between us, even for a little while; and it was a still greater satisfaction to know that he believed me to be in the Free States. My little den seemed less dreary than it had done. He returned, as he did from his former journey to New York, without obtaining any satisfactory information. When he passed our house next morning, Benny was standing at the gate. He had heard them say that he had gone to find me, and he called out, "Dr. Flint, did you bring my mother home? I want to see her." The doctor stamped his foot at him in a rage, and exclaimed, "Get out of the way, you little damned rascal! If you don't, I'll cut off your head." Benny ran terrified into the house, saying, "You can't put me in jail again. I don't belong to you now." It was well that the wind carried the words away from the doctor's ear. I told my grandmother of it, when we had our next conference at the trap-door, and begged of her not to allow the children to be impertinent to the irascible old man. Autumn came, with a pleasant abatement of heat. My eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, and by holding my book or work in a certain position near the aperture I contrived to read and sew. That was a great relief to the tedious monotony of my life. But when winter came, the cold penetrated through the thin shingle roof, and I was dreadfully chilled. The winters there are not so long, or so severe, as in northern latitudes; but the houses are not built to shelter from cold, and my little den was peculiarly comfortless. The kind grandmother brought me bedclothes and warm drinks. Often I was obliged to lie in bed all day to keep comfortable; but with all my precautions, my shoulders and feet were frostbitten. O, those long, gloomy days, with no object for my eye to rest upon, and no thoughts to occupy my mind, except the dreary past and the uncertain future! I was thankful when there came a day sufficiently mild for me to wrap myself up and sit at the loophole to watch the passers by. Southerners have the habit of stopping and talking in the streets, and I heard many conversations not intended to meet my ears. I heard slave-hunters planning how to catch some poor fugitive. Several times I heard allusions to Dr. Flint, myself, and the history of my children, who, perhaps, were playing near the gate. One would say, "I wouldn't move my little finger to catch her, as old Flint's property." Another would say, "I'll catch _any_ nigger for the reward. A man ought to have what belongs to him, if he _is_ a damned brute." The opinion was often expressed that I was in the Free States. Very rarely did any one suggest that I might be in the vicinity. Had the least suspicion rested on my grandmother's house, it would have been burned to the ground. But it was the last place they thought of. Yet there was no place, where slavery existed, that could have afforded me so good a place of concealment. Dr. Flint and his family repeatedly tried to coax and bribe my children to tell something they had heard said about me. One day the doctor took them into a shop, and offered them some bright little silver pieces and gay handkerchiefs if they would tell where their mother was. Ellen shrank away from him, and would not speak; but Benny spoke up, and said, "Dr. Flint, I don't know where my mother is. I guess she's in New York; and when you go there again, I wish you'd ask her to come home, for I want to see her; but if you put her in jail, or tell her you'll cut her head off, I'll tell her to go right back."

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter xxii based on the provided context.

chapter xxii|chapter xxiii|chapter xxiv|chapter xxv

Christmas Festivities Harriet describes Johnkannaus, a tradition among the slaves. Two men wear costumes and the companies of slaves follow them, dancing and singing, to ask for trifles - pennies or rum - from the whites in their town. Harriet notes that Christmas was a day of feasting for both whites and blacks, and Aunt Marthy roasted a pig and a turkey each year. Harriet was sad that she could not experience Christmas with her children, but was pleased that she could see them walking on the street in their new suits that she had made. Christmas was a day of feasting for both blacks and whites, and Harriet's grandmother had two guests over. One was a white constable and one was a free colored man who wanted to try and pass himself off as white. This led him to "do any mean work for the sake of currying favor with white people. He was a despicable man whom Harriet hated even more than the constable, for at least that man did not pretend to be someone he was not. The intention of inviting these men over was to let them wander freely through the house and see that no one was hiding there

----------CHAPTER XXII--------- Christmas was approaching. Grandmother brought me materials, and I busied myself making some new garments and little playthings for my children. Were it not that hiring day is near at hand, and many families are fearfully looking forward to the probability of separation in a few days, Christmas might be a happy season for the poor slaves. Even slave mothers try to gladden the hearts of their little ones on that occasion. Benny and Ellen had their Christmas stockings filled. Their imprisoned mother could not have the privilege of witnessing their surprise and joy. But I had the pleasure of peeping at them as they went into the street with their new suits on. I heard Benny ask a little playmate whether Santa Claus brought him any thing. "Yes," replied the boy; "but Santa Claus ain't a real man. It's the children's mothers that put things into the stockings." "No, that can't be," replied Benny, "for Santa Claus brought Ellen and me these new clothes, and my mother has been gone this long time." How I longed to tell him that his mother made those garments, and that many a tear fell on them while she worked! Every child rises early on Christmas morning to see the Johnkannaus. Without them, Christmas would be shorn of its greatest attraction. They consist of companies of slaves from the plantations, generally of the lower class. Two athletic men, in calico wrappers, have a net thrown over them, covered with all manner of bright-colored stripes. Cows' tails are fastened to their backs, and their heads are decorated with horns. A box, covered with sheepskin, is called the gumbo box. A dozen beat on this, while other strike triangles and jawbones, to which bands of dancers keep time. For a month previous they are composing songs, which are sung on this occasion. These companies, of a hundred each, turn out early in the morning, and are allowed to go round till twelve o'clock, begging for contributions. Not a door is left unvisited where there is the least chance of obtaining a penny or a glass of rum. They do not drink while they are out, but carry the rum home in jugs, to have a carousal. These Christmas donations frequently amount to twenty or thirty dollars. It is seldom that any white man or child refuses to give them a trifle. If he does, they regale his ears with the following song:-- Poor massa, so dey say; Down in de heel, so dey say; Got no money, so dey say; Not one shillin, so dey say; God A'mighty bress you, so dey say. Christmas is a day of feasting, both with white and colored people. Slaves, who are lucky enough to have a few shillings, are sure to spend them for good eating; and many a turkey and pig is captured, without saying, "By your leave, sir." Those who cannot obtain these, cook a 'possum, or a raccoon, from which savory dishes can be made. My grandmother raised poultry and pigs for sale and it was her established custom to have both a turkey and a pig roasted for Christmas dinner. On this occasion, I was warned to keep extremely quiet, because two guests had been invited. One was the town constable, and the other was a free colored man, who tried to pass himself off for white, and who was always ready to do any mean work for the sake of currying favor with white people. My grandmother had a motive for inviting them. She managed to take them all over the house. All the rooms on the lower floor were thrown open for them to pass in and out; and after dinner, they were invited up stairs to look at a fine mocking bird my uncle had just brought home. There, too, the rooms were all thrown open that they might look in. When I heard them talking on the piazza, my heart almost stood still. I knew this colored man had spent many nights hunting for me. Every body knew he had the blood of a slave father in his veins; but for the sake of passing himself off for white, he was ready to kiss the slaveholders' feet. How I despised him! As for the constable, he wore no false colors. The duties of his office were despicable, but he was superior to his companion, inasmuch as he did not pretend to be what he was not. Any white man, who could raise money enough to buy a slave, would have considered himself degraded by being a constable; but the office enabled its possessor to exercise authority. If he found any slave out after nine o'clock, he could whip him as much as he liked; and that was a privilege to be coveted. When the guests were ready to depart, my grandmother gave each of them some of her nice pudding, as a present for their wives. Through my peep-hole I saw them go out of the gate, and I was glad when it closed after them. So passed the first Christmas in my den. ----------CHAPTER XXIII--------- When spring returned, and I took in the little patch of green the aperture commanded, I asked myself how many more summers and winters I must be condemned to spend thus. I longed to draw in a plentiful draught of fresh air, to stretch my cramped limbs, to have room to stand erect, to feel the earth under my feet again. My relatives were constantly on the lookout for a chance of escape; but none offered that seemed practicable, and even tolerably safe. The hot summer came again, and made the turpentine drop from the thin roof over my head. During the long nights I was restless for want of air, and I had no room to toss and turn. There was but one compensation; the atmosphere was so stifled that even mosquitos would not condescend to buzz in it. With all my detestation of Dr. Flint, I could hardly wish him a worse punishment, either in this world or that which is to come, than to suffer what I suffered in one single summer. Yet the laws allowed _him_ to be out in the free air, while I, guiltless of crime, was pent up here, as the only means of avoiding the cruelties the laws allowed him to inflict upon me! I don't know what kept life within me. Again and again, I thought I should die before long; but I saw the leaves of another autumn whirl through the air, and felt the touch of another winter. In summer the most terrible thunder storms were acceptable, for the rain came through the roof, and I rolled up my bed that it might cool the hot boards under it. Later in the season, storms sometimes wet my clothes through and through, and that was not comfortable when the air grew chilly. Moderate storms I could keep out by filling the chinks with oakum. But uncomfortable as my situation was, I had glimpses of things out of doors, which made me thankful for my wretched hiding-place. One day I saw a slave pass our gate, muttering, "It's his own, and he can kill it if he will." My grandmother told me that woman's history. Her mistress had that day seen her baby for the first time, and in the lineaments of its fair face she saw a likeness to her husband. She turned the bondwoman and her child out of doors, and forbade her ever to return. The slave went to her master, and told him what had happened. He promised to talk with her mistress, and make it all right. The next day she and her baby were sold to a Georgia trader. Another time I saw a woman rush wildly by, pursued by two men. She was a slave, the wet nurse of her mistress's children. For some trifling offence her mistress ordered her to be stripped and whipped. To escape the degradation and the torture, she rushed to the river, jumped in, and ended her wrongs in death. Senator Brown, of Mississippi, could not be ignorant of many such facts as these, for they are of frequent occurrence in every Southern State. Yet he stood up in the Congress of the United States, and declared that slavery was "a great moral, social, and political blessing; a blessing to the master, and a blessing to the slave!" I suffered much more during the second winter than I did during the first. My limbs were benumbed by inaction, and the cold filled them with cramp. I had a very painful sensation of coldness in my head; even my face and tongue stiffened, and I lost the power of speech. Of course it was impossible, under the circumstances, to summon any physician. My brother William came and did all he could for me. Uncle Phillip also watched tenderly over me; and poor grandmother crept up and down to inquire whether there were any signs of returning life. I was restored to consciousness by the dashing of cold water in my face, and found myself leaning against my brother's arm, while he bent over me with streaming eyes. He afterwards told me he thought I was dying, for I had been in an unconscious state sixteen hours. I next became delirious, and was in great danger of betraying myself and my friends. To prevent this, they stupefied me with drugs. I remained in bed six weeks, weary in body and sick at heart. How to get medical advice was the question. William finally went to a Thompsonian doctor, and described himself as having all my pains and aches. He returned with herbs, roots, and ointment. He was especially charged to rub on the ointment by a fire; but how could a fire be made in my little den? Charcoal in a furnace was tried, but there was no outlet for the gas, and it nearly cost me my life. Afterwards coals, already kindled, were brought up in an iron pan, and placed on bricks. I was so weak, and it was so long since I had enjoyed the warmth of a fire, that those few coals actually made me weep. I think the medicines did me some good; but my recovery was very slow. Dark thoughts passed through my mind as I lay there day after day. I tried to be thankful for my little cell, dismal as it was, and even to love it, as part of the price I had paid for the redemption of my children. Sometimes I thought God was a compassionate Father, who would forgive my sins for the sake of my sufferings. At other times, it seemed to me there was no justice or mercy in the divine government. I asked why the curse of slavery was permitted to exist, and why I had been so persecuted and wronged from youth upward. These things took the shape of mystery, which is to this day not so clear to my soul as I trust it will be hereafter. In the midst of my illness, grandmother broke down under the weight and anxiety and toil. The idea of losing her, who had always been my best friend and a mother to my children, was the sorest trial I had yet had. O, how earnestly I prayed that she might recover! How hard it seemed, that I could not tend upon her, who had so long and so tenderly watched over me! One day the screams of a child nerved me with strength to crawl to my peeping-hole, and I saw my son covered with blood. A fierce dog, usually kept chained, had seized and bitten him. A doctor was sent for, and I heard the groans and screams of my child while the wounds were being sewed up. O, what torture to a mother's heart, to listen to this and be unable to go to him! But childhood is like a day in spring, alternately shower and sunshine. Before night Benny was bright and lively, threatening the destruction of the dog; and great was his delight when the doctor told him the next day that the dog had bitten another boy and been shot. Benny recovered from his wounds; but it was long before he could walk. When my grandmother's illness became known, many ladies, who were her customers, called to bring her some little comforts, and to inquire whether she had every thing she wanted. Aunt Nancy one night asked permission to watch with her sick mother, and Mrs. Flint replied, "I don't see any need of your going. I can't spare you." But when she found other ladies in the neighborhood were so attentive, not wishing to be outdone in Christian charity, she also sallied forth, in magnificent condescension, and stood by the bedside of her who had loved her in her infancy, and who had been repaid by such grievous wrongs. She seemed surprised to find her so ill, and scolded uncle Phillip for not sending for Dr. Flint. She herself sent for him immediately, and he came. Secure as I was in my retreat, I should have been terrified if I had known he was so near me. He pronounced my grandmother in a very critical situation, and said if her attending physician wished it, he would visit her. Nobody wished to have him coming to the house at all hours, and we were not disposed to give him a chance to make out a long bill. As Mrs. Flint went out, Sally told her the reason Benny was lame was, that a dog had bitten him. "I'm glad of it," replied she. "I wish he had killed him. It would be good news to send to his mother. _Her_ day will come. The dogs will grab _her_ yet." With these Christian words she and her husband departed, and, to my great satisfaction, returned no more. I learned from uncle Phillip, with feelings of unspeakable joy and gratitude, that the crisis was passed and grandmother would live. I could now say from my heart, "God is merciful. He has spared me the anguish of feeling that I caused her death." ----------CHAPTER XXIV--------- The summer had nearly ended, when Dr. Flint made a third visit to New York, in search of me. Two candidates were running for Congress, and he returned in season to vote. The father of my children was the Whig candidate. The doctor had hitherto been a stanch Whig; but now he exerted all his energies for the defeat of Mr. Sands. He invited large parties of men to dine in the shade of his trees, and supplied them with plenty of rum and brandy. If any poor fellow drowned his wits in the bowl, and, in the openness of his convivial heart, proclaimed that he did not mean to vote the Democratic ticket, he was shoved into the street without ceremony. The doctor expended his liquor in vain. Mr. Sands was elected; an event which occasioned me some anxious thoughts. He had not emancipated my children, and if he should die they would be at the mercy of his heirs. Two little voices, that frequently met my ear, seemed to plead with me not to let their father depart without striving to make their freedom secure. Years had passed since I had spoken to him. I had not even seen him since the night I passed him, unrecognized, in my disguise of a sailor. I supposed he would call before he left, to say something to my grandmother concerning the children, and I resolved what course to take. The day before his departure for Washington I made arrangements, toward evening, to get from my hiding-place into the storeroom below. I found myself so stiff and clumsy that it was with great difficulty I could hitch from one resting place to another. When I reached the storeroom my ankles gave way under me, and I sank exhausted on the floor. It seemed as if I could never use my limbs again. But the purpose I had in view roused all the strength I had. I crawled on my hands and knees to the window, and, screened behind a barrel, I waited for his coming. The clock struck nine, and I knew the steamboat would leave between ten and eleven. My hopes were failing. But presently I heard his voice, saying to some one, "Wait for me a moment. I wish to see aunt Martha." When he came out, as he passed the window, I said, "Stop one moment, and let me speak for my children." He started, hesitated, and then passed on, and went out of the gate. I closed the shutter I had partially opened, and sank down behind the barrel. I had suffered much; but seldom had I experienced a keener pang than I then felt. Had my children, then, become of so little consequence to him? And had he so little feeling for their wretched mother that he would not listen a moment while she pleaded for them? Painful memories were so busy within me, that I forgot I had not hooked the shutter, till I heard some one opening it. I looked up. He had come back. "Who called me?" said he, in a low tone. "I did," I replied. "Oh, Linda," said he, "I knew your voice; but I was afraid to answer, lest my friend should hear me. Why do you come here? Is it possible you risk yourself in this house? They are mad to allow it. I shall expect to hear that you are all ruined," I did not wish to implicate him, by letting him know my place of concealment; so I merely said, "I thought you would come to bid grandmother good by, and so I came here to speak a few words to you about emancipating my children. Many changes may take place during the six months you are gone to Washington, and it does not seem right for you to expose them to the risk of such changes. I want nothing for myself; all I ask is, that you will free my children, or authorize some friend to do it, before you go." He promised he would do it, and also expressed a readiness; to make any arrangements whereby I could be purchased. I heard footsteps approaching, and closed the shutter hastily. I wanted to crawl back to my den, without letting the family know what I had done; for I knew they would deem it very imprudent. But he stepped back into the house, to tell my grandmother that he had spoken with me at the storeroom window, and to beg of her not to allow me to remain in the house over night. He said it was the height of madness for me to be there; that we should certainly all be ruined. Luckily, he was in too much of a hurry to wait for a reply, or the dear old woman would surely have told him all. I tried to go back to my den, but found it more difficult to go up than I had to come down. Now that my mission was fulfilled, the little strength that had supported me through it was gone, and I sank helpless on the floor. My grandmother, alarmed at the risk I had run, came into the storeroom in the dark, and locked the door behind her. "Linda," she whispered, "where are you?" "I am here by the window," I replied. "I _couldn't_ have him go away without emancipating the children. Who knows what may happen?" "Come, come, child," said she, "it won't do for you to stay here another minute. You've done wrong; but I can't blame you, poor thing!" I told her I could not return without assistance, and she must call my uncle. Uncle Phillip came, and pity prevented him from scolding me. He carried me back to my dungeon, laid me tenderly on the bed, gave me some medicine, and asked me if there was any thing more he could do. Then he went away, and I was left with my own thoughts--starless as the midnight darkness around me. My friends feared I should become a cripple for life; and I was so weary of my long imprisonment that, had it not been for the hope of serving my children, I should have been thankful to die; but, for their sakes, I was willing to bear on. ----------CHAPTER XXV--------- Dr. Flint had not given me up. Every now and then he would say to my grandmother that I would yet come back, and voluntarily surrender myself; and that when I did, I could be purchased by my relatives, or any one who wished to buy me. I knew his cunning nature too well not to perceive that this was a trap laid for me; and so all my friends understood it. I resolved to match my cunning against his cunning. In order to make him believe that I was in New York, I resolved to write him a letter dated from that place. I sent for my friend Peter, and asked him if he knew any trustworthy seafaring person, who would carry such a letter to New York, and put it in the post office there. He said he knew one that he would trust with his own life to the ends of the world. I reminded him that it was a hazardous thing for him to undertake. He said he knew it, but he was willing to do any thing to help me. I expressed a wish for a New York paper, to ascertain the names of some of the streets. He run his hand into his pocket, and said, "Here is half a one, that was round a cap I bought of a pedler yesterday." I told him the letter would be ready the next evening. He bade me good by, adding, "Keep up your spirits, Linda; brighter days will come by and by." My uncle Phillip kept watch over the gate until our brief interview was over. Early the next morning, I seated myself near the little aperture to examine the newspaper. It was a piece of the New York Herald; and, for once, the paper that systematically abuses the colored people, was made to render them a service. Having obtained what information I wanted concerning streets and numbers, I wrote two letters, one to my grandmother, the other to Dr. Flint. I reminded him how he, a gray-headed man, had treated a helpless child, who had been placed in his power, and what years of misery he had brought upon her. To my grandmother, I expressed a wish to have my children sent to me at the north, where I could teach them to respect themselves, and set them a virtuous example; which a slave mother was not allowed to do at the south. I asked her to direct her answer to a certain street in Boston, as I did not live in New York, though I went there sometimes. I dated these letters ahead, to allow for the time it would take to carry them, and sent a memorandum of the date to the messenger. When my friend came for the letters, I said, "God bless and reward you, Peter, for this disinterested kindness. Pray be careful. If you are detected, both you and I will have to suffer dreadfully. I have not a relative who would dare to do it for me." He replied, "You may trust to me, Linda. I don't forget that your father was my best friend, and I will be a friend to his children so long as God lets me live." It was necessary to tell my grandmother what I had done, in order that she might be ready for the letter, and prepared to hear what Dr. Flint might say about my being at the north. She was sadly troubled. She felt sure mischief would come of it. I also told my plan to aunt Nancy, in order that she might report to us what was said at Dr. Flint's house. I whispered it to her through a crack, and she whispered back, "I hope it will succeed. I shan't mind being a slave all _my_ life, if I can only see you and the children free." I had directed that my letters should be put into the New York post office on the 20th of the month. On the evening of the 24th my aunt came to say that Dr. Flint and his wife had been talking in a low voice about a letter he had received, and that when he went to his office he promised to bring it when he came to tea. So I concluded I should hear my letter read the next morning. I told my grandmother Dr. Flint would be sure to come, and asked her to have him sit near a certain door, and leave it open, that I might hear what he said. The next morning I took my station within sound of that door, and remained motionless as a statue. It was not long before I heard the gate slam, and the well-known footsteps enter the house. He seated himself in the chair that was placed for him, and said, "Well, Martha, I've brought you a letter from Linda. She has sent me a letter, also. I know exactly where to find her; but I don't choose to go to Boston for her. I had rather she would come back of her own accord, in a respectable manner. Her uncle Phillip is the best person to go for her. With _him_, she would feel perfectly free to act. I am willing to pay his expenses going and returning. She shall be sold to her friends. Her children are free; at least I suppose they are; and when you obtain her freedom, you'll make a happy family. I suppose, Martha, you have no objection to my reading to you the letter Linda has written to you." He broke the seal, and I heard him read it. The old villain! He had suppressed the letter I wrote to grandmother, and prepared a substitute of his own, the purport of which was as follows:-- Dear Grandmother: I have long wanted to write to you; but the disgraceful manner in which I left you and my children made me ashamed to do it. If you knew how much I have suffered since I ran away, you would pity and forgive me. I have purchased freedom at a dear rate. If any arrangement could be made for me to return to the south without being a slave, I would gladly come. If not, I beg of you to send my children to the north. I cannot live any longer without them. Let me know in time, and I will meet them in New York or Philadelphia, whichever place best suits my uncle's convenience. Write as soon as possible to your unhappy daughter, Linda. "It is very much as I expected it would be," said the old hypocrite, rising to go. "You see the foolish girl has repented of her rashness, and wants to return. We must help her to do it, Martha. Talk with Phillip about it. If he will go for her, she will trust to him, and come back. I should like an answer to-morrow. Good morning, Martha." As he stepped out on the piazza, he stumbled over my little girl. "Ah, Ellen, is that you?" he said, in his most gracious manner. "I didn't see you. How do you do?" "Pretty well, sir," she replied. "I heard you tell grandmother that my mother is coming home. I want to see her." "Yes, Ellen, I am going to bring her home very soon," rejoined he; "and you shall see her as much as you like, you little curly-headed nigger." This was as good as a comedy to me, who had heard it all; but grandmother was frightened and distressed, because the doctor wanted my uncle to go for me. The next evening Dr. Flint called to talk the matter over. My uncle told him that from what he had heard of Massachusetts, he judged he should be mobbed if he went there after a runaway slave. "All stuff and nonsense, Phillip!" replied the doctor. "Do you suppose I want you to kick up a row in Boston? The business can all be done quietly. Linda writes that she wants to come back. You are her relative, and she would trust _you_. The case would be different if I went. She might object to coming with _me_; and the damned abolitionists, if they knew I was her master, would not believe me, if I told them she had begged to go back. They would get up a row; and I should not like to see Linda dragged through the streets like a common negro. She has been very ungrateful to me for all my kindness; but I forgive her, and want to act the part of a friend towards her. I have no wish to hold her as my slave. Her friends can buy her as soon as she arrives here." Finding that his arguments failed to convince my uncle, the doctor "let the cat out of the bag," by saying that he had written to the mayor of Boston, to ascertain whether there was a person of my description at the street and number from which my letter was dated. He had omitted this date in the letter he had made up to read to my grandmother. If I had dated from New York, the old man would probably have made another journey to that city. But even in that dark region, where knowledge is so carefully excluded from the slave, I had heard enough about Massachusetts to come to the conclusion that slaveholders did not consider it a comfortable place to go in search of a runaway. That was before the Fugitive Slave Law was passed; before Massachusetts had consented to become a "nigger hunter" for the south. My grandmother, who had become skittish by seeing her family always in danger, came to me with a very distressed countenance, and said, "What will you do if the mayor of Boston sends him word that you haven't been there? Then he will suspect the letter was a trick; and maybe he'll find out something about it, and we shall all get into trouble. O Linda, I wish you had never sent the letters." "Don't worry yourself, Grandmother," said I. "The mayor of Boston won't trouble himself to hunt niggers for Dr. Flint. The letters will do good in the end. I shall get out of this dark hole some time or other." "I hope you will, child," replied the good, patient old friend. "You have been here a long time; almost five years; but whenever you do go, it will break your old grandmother's heart. I should be expecting every day to hear that you were brought back in irons and put in jail. God help you, poor child! Let us be thankful that some time or other we shall go 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'" My heart responded, Amen. The fact that Dr. Flint had written to the mayor of Boston convinced me that he believed my letter to be genuine, and of course that he had no suspicion of my being any where in the vicinity. It was a great object to keep up this delusion, for it made me and my friends feel less anxious, and it would be very convenient whenever there was a chance to escape. I resolved, therefore, to continue to write letters from the north from time to time. Two or three weeks passed, and as no news came from the mayor of Boston, grandmother began to listen to my entreaty to be allowed to leave my cell, sometimes, and exercise my limbs to prevent my becoming a cripple. I was allowed to slip down into the small storeroom, early in the morning, and remain there a little while. The room was all filled up with barrels, except a small open space under my trap-door. This faced the door, the upper part of which was of glass, and purposely left uncurtained, that the curious might look in. The air of this place was close; but it was so much better than the atmosphere of my cell, that I dreaded to return. I came down as soon as it was light, and remained till eight o'clock, when people began to be about, and there was danger that some one might come on the piazza. I had tried various applications to bring warmth and feeling into my limbs, but without avail. They were so numb and stiff that it was a painful effort to move; and had my enemies come upon me during the first mornings I tried to exercise them a little in the small unoccupied space of the storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter xxvii based on the provided context.

chapter xxvi|chapter xxvii

New Destination For The Children Harriet worried over the fate of her children. The wife of Mr. Sands had seen Benny in the street and taken a fancy to him; Mr. Sands told her his true relation to them and she wanted to see the children. Harriet was stricken, for she had done so much to protect them and now they were threatened. It seemed like she could do nothing since they were his slaves, but she persuaded her grandmother to go to him and tell him Harriet was not dead and remind him that he had promised to emancipate them. Mr. Sands responded that they were free and Harriet could decide their fate, but that they were not safe here and should go north. He proposed that Ellen go north to stay with some of his relatives in Brooklyn. Before that she would go with Mr. and Mrs. Sands to Washington for a bit of time. Harriet's heart was heavy but she had to consent. Before Ellen left Harriet decided she must see her daughter face-to-face. She had observed her character for so long that she knew she could trust her with the secret. Harriet and Ellen had an emotional meeting and the two slept nestled together for the whole evening. It was a bitter parting the next day. Thankfully, Ellen never told the secret of Harriet's location. Mrs. Flint came to visit and said that sending Ellen away was akin to stealing, since she belonged to her daughter Emily Flint, who was now sixteen. Harriet grew nervous because she had not heard from Ellen, and wondered if she had been tricked. Finally, six months after she left, a young woman in the Sands family wrote and said Ellen was now safely in Brooklyn. Ellen was to be the girl's waiting maid, and Harriet wondered if this was a situation akin to slavery. She was troubled over this, as well as her young son's precarious situation. He believed himself free, but he certainly was not

----------CHAPTER XXVI--------- I missed the company and kind attentions of my brother William, who had gone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. We received several letters from him, written without any allusion to me, but expressed in such a manner that I knew he did not forget me. I disguised my hand, and wrote to him in the same manner. It was a long session; and when it closed, William wrote to inform us that Mr. Sands was going to the north, to be gone some time, and that he was to accompany him. I knew that his master had promised to give him his freedom, but no time had been specified. Would William trust to a slave's chances? I remembered how we used to talk together, in our young days, about obtaining our freedom, and I thought it very doubtful whether he would come back to us. Grandmother received a letter from Mr. Sands, saying that William had proved a most faithful servant, and he would also say a valued friend; that no mother had ever trained a better boy. He said he had travelled through the Northern States and Canada; and though the abolitionists had tried to decoy him away, they had never succeeded. He ended by saying they should be at home shortly. We expected letters from William, describing the novelties of his journey, but none came. In time, it was reported that Mr. Sands would return late in the autumn, accompanied by a bride. Still no letters from William. I felt almost sure I should never see him again on southern soil; but had he no word of comfort to send to his friends at home? to the poor captive in her dungeon? My thoughts wandered through the dark past, and over the uncertain future. Alone in my cell, where no eye but God's could see me, I wept bitter tears. How earnestly I prayed to him to restore me to my children, and enable me to be a useful woman and a good mother! At last the day arrived for the return of the travellers. Grandmother had made loving preparations to welcome her absent boy back to the old hearthstone. When the dinner table was laid, William's place occupied its old place. The stage coach went by empty. My grandmother waited dinner. She thought perhaps he was necessarily detained by his master. In my prison I listened anxiously, expecting every moment to hear my dear brother's voice and step. In the course of the afternoon a lad was sent by Mr. Sands to tell grandmother that William did not return with him; that the abolitionists had decoyed him away. But he begged her not to feel troubled about it, for he felt confident she would see William in a few days. As soon as he had time to reflect he would come back, for he could never expect to be so well off at the north as he had been with him. If you had seen the tears, and heard the sobs, you would have thought the messenger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old grandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I was selfish. I thought more of what I had lost, than of what my brother had gained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended a good deal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss he had incurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of my children, who were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have their emancipation made certain. The more so, because their master and father was now married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know that promises made to slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere at the time, depend upon many contingencies for their fulfillment. Much as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad and anxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear; so beautiful that it seemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother brought the children out on the piazza, that I might hear their voices. She thought it would comfort me in my despondency; and it did. They chatted merrily, as only children can. Benny said, "Grandmother, do you think uncle Will has gone for good? Won't he ever come back again? May be he'll find mother. If he does, _won't_ she be glad to see him! Why don't you and uncle Phillip, and all of us, go and live where mother is? I should like it; wouldn't you, Ellen?" "Yes, I should like it," replied Ellen; "but how could we find her? Do you know the place, grandmother? I don't remember how mother looked--do you, Benny?" Benny was just beginning to describe me when they were interrupted by an old slave woman, a near neighbor, named Aggie. This poor creature had witnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to parts unknown, without any hopes of ever hearing from them again. She saw that my grandmother had been weeping, and she said, in a sympathizing tone, "What's the matter, aunt Marthy?" "O Aggie," she replied, "it seems as if I shouldn't have any of my children or grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I'm dying, and lay my old body in the ground. My boy didn't come back with Mr. Sands. He staid at the north." Poor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. "Is _dat_ what you's crying fur?" she exclaimed. "Git down on your knees and bress de Lord! I don't know whar my poor chillern is, and I nebber 'spect to know. You don't know whar poor Linda's gone to; but you _do_ know whar her brudder is. He's in free parts; and dat's de right place. Don't murmur at de Lord's doings but git down on your knees and tank him for his goodness." My selfishness was rebuked by what poor Aggie said. She rejoiced over the escape of one who was merely her fellow-bondman, while his own sister was only thinking what his good fortune might cost her children. I knelt and prayed God to forgive me; and I thanked him from my heart, that one of my family was saved from the grasp of slavery. It was not long before we received a letter from William. He wrote that Mr. Sands had always treated him kindly, and that he had tried to do his duty to him faithfully. But ever since he was a boy, he had longed to be free; and he had already gone through enough to convince him he had better not lose the chance that offered. He concluded by saying, "Don't worry about me, dear grandmother. I shall think of you always; and it will spur me on to work hard and try to do right. When I have earned money enough to give you a home, perhaps you will come to the north, and we can all live happy together." Mr. Sands told my uncle Phillip the particulars about William's leaving him. He said, "I trusted him as if he were my own brother, and treated him as kindly. The abolitionists talked to him in several places; but I had no idea they could tempt him. However, I don't blame William. He's young and inconsiderate, and those Northern rascals decoyed him. I must confess the scamp was very bold about it. I met him coming down the steps of the Astor House with his trunk on his shoulder, and I asked him where he was going. He said he was going to change his old trunk. I told him it was rather shabby, and asked if he didn't need some money. He said, No, thanked me, and went off. He did not return so soon as I expected; but I waited patiently. At last I went to see if our trunks were packed, ready for our journey. I found them locked, and a sealed note on the table informed me where I could find the keys. The fellow even tried to be religious. He wrote that he hoped God would always bless me, and reward me for my kindness; that he was not unwilling to serve me; but he wanted to be a free man; and that if I thought he did wrong, he hoped I would forgive him. I intended to give him his freedom in five years. He might have trusted me. He has shown himself ungrateful; but I shall not go for him, or send for him. I feel confident that he will soon return to me." I afterwards heard an account of the affair from William himself. He had not been urged away by abolitionists. He needed no information they could give him about slavery to stimulate his desire for freedom. He looked at his hands, and remembered that they were once in irons. What security had he that they would not be so again? Mr. Sands was kind to him; but he might indefinitely postpone the promise he had made to give him his freedom. He might come under pecuniary embarrassments, and his property be seized by creditors; or he might die, without making any arrangements in his favor. He had too often known such accidents to happen to slaves who had kind masters, and he wisely resolved to make sure of the present opportunity to own himself. He was scrupulous about taking any money from his master on false pretences; so he sold his best clothes to pay for his passage to Boston. The slaveholders pronounced him a base, ungrateful wretch, for thus requiting his master's indulgence. What would _they_ have done under similar circumstances? When Dr. Flint's family heard that William had deserted Mr. Sands, they chuckled greatly over the news. Mrs. Flint made her usual manifestations of Christian feeling, by saying, "I'm glad of it. I hope he'll never get him again. I like to see people paid back in their own coin. I reckon Linda's children will have to pay for it. I should be glad to see them in the speculator's hands again, for I'm tired of seeing those little niggers march about the streets." ----------CHAPTER XXVII--------- Mrs. Flint proclaimed her intention of informing Mrs. Sands who was the father of my children. She likewise proposed to tell her what an artful devil I was; that I had made a great deal of trouble in her family; that when Mr. Sands was at the north, she didn't doubt I had followed him in disguise, and persuaded William to run away. She had some reason to entertain such an idea; for I had written from the north, from time to time, and I dated my letters from various places. Many of them fell into Dr. Flint's hands, as I expected they would; and he must have come to the conclusion that I travelled about a good deal. He kept a close watch over my children, thinking they would eventually lead to my detection. A new and unexpected trial was in store for me. One day, when Mr. Sands and his wife were walking in the street, they met Benny. The lady took a fancy to him, and exclaimed, "What a pretty little negro! Whom does he belong to?" Benny did not hear the answer; but he came home very indignant with the stranger lady, because she had called him a negro. A few days afterwards, Mr. Sands called on my grandmother, and told her he wanted her to take the children to his house. He said he had informed his wife of his relation to them, and told her they were motherless; and she wanted to see them. When he had gone, my grandmother came and asked what I would do. The question seemed a mockery. What _could_ I do? They were Mr. Sands's slaves, and their mother was a slave, whom he had represented to be dead. Perhaps he thought I was. I was too much pained and puzzled to come to any decision; and the children were carried without my knowledge. Mrs. Sands had a sister from Illinois staying with her. This lady, who had no children of her own, was so much pleased with Ellen, that she offered to adopt her, and bring her up as she would a daughter. Mrs. Sands wanted to take Benjamin. When grandmother reported this to me, I was tried almost beyond endurance. Was this all I was to gain by what I had suffered for the sake of having my children free? True, the prospect _seemed_ fair; but I knew too well how lightly slaveholders held such "parental relations." If pecuniary troubles should come, or if the new wife required more money than could conveniently be spared, my children might be thought of as a convenient means of raising funds. I had no trust in thee, O Slavery! Never should I know peace till my children were emancipated with all due formalities of law. I was too proud to ask Mr. Sands to do any thing for my own benefit; but I could bring myself to become a supplicant for my children. I resolved to remind him of the promise he had made me, and to throw myself upon his honor for the performance of it. I persuaded my grandmother to go to him, and tell him I was not dead, and that I earnestly entreated him to keep the promise he had made me; that I had heard of the recent proposals concerning my children, and did not feel easy to accept them; that he had promised to emancipate them, and it was time for him to redeem his pledge. I knew there was some risk in thus betraying that I was in the vicinity; but what will not a mother do for her children? He received the message with surprise, and said, "The children are free. I have never intended to claim them as slaves. Linda may decide their fate. In my opinion, they had better be sent to the north. I don't think they are quite safe here. Dr. Flint boasts that they are still in his power. He says they were his daughter's property, and as she was not of age when they were sold, the contract is not legally binding." So, then, after all I had endured for their sakes, my poor children were between two fires; between my old master and their new master! And I was powerless. There was no protecting arm of the law for me to invoke. Mr. Sands proposed that Ellen should go, for the present, to some of his relatives, who had removed to Brooklyn, Long Island. It was promised that she should be well taken care of, and sent to school. I consented to it, as the best arrangement I could make for her. My grandmother, of course, negotiated it all; and Mrs. Sands knew of no other person in the transaction. She proposed that they should take Ellen with them to Washington, and keep her till they had a good chance of sending her, with friends, to Brooklyn. She had an infant daughter. I had had a glimpse of it, as the nurse passed with it in her arms. It was not a pleasant thought to me, that the bondwoman's child should tend her free-born sister; but there was no alternative. Ellen was made ready for the journey. O, how it tried my heart to send her away, so young, alone, among strangers! Without a mother's love to shelter her from the storms of life; almost without memory of a mother! I doubted whether she and Benny would have for me the natural affection that children feel for a parent. I thought to myself that I might perhaps never see my daughter again, and I had a great desire that she should look upon me, before she went, that she might take my image with her in her memory. It seemed to me cruel to have her brought to my dungeon. It was sorrow enough for her young heart to know that her mother was a victim of slavery, without seeing the wretched hiding-place to which it had driven her. I begged permission to pass the last night in one of the open chambers, with my little girl. They thought I was crazy to think of trusting such a young child with my perilous secret. I told them I had watched her character, and I felt sure she would not betray me; that I was determined to have an interview, and if they would not facilitate it, I would take my own way to obtain it. They remonstrated against the rashness of such a proceeding; but finding they could not change my purpose, they yielded. I slipped through the trap-door into the storeroom, and my uncle kept watch at the gate, while I passed into the piazza and went up stairs, to the room I used to occupy. It was more than five years since I had seen it; and how the memories crowded on me! There I had taken shelter when my mistress drove me from her house; there came my old tyrant, to mock, insult, and curse me; there my children were first laid in my arms; there I had watched over them, each day with a deeper and sadder love; there I had knelt to God, in anguish of heart, to forgive the wrong I had done. How vividly it all came back! And after this long, gloomy interval, I stood there such a wreck! In the midst of these meditations, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened, and my uncle Phillip came in, leading Ellen by the hand. I put my arms round her, and said, "Ellen, my dear child, I am your mother." She drew back a little, and looked at me; then, with sweet confidence, she laid her cheek against mine, and I folded her to the heart that had been so long desolated. She was the first to speak. Raising her head, she said, inquiringly, "You really _are_ my mother?" I told her I really was; that during all the long time she had not seen me, I had loved her most tenderly; and that now she was going away, I wanted to see her and talk with her, that she might remember me. With a sob in her voice, she said, "I'm glad you've come to see me; but why didn't you ever come before? Benny and I have wanted so much to see you! He remembers you, and sometimes he tells me about you. Why didn't you come home when Dr. Flint went to bring you?" I answered, "I couldn't come before, dear. But now that I am with you, tell me whether you like to go away." "I don't know," said she, crying. "Grandmother says I ought not to cry; that I am going to a good place, where I can learn to read and write, and that by and by I can write her a letter. But I shan't have Benny, or grandmother, or uncle Phillip, or any body to love me. Can't you go with me? O, _do_ go, dear mother!" I told her I couldn't go now; but sometime I would come to her, and then she and Benny and I would live together, and have happy times. She wanted to run and bring Benny to see me now. I told her he was going to the north, before long, with uncle Phillip, and then I would come to see him before he went away. I asked if she would like to have me stay all night and sleep with her. "O, yes," she replied. Then, turning to her uncle, she said, pleadingly, "_May_ I stay? Please, uncle! She is my own mother." He laid his hand on her head, and said, solemnly, "Ellen, this is the secret you have promised grandmother never to tell. If you ever speak of it to any body, they will never let you see your grandmother again, and your mother can never come to Brooklyn." "Uncle," she replied, "I will never tell." He told her she might stay with me; and when he had gone, I took her in my arms and told her I was a slave, and that was the reason she must never say she had seen me. I exhorted her to be a good child, to try to please the people where she was going, and that God would raise her up friends. I told her to say her prayers, and remember always to pray for her poor mother, and that God would permit us to meet again. She wept, and I did not check her tears. Perhaps she would never again have a chance to pour her tears into a mother's bosom. All night she nestled in my arms, and I had no inclination to slumber. The moments were too precious to lose any of them. Once, when I thought she was asleep, I kissed her forehead softly, and she said, "I am not asleep, dear mother." Before dawn they came to take me back to my den. I drew aside the window curtain, to take a last look of my child. The moonlight shone on her face, and I bent over her, as I had done years before, that wretched night when I ran away. I hugged her close to my throbbing heart; and tears, too sad for such young eyes to shed, flowed down her cheeks, as she gave her last kiss, and whispered in my ear, "Mother, I will never tell." And she never did. When I got back to my den, I threw myself on the bed and wept there alone in the darkness. It seemed as if my heart would burst. When the time for Ellen's departure drew nigh, I could hear neighbors and friends saying to her, "Good by, Ellen. I hope your poor mother will find you out. _Won't_ you be glad to see her!" She replied, "Yes, ma'am;" and they little dreamed of the weighty secret that weighed down her young heart. She was an affectionate child, but naturally very reserved, except with those she loved, and I felt secure that my secret would be safe with her. I heard the gate close after her, with such feelings as only a slave mother can experience. During the day my meditations were very sad. Sometimes I feared I had been very selfish not to give up all claim to her, and let her go to Illinois, to be adopted by Mrs. Sands's sister. It was my experience of slavery that decided me against it. I feared that circumstances might arise that would cause her to be sent back. I felt confident that I should go to New York myself; and then I should be able to watch over her, and in some degree protect her. Dr. Flint's family knew nothing of the proposed arrangement till after Ellen was gone, and the news displeased them greatly. Mrs. Flint called on Mrs. Sands's sister to inquire into the matter. She expressed her opinion very freely as to the respect Mr. Sands showed for his wife, and for his own character, in acknowledging those "young niggers." And as for sending Ellen away, she pronounced it to be just as much stealing as it would be for him to come and take a piece of furniture out of her parlor. She said her daughter was not of age to sign the bill of sale, and the children were her property; and when she became of age, or was married, she could take them, wherever she could lay hands on them. Miss Emily Flint, the little girl to whom I had been bequeathed, was now in her sixteenth year. Her mother considered it all right and honorable for her, or her future husband, to steal my children; but she did not understand how any body could hold up their heads in respectable society, after they had purchased their own children, as Mr. Sands had done. Dr. Flint said very little. Perhaps he thought that Benny would be less likely to be sent away if he kept quiet. One of my letters, that fell into his hands, was dated from Canada; and he seldom spoke of me now. This state of things enabled me to slip down into the storeroom more frequently, where I could stand upright, and move my limbs more freely. Days, weeks, and months passed, and there came no news of Ellen. I sent a letter to Brooklyn, written in my grandmother's name, to inquire whether she had arrived there. Answer was returned that she had not. I wrote to her in Washington; but no notice was taken of it. There was one person there, who ought to have had some sympathy with the anxiety of the child's friends at home; but the links of such relations as he had formed with me, are easily broken and cast away as rubbish. Yet how protectingly and persuasively he once talked to the poor, helpless slave girl! And how entirely I trusted him! But now suspicions darkened my mind. Was my child dead, or had they deceived me, and sold her? If the secret memoirs of many members of Congress should be published, curious details would be unfolded. I once saw a letter from a member of Congress to a slave, who was the mother of six of his children. He wrote to request that she would send her children away from the great house before his return, as he expected to be accompanied by friends. The woman could not read, and was obliged to employ another to read the letter. The existence of the colored children did not trouble this gentleman, it was only the fear that friends might recognize in their features a resemblance to him. At the end of six months, a letter came to my grandmother, from Brooklyn. It was written by a young lady in the family, and announced that Ellen had just arrived. It contained the following message from her: "I do try to do just as you told me to, and I pray for you every night and morning." I understood that these words were meant for me; and they were a balsam to my heart. The writer closed her letter by saying, "Ellen is a nice little girl, and we shall like to have her with us. My cousin, Mr. Sands, has given her to me, to be my little waiting maid. I shall send her to school, and I hope some day she will write to you herself." This letter perplexed and troubled me. Had my child's father merely placed her there till she was old enough to support herself? Or had he given her to his cousin, as a piece of property? If the last idea was correct, his cousin might return to the south at any time, and hold Ellen as a slave. I tried to put away from me the painful thought that such a foul wrong could have been done to us. I said to myself, "Surely there must be _some_ justice in man;" then I remembered, with a sigh, how slavery perverted all the natural feelings of the human heart. It gave me a pang to look on my light-hearted boy. He believed himself free; and to have him brought under the yoke of slavery, would be more than I could bear. How I longed to have him safely out of the reach of its power!

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter xxxi based on the provided context.

chapter xxviii|chapter xxx|chapter xxxi

Incidents In Philadelphia When the boat reached Philadelphia, Harriet earnestly thanked the captain for his kindness. He introduced her to the Rev. Jeremiah Durham, who said that Harriet could stay with him for a few days before she was able to get to New York. Fanny was placed with another family. Mrs. Durham was an extremely pleasant and solicitous woman and made Harriet feel very welcome. Harriet was awed by the bustle and diversity of Philadelphia. It was very different from her home in the south; that evening when the bells signaling a fire were heard, Harriet assumed the whole town had to get up and respond. She considered herself "an ignorant child, just beginning to learn how things went on in great cities. After five days one of Mrs. Durham's friends decided to accompany Harriet and Fanny to New York. In their travels Harriet observed that the North was in some ways no better than the south, for colored people were treated quite differently

----------CHAPTER XXVIII--------- I have mentioned my great-aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint's family, and who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered from him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is, as far as slaves _can_ marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress, and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without any legal value. Her master or mistress could annul it any day they pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint's chamber door, that she might be within call. When she was married, she was told she might have the use of a small room in an outhouse. Her mother and her husband furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was allowed to sleep there when he was at home. But on the wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her old post on the entry floor. Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to be a mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to lie at her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give premature birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume her place on the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint's babe needed her attentions. She kept her station there through summer and winter, until she had given premature birth to six children; and all the while she was employed as night-nurse to Mrs. Flint's children. Finally, toiling all day, and being deprived of rest at night, completely broke down her constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it was impossible she could ever become the mother of a living child. The fear of losing so valuable a servant by death, now induced them to allow her to sleep in her little room in the out-house, except when there was sickness in the family. She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a few days, and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow as she held the last dead baby in her arms. "I wish it could have lived," she said; "it is not the will of God that any of my children should live. But I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven." Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint's family. Indeed, she was the _factotum_ of the household. Nothing went on well without her. She was my mother's twin sister, and, as far as was in her power, she supplied a mother's place to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I lived in my old master's house, and the bond between us was very strong. When my friends tried to discourage me from running away; she always encouraged me. When they thought I had better return and ask my master's pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never to yield. She said if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my children; and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life. After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack! "I am old, and have not long to live," she used to say; "and I could die happy if I could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness." I would beg her not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I should always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life. A word from her always strengthened me; and not me only. The whole family relied upon her judgement, and were guided by her advice. I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter. She was very ill, and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint's house for several years. They had treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now. She was grateful for permission to watch by the death-bed of her child. They had always been devoted to each other; and now they sat looking into each other's eyes, longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both. My aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and the last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance, she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she would try to hold up her hand; to let her know that all was well with her. Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side. His eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flint took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to her. "Martha," said he, "aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for her sake." She replied, "Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little know me if you think I can feel any thing but good will for her children." "I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of it," said he; "and that Linda would come to supply her aunt's place. She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for her. I wish it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age." He knew he was touching a tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, "It was not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are gone; and of my nine children only one is left. God help me!" To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had helped to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and the thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last, as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one inquire, "How is she?" and he answered, "She is dead." My little cell seemed whirling round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me. I had no need to ask any questions. He whispered, "Linda, she died happy." I could not weep. My fixed gaze troubled him. "Don't look _so_" he said. "Don't add to my poor mother's trouble. Remember how much she has to bear, and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her." Ah, yes, that blessed old grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms of a slave-mother's life. She did indeed need consolation! Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her health by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But now she became very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her feet. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor's family burial-place. No colored person had ever been allowed interment in the white people's burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of your family reposed together in the old graveyard of the slaves. He therefore replied, "I have no objection to complying with your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy's _mother_ may have some choice as to where her remains shall be deposited." It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings. When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from _her_. She might have added with touching pathos, "I was so long _used_ to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor." My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, but perfectly respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs. Flint's minister read the funeral service. There was a large concourse of colored people, bond and free, and a few white persons who had always been friendly to our family. Dr. Flint's carriage was in the procession; and when the body was deposited in its humble resting place, the mistress dropped a tear, and returned to her carriage, probably thinking she had performed her duty nobly. It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern travellers, passing through the place, might have described this tribute of respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the "patriarchal institution;" a touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders and their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed this impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them a different story. We could have given them a chapter of wrongs and sufferings, that would have touched their hearts, if they _had_ any hearts to feel for the colored people. We could have told them how the poor old slave-mother had toiled, year after year, to earn eight hundred dollars to buy her son Phillip's right to his own earnings; and how that same Phillip paid the expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much credit to the master. We could also have told them of a poor, blighted young creature, shut up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures that would be inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the face of her departed friend. All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living. It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had always been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported her. But her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to knock for me to come to the trapdoor, and each place had a different meaning. She now came oftener than she had done, and talked to me of her dead daughter, while tears trickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks. I said all I could to comfort her; but it was a sad reflection, that instead of being able to help her, I was a constant source of anxiety and trouble. The poor old back was fitted to its burden. It bent under it, but did not break. ----------CHAPTER XXX--------- I never could tell how we reached the wharf. My brain was all of a whirl, and my limbs tottered under me. At an appointed place we met my uncle Phillip, who had started before us on a different route, that he might reach the wharf first, and give us timely warning if there was any danger. A row-boat was in readiness. As I was about to step in, I felt something pull me gently, and turning round I saw Benny, looking pale and anxious. He whispered in my ear, "I've been peeping into the doctor's window, and he's at home. Good by, mother. Don't cry; I'll come." He hastened away. I clasped the hand of my good uncle, to whom I owed so much, and of Peter, the brave, generous friend who had volunteered to run such terrible risks to secure my safety. To this day I remember how his bright face beamed with joy, when he told me he had discovered a safe method for me to escape. Yet that intelligent, enterprising, noble-hearted man was a chattel! Liable, by the laws of a country that calls itself civilized, to be sold with horses and pigs! We parted in silence. Our hearts were all too full for words! Swiftly the boat glided over the water. After a while, one of the sailors said, "Don't be down-hearted, madam. We will take you safely to your husband, in ----." At first I could not imagine what he meant; but I had presence of mind to think that it probably referred to something the captain had told him; so I thanked him, and said I hoped we should have pleasant weather. When I entered the vessel the captain came forward to meet me. He was an elderly man, with a pleasant countenance. He showed me to a little box of a cabin, where sat my friend Fanny. She started as if she had seen a spectre. She gazed on me in utter astonishment, and exclaimed, "Linda, can this be _you_? or is it your ghost?" When we were locked in each other's arms, my overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained. My sobs reached the ears of the captain, who came and very kindly reminded us, that for his safety, as well as our own, it would be prudent for us not to attract any attention. He said that when there was a sail in sight he wished us to keep below; but at other times, he had no objection to our being on deck. He assured us that he would keep a good lookout, and if we acted prudently, he thought we should be in no danger. He had represented us as women going to meet our husbands in ----. We thanked him, and promised to observe carefully all the directions he gave us. Fanny and I now talked by ourselves, low and quietly, in our little cabin. She told me of the suffering she had gone through in making her escape, and of her terrors while she was concealed in her mother's house. Above all, she dwelt on the agony of separation from all her children on that dreadful auction day. She could scarcely credit me, when I told her of the place where I had passed nearly seven years. "We have the same sorrows," said I. "No," replied she, "you are going to see your children soon, and there is no hope that I shall ever even hear from mine." The vessel was soon under way, but we made slow progress. The wind was against us, I should not have cared for this, if we had been out of sight of the town; but until there were miles of water between us and our enemies, we were filled with constant apprehensions that the constables would come on board. Neither could I feel quite at ease with the captain and his men. I was an entire stranger to that class of people, and I had heard that sailors were rough, and sometimes cruel. We were so completely in their power, that if they were bad men, our situation would be dreadful. Now that the captain was paid for our passage, might he not be tempted to make more money by giving us up to those who claimed us as property? I was naturally of a confiding disposition, but slavery had made me suspicious of every body. Fanny did not share my distrust of the captain or his men. She said she was afraid at first, but she had been on board three days while the vessel lay in the dock, and nobody had betrayed her, or treated her otherwise than kindly. The captain soon came to advise us to go on deck for fresh air. His friendly and respectful manner, combined with Fanny's testimony, reassured me, and we went with him. He placed us in a comfortable seat, and occasionally entered into conversation. He told us he was a Southerner by birth, and had spent the greater part of his life in the Slave States, and that he had recently lost a brother who traded in slaves. "But," said he, "it is a pitiable and degrading business, and I always felt ashamed to acknowledge my brother in connection with it." As we passed Snaky Swamp, he pointed to it, and said, "There is a slave territory that defies all the laws." I thought of the terrible days I had spent there, and though it was not called Dismal Swamp, it made me feel very dismal as I looked at it. I shall never forget that night. The balmy air of spring was so refreshing! And how shall I describe my sensations when we were fairly sailing on Chesapeake Bay? O, the beautiful sunshine! the exhilarating breeze! And I could enjoy them without fear or restraint. I had never realized what grand things air and sunlight are till I had been deprived of them. Ten days after we left land we were approaching Philadelphia. The captain said we should arrive there in the night, but he thought we had better wait till morning, and go on shore in broad daylight, as the best way to avoid suspicion. I replied, "You know best. But will you stay on board and protect us?" He saw that I was suspicious, and he said he was sorry, now that he had brought us to the end of our voyage, to find I had so little confidence in him. Ah, if he had ever been a slave he would have known how difficult it was to trust a white man. He assured us that we might sleep through the night without fear; that he would take care we were not left unprotected. Be it said to the honor of this captain, Southerner as he was, that if Fanny and I had been white ladies, and our passage lawfully engaged, he could not have treated us more respectfully. My intelligent friend, Peter, had rightly estimated the character of the man to whose honor he had intrusted us. The next morning I was on deck as soon as the day dawned. I called Fanny to see the sun rise, for the first time in our lives, on free soil; for such I _then_ believed it to be. We watched the reddening sky, and saw the great orb come up slowly out of the water, as it seemed. Soon the waves began to sparkle, and every thing caught the beautiful glow. Before us lay the city of strangers. We looked at each other, and the eyes of both were moistened with tears. We had escaped from slavery, and we supposed ourselves to be safe from the hunters. But we were alone in the world, and we had left dear ties behind us; ties cruelly sundered by the demon Slavery. ----------CHAPTER XXXI--------- I had heard that the poor slave had many friends at the north. I trusted we should find some of them. Meantime, we would take it for granted that all were friends, till they proved to the contrary. I sought out the kind captain, thanked him for his attentions, and told him I should never cease to be grateful for the service he had rendered us. I gave him a message to the friends I had left at home, and he promised to deliver it. We were placed in a row-boat, and in about fifteen minutes were landed on a wood wharf in Philadelphia. As I stood looking round, the friendly captain touched me on the shoulder, and said, "There is a respectable-looking colored man behind you. I will speak to him about the New York trains, and tell him you wish to go directly on." I thanked him, and asked him to direct me to some shops where I could buy gloves and veils. He did so, and said he would talk with the colored man till I returned. I made what haste I could. Constant exercise on board the vessel, and frequent rubbing with salt water, had nearly restored the use of my limbs. The noise of the great city confused me, but I found the shops, and bought some double veils and gloves for Fanny and myself. The shopman told me they were so many levies. I had never heard the word before, but I did not tell him so. I thought if he knew I was a stranger he might ask me where I came from. I gave him a gold piece, and when he returned the change, I counted it, and found out how much a levy was. I made my way back to the wharf, where the captain introduced me to the colored man, as the Rev. Jeremiah Durham, minister of Bethel church. He took me by the hand, as if I had been an old friend. He told us we were too late for the morning cars to New York, and must wait until the evening, or the next morning. He invited me to go home with him, assuring me that his wife would give me a cordial welcome; and for my friend he would provide a home with one of his neighbors. I thanked him for so much kindness to strangers, and told him if I must be detained, I should like to hunt up some people who formerly went from our part of the country. Mr. Durham insisted that I should dine with him, and then he would assist me in finding my friends. The sailors came to bid us good by. I shook their hardy hands, with tears in my eyes. They had all been kind to us, and they had rendered us a greater service than they could possibly conceive of. I had never seen so large a city, or been in contact with so many people in the streets. It seemed as if those who passed looked at us with an expression of curiosity. My face was so blistered and peeled, by sitting on deck, in wind and sunshine, that I thought they could not easily decide to what nation I belonged. Mrs. Durham met me with a kindly welcome, without asking any questions. I was tired, and her friendly manner was a sweet refreshment. God bless her! I was sure that she had comforted other weary hearts, before I received her sympathy. She was surrounded by her husband and children, in a home made sacred by protecting laws. I thought of my own children, and sighed. After dinner Mr. Durham went with me in quest of the friends I had spoken of. They went from my native town, and I anticipated much pleasure in looking on familiar faces. They were not at home, and we retracted our steps through streets delightfully clean. On the way, Mr. Durham observed that I had spoken to him of a daughter I expected to meet; that he was surprised, for I looked so young he had taken me for a single woman. He was approaching a subject on which I was extremely sensitive. He would ask about my husband next, I thought, and if I answered him truly, what would he think of me? I told him I had two children, one in New York the other at the south. He asked some further questions, and I frankly told him some of the most important events of my life. It was painful for me to do it; but I would not deceive him. If he was desirous of being my friend, I thought he ought to know how far I was worthy of it. "Excuse me, if I have tried your feelings," said he. "I did not question you from idle curiosity. I wanted to understand your situation, in order to know whether I could be of any service to you, or your little girl. Your straight-forward answers do you credit; but don't answer every body so openly. It might give some heartless people a pretext for treating you with contempt." That word _contempt_ burned me like coals of fire. I replied, "God alone knows how I have suffered; and He, I trust, will forgive me. If I am permitted to have my children, I intend to be a good mother, and to live in such a manner that people cannot treat me with contempt." "I respect your sentiments," said he. "Place your trust in God, and be governed by good principles, and you will not fail to find friends." When we reached home, I went to my room, glad to shut out the world for a while. The words he had spoken made an indelible impression upon me. They brought up great shadows from the mournful past. In the midst of my meditations I was startled by a knock at the door. Mrs. Durham entered, her face all beaming with kindness, to say that there was an anti-slavery friend down stairs, who would like to see me. I overcame my dread of encountering strangers, and went with her. Many questions were asked concerning my experiences, and my escape from slavery; but I observed how careful they all were not to say any thing that might wound my feelings. How gratifying this was, can be fully understood only by those who have been accustomed to be treated as if they were not included within the pale of human beings. The anti-slavery friend had come to inquire into my plans, and to offer assistance, if needed. Fanny was comfortably established, for the present, with a friend of Mr. Durham. The Anti-Slavery Society agreed to pay her expenses to New York. The same was offered to me, but I declined to accept it, telling them that my grandmother had given me sufficient to pay my expenses to the end of my journey. We were urged to remain in Philadelphia a few days, until some suitable escort could be found for us. I gladly accepted the proposition, for I had a dread of meeting slaveholders, and some dread also of railroads. I had never entered a railroad car in my life, and it seemed to me quite an important event. That night I sought my pillow with feelings I had never carried to it before. I verily believed myself to be a free woman. I was wakeful for a long time, and I had no sooner fallen asleep, than I was roused by fire-bells. I jumped up, and hurried on my clothes. Where I came from, every body hastened to dress themselves on such occasions. The white people thought a great fire might be used as a good opportunity for insurrection, and that it was best to be in readiness; and the colored people were ordered out to labor in extinguishing the flames. There was but one engine in our town, and colored women and children were often required to drag it to the river's edge and fill it. Mrs. Durham's daughter slept in the same room with me, and seeing that she slept through all the din, I thought it was my duty to wake her. "What's the matter?" said she, rubbing her eyes. "They're screaming fire in the streets, and the bells are ringing," I replied. "What of that?" said she, drowsily. "We are used to it. We never get up, without the fire is very near. What good would it do?" I was quite surprised that it was not necessary for us to go and help fill the engine. I was an ignorant child, just beginning to learn how things went on in great cities. At daylight, I heard women crying fresh fish, berries, radishes, and various other things. All this was new to me. I dressed myself at an early hour, and sat at the window to watch that unknown tide of life. Philadelphia seemed to me a wonderfully great place. At the breakfast table, my idea of going out to drag the engine was laughed over, and I joined in the mirth. I went to see Fanny, and found her so well contented among her new friends that she was in no haste to leave. I was also very happy with my kind hostess. She had had advantages for education, and was vastly my superior. Every day, almost every hour, I was adding to my little stock of knowledge. She took me out to see the city as much as she deemed prudent. One day she took me to an artist's room, and showed me the portraits of some of her children. I had never seen any paintings of colored people before, and they seemed to be beautiful. At the end of five days, one of Mrs. Durham's friends offered to accompany us to New York the following morning. As I held the hand of my good hostess in a parting clasp, I longed to know whether her husband had repeated to her what I had told him. I supposed he had, but she never made any allusion to it. I presume it was the delicate silence of womanly sympathy. When Mr. Durham handed us our tickets, he said, "I am afraid you will have a disagreeable ride; but I could not procure tickets for the first-class cars." Supposing I had not given him money enough, I offered more. "O, no," said he, "they could not be had for any money. They don't allow colored people to go in the first-class cars." This was the first chill to my enthusiasm about the Free States. Colored people were allowed to ride in a filthy box, behind white people, at the south, but there they were not required to pay for the privilege. It made me sad to find how the north aped the customs of slavery. We were stowed away in a large, rough car, with windows on each side, too high for us to look out without standing up. It was crowded with people, apparently of all nations. There were plenty of beds and cradles, containing screaming and kicking babies. Every other man had a cigar or pipe in his mouth, and jugs of whiskey were handed round freely. The fumes of the whiskey and the dense tobacco smoke were sickening to my senses, and my mind was equally nauseated by the coarse jokes and ribald songs around me. It was a very disagreeable ride. Since that time there has been some improvement in these matters.

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chapter xxxii|chapter xxxiii|chapter xxxiv|chapter xxxv

The Meeting Of Mother And Daughter After navigating a maze of coachmen, Harriet and Fanny made it to a boarding-house on Sullivan Street. They separated, and Fanny was provided a comfortable home by the Anti-Slavery Society. Harriet sent for an old friend who told her that there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the same southern town and whose home would be a convenient place for Harriet to meet up with her daughter. Harriet traveled to the house in question with her friend, who, as they neared the house, pointed out two girls in the street. One was the daughter of a woman who used to live with her grandmother, and the other was Ellen, her own daughter. Mother and daughter embraced, and Harriet could tell Ellen was not happy, although she said nothing to imply that outright. Harriet decided to send a note to Mrs. Hobbs, the woman with whom Ellen resided, to have her daughter come and see her. She could not be completely honest that she had just arrived from the south as a runaway, so she explained that she had been in Canada for a while. Ellen came to visit and Harriet was saddened that it would take her so long to raise the money to have Ellen come live with her on her own. When Harriet accompanied her home, Mrs. Hobbs made it clear that Ellen had been given to her eldest daughter and would be a waiting-maid when she was older. Harriet was distressed that Mr. Sands had clearly not emancipated her children. Any thought that she was free upon coming to the north dissipated; she knew she was still a slave and wrote to Dr. Flint asking at what price he might sell her. His reply suggested she come back to the south

----------CHAPTER XXXII--------- When we arrived in New York, I was half crazed by the crowd of coachmen calling out, "Carriage, ma'am?" We bargained with one to take us to Sullivan Street for twelve shillings. A burly Irishman stepped up and said, "I'll tak' ye for sax shillings." The reduction of half the price was an object to us, and we asked if he could take us right away. "Troth an I will, ladies," he replied. I noticed that the hackmen smiled at each other, and I inquired whether his conveyance was decent. "Yes, it's dacent it is, marm. Devil a bit would I be after takin' ladies in a cab that was not dacent." We gave him our checks. He went for the baggage, and soon reappeared, saying, "This way, if you plase, ladies." We followed, and found our trunks on a truck, and we were invited to take our seats on them. We told him that was not what we bargained for, and he must take the trunks off. He swore they should not be touched till we had paid him six shillings. In our situation it was not prudent to attract attention, and I was about to pay him what he required, when a man near by shook his head for me not to do it. After a great ado we got rid of the Irishman, and had our trunks fastened on a hack. We had been recommended to a boarding-house in Sullivan Street, and thither we drove. There Fanny and I separated. The Anti-Slavery Society provided a home for her, and I afterwards heard of her in prosperous circumstances. I sent for an old friend from my part of the country, who had for some time been doing business in New York. He came immediately. I told him I wanted to go to my daughter, and asked him to aid me in procuring an interview. I cautioned him not to let it be known to the family that I had just arrived from the south, because they supposed I had been at the north seven years. He told me there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the same town I did, and I had better go to her house, and have my daughter meet me there. I accepted the proposition thankfully, and he agreed to escort me to Brooklyn. We crossed Fulton ferry, went up Myrtle Avenue, and stopped at the house he designated. I was just about to enter, when two girls passed. My friend called my attention to them. I turned, and recognized in the eldest, Sarah, the daughter of a woman who used to live with my grandmother, but who had left the south years ago. Surprised and rejoiced at this unexpected meeting, I threw my arms round her, and inquired concerning her mother. "You take no notice of the other girl," said my friend. I turned, and there stood my Ellen! I pressed her to my heart, then held her away from me to take a look at her. She had changed a good deal in the two years since I parted from her. Signs of neglect could be discerned by eyes less observing than a mother's. My friend invited us all to go into the house; but Ellen said she had been sent of an errand, which she would do as quickly as possible, and go home and ask Mrs. Hobbs to let her come and see me. It was agreed that I should send for her the next day. Her companion, Sarah, hastened to tell her mother of my arrival. When I entered the house, I found the mistress of it absent, and I waited for her return. Before I saw her, I heard her saying, "Where is Linda Brent? I used to know her father and mother." Soon Sarah came with her mother. So there was quite a company of us, all from my grandmother's neighborhood. These friends gathered round me and questioned me eagerly. They laughed, they cried, and they shouted. They thanked God that I had got away from my persecutors and was safe on Long Island. It was a day of great excitement. How different from the silent days I had passed in my dreary den! The next morning was Sunday. My first waking thoughts were occupied with the note I was to send to Mrs. Hobbs, the lady with whom Ellen lived. That I had recently come into that vicinity was evident; otherwise I should have sooner inquired for my daughter. It would not do to let them know I had just arrived from the south, for that would involve the suspicion of my having been harbored there, and might bring trouble, if not ruin, on several people. I like a straightforward course, and am always reluctant to resort to subterfuges. So far as my ways have been crooked, I charge them all upon slavery. It was that system of violence and wrong which now left me no alternative but to enact a falsehood. I began my note by stating that I had recently arrived from Canada, and was very desirous to have my daughter come to see me. She came and brought a message from Mrs. Hobbs, inviting me to her house, and assuring me that I need not have any fears. The conversation I had with my child did not leave my mind at ease. When I asked if she was well treated, she answered yes; but there was no heartiness in the tone, and it seemed to me that she said it from an unwillingness to have me troubled on her account. Before she left me, she asked very earnestly, "Mother, will you take me to live with you?" It made me sad to think that I could not give her a home till I went to work and earned the means; and that might take me a long time. When she was placed with Mrs. Hobbs, the agreement was that she should be sent to school She had been there two years, and was now nine years old, and she scarcely knew her letters. There was no excuse for this, for there were good public schools in Brooklyn, to which she could have been sent without expense. She staid with me till dark, and I went home with her. I was received in a friendly manner by the family, and all agreed in saying that Ellen was a useful, good girl. Mrs. Hobbs looked me coolly in the face, and said, "I suppose you know that my cousin, Mr. Sands, has _given_ her to my eldest daughter. She will make a nice waiting-maid for her when she grows up." I did not answer a word. How _could_ she, who knew by experience the strength of a mother's love, and who was perfectly aware of the relation Mr. Sands bore to my children,--how _could_ she look me in the face, while she thrust such a dagger into my heart? I was no longer surprised that they had kept her in such a state of ignorance. Mr. Hobbs had formerly been wealthy, but he had failed, and afterwards obtained a subordinate situation in the Custom House. Perhaps they expected to return to the south some day; and Ellen's knowledge was quite sufficient for a slave's condition. I was impatient to go to work and earn money, that I might change the uncertain position of my children. Mr. Sands had not kept his promise to emancipate them. I had also been deceived about Ellen. What security had I with regard to Benjamin? I felt that I had none. I returned to my friend's house in an uneasy state of mind. In order to protect my children, it was necessary that I should own myself. I called myself free, and sometimes felt so; but I knew I was insecure. I sat down that night and wrote a civil letter to Dr. Flint, asking him to state the lowest terms on which he would sell me; and as I belonged by law to his daughter, I wrote to her also, making a similar request. Since my arrival at the north I had not been unmindful of my dear brother William. I had made diligent inquiries for him, and having heard of him in Boston, I went thither. When I arrived there, I found he had gone to New Bedford. I wrote to that place, and was informed he had gone on a whaling voyage, and would not return for some months. I went back to New York to get employment near Ellen. I received an answer from Dr. Flint, which gave me no encouragement. He advised me to return and submit myself to my rightful owners, and then any request I might make would be granted. I lent this letter to a friend, who lost it; otherwise I would present a copy to my readers. ----------CHAPTER XXXIII--------- My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed strangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could, of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully served. One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe, and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions, but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was engaged for a month. The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more cheerful. The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs's salary at the Custom House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed. That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes, occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was any thing improper in a mother's making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel otherwise. Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It _must_ be he--and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other's adventures! I took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den. He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are formed by suffering together. ----------CHAPTER XXXIV--------- My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a reply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind that the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had no idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search of me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred dollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy's death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept the letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:-- Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother, it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect. From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you. Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my sister was always attached to you, and that you were never treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house, and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least, felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away. Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age she needs the consolation of having her children round her. Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church. In her Christian life she taught us how to live--and, O, too high the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have seen us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend and well wisher. This letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on "the stupidity of the African race." I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their cordial invitation--a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with base ingratitude. Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a friend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my journey immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting for a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal power to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money, but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to their "peculiar institution," and he becomes unpopular. There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. "O mother!" he exclaimed, "here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d'you do?" O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go. "Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, 'O Ben, I wish I was going too.' I thought she'd know ever so much; but she don't know so much as I do; for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I 'spose free boys can get along here at the north as well as white boys." I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with the wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to tell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston. Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate family, who were waiting for me with "open arms," were doomed to disappointment. As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews with my darling daughter. But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air, and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is, to be free to _say_ so! ----------CHAPTER XXXV--------- It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We went to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded for tea, Mrs. Bruce said, "Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come to the table with me." I replied, "I know it is time baby had her supper, but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being insulted." "O no, not if you are with _me_," she said. I saw several white nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the extreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated, than a gruff voice said, "Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here." I looked up, and, to my astonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a colored man. If his office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at least, have done it politely. I replied, "I shall not get up, unless the captain comes and takes me up." No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs. Bruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the other nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly waited on. Next morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was making a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, "Take my arm, Linda, and we'll go in together." The landlord heard her, and said, "Madam, will you allow your nurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?" I knew this was to be attributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did not mind it. At Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with gladness, of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people, but here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round me with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who would recognize me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time. We soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said, were, "O, mother, don't go to Mrs. Hobbs's. Her brother, Mr. Thorne, has come from the south, and may be he'll tell where you are." I accepted the warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and would try to see her when I came back. Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a "Jim Crow car," on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride through the streets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where I found the same manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings, and represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway before dark, and put up at the Pavilion--a large hotel, beautifully situated by the sea-side--a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty or forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the ladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse tinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary and followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young man, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or three times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As there was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon the young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, "Will you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you will have a good supper." This was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I looked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one shade lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my presence were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce ordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered for a few days; but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they soon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The landlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his servants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of other boarders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike. My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with _themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such treatment; that there was no difference in the price of board for colored and white servants, and there was no justification for difference of treatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled under foot by our oppressors.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter xxxix based on the provided context.

chapter xxxvi|chapter xxxvii|chapter xxxviii|chapter xxxix

The Confession William put up the funds to send Ellen away to a boarding school to improve her education. Harriet knew this was the right thing to do, but it did not make it easier for her to part with her daughter. Her conscience regarding Mr. Sands troubled her, and she gathered enough courage to tell Ellen about her father. Ellen stopped her and said she knew all and, furthermore, that she did not care for Mr. Sands; after spending time with him in Washington, she saw how dismissive he was of her and how kind he was to his white daughter. All of her love was for her mother. Harriet was mightily relieved that her daughter did not think less of her for her past. Ellen departed. William and Harriet tried to start an anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, but it did not succeed. Harriet worked in the employ of Isaac and Amy Post, Christians who "measured a man's worth by his character, not by his complexion

----------CHAPTER XXXVI--------- After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and see Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed Mrs. Hobbs's southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid seeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen, and insisted on my going up stairs. "My brother wants to see you," said she, "and he is sorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me to say to you that he owes thanks to good old aunt Martha for too many little acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her grandchild." This Mr. Thorne had become poor and reckless long before he left the south, and such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to borrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider an equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to feel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as he was here, and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be gained by trying to avoid him; on the contrary, it might be the means of exciting his ill will. I followed his sister up stairs. He met me in a very friendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I had a good place, where I felt happy. I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good thoughtful child, never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for my safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and troubles; but a mother's observing eye easily perceived that she was not happy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious. When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally, I ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was continually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for rum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they had to call her to pour out the liquor for them. "But for all that," said she, "Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can't help liking him. I feel sorry for him." I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and Benjamin a home, and send them to school. She was always desirous not to add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till years afterwards that Mr. Thorne's intemperance was not the only annoyance she suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild. I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday, I found Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house. "O, mother," said she, "I've been waiting for you this long time. I'm afraid Mr. Thorne has written to tell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell you all about it!" The story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grape-vine arbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which he tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time, and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and carried them to the children, saying, "I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been writing to." "I'm sure I don't know, and don't care," replied the oldest of the children; "and I don't see how it concerns you." "But it does concern me," replied Ellen; "for I'm afraid he's been writing to the south about my mother." They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put the fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her. They were no sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, "I declare, Ellen, I believe you are right." The contents of Mr. Thorne's letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as follows: "I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be taken very easily, if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to swear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my country, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws." He concluded by informing the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children carried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother's room for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw him go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the post office. The natural inference was, that he had sent to Dr. Flint a copy of those fragments. When he returned, his sister accused him of it, and he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the next morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York, before any of the family were astir. It was evident that I had no time to lose; and I hastened back to the city with a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all my plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon Slavery! I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not concealed it merely on account of being a fugitive; that would have made her anxious, but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued her good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the particulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her to know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly, without explaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went home resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face attracted her attention, and, in answer to her kind inquiries, I poured out my full heart to her, before bed time. She listened with true womanly sympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my heart blessed her! Early the next morning, Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted. They said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great if the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of one of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother could arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts were much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine by Southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her so. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs, who felt badly about her brother's treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on condition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise. She came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school satchel on her arm, containing a few articles. It was late in October, and I knew the child must suffer; and not daring to go out in the streets to purchase any thing, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into one for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good by, and when she saw that I had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She said, "Wait for me, Linda," and went out. She soon returned with a nice warm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom of heaven. My brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to Boston by the Stonington route, as there was less Southern travel in that direction. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I formerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat Rhode Island in safety. That boat employed colored hands, but I knew that colored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for the seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night air, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for us. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favor, that she would treat us well. He said to me, "Go and speak to the captain yourself by and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure that he will not let her sleep on deck." With these kind words and a shake of the hand he departed. The boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home where I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to purchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he would. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave me three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner I said, "You have made a mistake; I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot possibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter." She assured me there was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were allowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much travelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain's office, and she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the hand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our tickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was contrary to their custom, but he would see that we had berths below; he would also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars; of that he was not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the boat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the ladies' cabin. He came afterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he had spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much surprised at receiving so much kindness. I don't know whether the pleasing face of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess inferred from Lawyer Hopper's manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded with him in my behalf. When the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and showed us to seats in the first car, nearest the engine. He asked us to take seats next the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on toward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we reached Boston in safety. The day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I was beyond the reach of the bloodhounds; and, for the first time during many years, I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed their reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a swelling heart. Their every motion delighted me. I could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend, that we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to Mrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for that purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age, so instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself till she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed pleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their books. ----------CHAPTER XXXVII--------- In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again, in this world, should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I had lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr. Bruce wished the child to visit some of her mother's relatives in England, and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left Ellen to remain in the house with my friend and go to school. We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had seen in American hotels; but my situation was indescribably more pleasant. For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. Ensconced in a pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow, for the first time, with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated freedom. As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the wonders of that great city; but I watched the tide of life that flowed through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in our Southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all children--sometimes docile and sometimes wayward. We next went to Steventon, in Berkshire. It was a small town, said to be the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six shillings, and seven shillings, a week, and women for sixpence, and sevenpence, a day, out of which they boarded themselves. Of course they lived in the most primitive manner; it could not be otherwise, where a woman's wages for an entire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat. They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the poorest poor. But when I visited them in their little thatched cottages, I felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America. They labored hard; but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer, through heat and cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble; but they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come, in the dead of night, and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer could come and take from him his wife, or his daughter. They must separate to earn their living; but the parents knew where their children were going, and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor people. Schools were established among them, and benevolent societies were active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law forbidding them to learn to read and write; and if they helped each other in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as was the case with myself and poor, pious, old uncle Fred. I repeat that the most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousand fold better off than the most pampered American slave. I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to paint their condition so rose-colored as the Hon. Miss Murray paints the condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of _my_ experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If she were to lay aside her title, and, instead of visiting among the fashionable, become domesticated, as a poor governess, on some plantation in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her tell quite a different story. My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my having there received strong religious impressions. The contemptuous manner in which the communion had been administered to colored people, in my native place; the church membership of Dr. Flint, and others like him; and the buying and selling of slaves, by professed ministers of the gospel, had given me a prejudice against the Episcopal church. The whole service seemed to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace entered my heart, and I knelt at the communion table, I trust, in true humility of soul. I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated. During all that time, I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice against color. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to return to America. ----------CHAPTER XXXVIII--------- We had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance spectres seemed to rise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be afraid of one's native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I hastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and improving at her school; but Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been left at a good place to learn a trade, and for several months every thing worked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favorite with his fellow-apprentices; but one day they accidentally discovered a fact they had never before suspected--that he was colored! This at once transformed him into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans, others American-born Irish; and it was offensive to their dignity to have a "nigger" among them, after they had been told that he _was_ a "nigger." They began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned the same, they resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to stand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support himself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a whaling voyage. When I received these tidings I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached myself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now all I could do was to pray to the heavenly Father to guide and protect him. Not long after my return, I received the following letter from Miss Emily Flint, now Mrs. Dodge:-- In this you will recognize the hand of your friend and mistress. Having heard that you had gone with a family to Europe, I have waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself; but I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Think this over, and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion. Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and mistress. Of course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I felt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions. "Come up into my parlor," said the spider to the fly; "Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy." It was plain that Dr. Flint's family were apprised of my movements, since they knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from them; but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in future. The money I had earned, I was desirous to devote to the education of my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but unjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of property. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that time had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts in food and clothing. My children certainly belonged to me; but though Dr. Flint had incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of money for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and would probably still give his daughter a claim to my children; but I regarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I was bound to respect. The Fugitive Slave Law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had not then stooped under chains to enter her courts of justice, so called. I knew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her love of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honored the old Commonwealth beyond her deserts. ----------CHAPTER XXXIX--------- For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably in Boston. At the end of that time, my brother William offered to send Ellen to a boarding school. It required a great effort for me to consent to part with her, for I had few near ties, and it was her presence that made my two little rooms seem home-like. But my judgment prevailed over my selfish feelings. I made preparations for her departure. During the two years we had lived together I had often resolved to tell her something about her father; but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage. I had a shrinking dread of diminishing my child's love. I knew she must have curiosity on the subject, but she had never asked a question. She was always very careful not to say any thing to remind me of my troubles. Now that she was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned, she might hear my story from some one who did not understand the palliating circumstances; and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject, her sensitive nature might receive a rude shock. When we retired for the night, she said, "Mother, it is very hard to leave you alone. I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to improve myself. But you will write to me often; won't you, mother?" I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer her. But in a calm, solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, "Listen to me, Ellen; I have something to tell you!" I recounted my early sufferings in slavery, and told her how nearly they had crushed me. I began to tell her how they had driven me into a great sin, when she clasped me in her arms, and exclaimed, "O, don't, mother! Please don't tell me any more." I said, "But, my child, I want you to know about your father." "I know all about it, mother," she replied; "I am nothing to my father, and he is nothing to me. All my love is for you. I was with him five months in Washington, and he never cared for me. He never spoke to me as he did to his little Fanny. I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny's nurse told me so, but she said I must never tell any body, and I never did. I used to wish he would take me in his arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or that he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought if he was my own father, he ought to love me. I was a little girl then, and didn't know any better. But now I never think any thing about my father. All my love is for you." She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the affection of my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion of my history. If I had, I should have spoken to her long before; for my pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to some one I could trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had manifested towards her unfortunate mother. The next morning, she and her uncle started on their journey to the village in New York, where she was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully lonely. I was thankful when a message came from a lady, accustomed to employ me, requesting me to come and sew in her family for several weeks. On my return, I found a letter from brother William. He thought of opening an anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, and combining with it the sale of some books and stationery; and he wanted me to unite with him. We tried it, but it was not successful. We found warm anti-slavery friends there, but the feeling was not general enough to support such an establishment. I passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac and Amy Post, practical believers in the Christian doctrine of human brotherhood. They measure a man's worth by his character, not by his complexion. The memory of those beloved and honored friends will remain with me to my latest hour.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 1, utilizing the provided context.

chapter xl|chapter 1

We start out with a happy childhood. Carefree, bunny rabbits, Disneyfied soundtrack, the whole thing. We're thinking it's about to go downhill. Yep, here it comes: the narrator's mom dies, and she's sent to live with and work for her mother's mistress. Oh, okay, whew. The new mistress seems like a nice lady. Now we get a little story about the narrator's grandmother: Grandma was so smart and faithful that her owners treated her very well. They even let her stay up all night after she was done with her chores so she could start her own business, and then pay for her own clothes out of the profit. That's so nice of them! Not. Well, okay, for the time, it actually was pretty nice. Grandma sets aside three hundred dollars from baking, hoping to one day buy her children. One day, the grandmother's mistress asks to borrow the three hundred dollars. The grandmother has evidently never read a single book, ever, because she's like, "Sure! Take all my money. I'm sure you'll pay it back." We suspect that's not going to happen. Back to our narrator. When the narrator is twelve, her mistress dies. She turns out not to be so nice after all, because instead of setting her slaves free she gives them away to her relatives. The narrator now belongs to her mistress's five-year-old niece.

----------CHAPTER XL--------- My brother, being disappointed in his project, concluded to go to California; and it was agreed that Benjamin should go with him. Ellen liked her school, and was a great favorite there. They did not know her history, and she did not tell it, because she had no desire to make capital out of their sympathy. But when it was accidentally discovered that her mother was a fugitive slave, every method was used to increase her advantages and diminish her expenses. I was alone again. It was necessary for me to be earning money, and I preferred that it should be among those who knew me. On my return from Rochester, I called at the house of Mr. Bruce, to see Mary, the darling little babe that had thawed my heart, when it was freezing into a cheerless distrust of all my fellow-beings. She was growing a tall girl now, but I loved her always. Mr. Bruce had married again, and it was proposed that I should become nurse to a new infant. I had but one hesitation, and that was feeling of insecurity in New York, now greatly increased by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law. However, I resolved to try the experiment. I was again fortunate in my employer. The new Mrs. Bruce was an American, brought up under aristocratic influences, and still living in the midst of them; but if she had any prejudice against color, I was never made aware of it; and as for the system of slavery, she had a most hearty dislike of it. No sophistry of Southerners could blind her to its enormity. She was a person of excellent principles and a noble heart. To me, from that hour to the present, she has been a true and sympathizing friend. Blessings be with her and hers! About the time that I reentered the Bruce family, an event occurred of disastrous import to the colored people. The slave Hamlin, the first fugitive that came under the new law, was given up by the bloodhounds of the north to the bloodhounds of the south. It was the beginning of a reign of terror to the colored population. The great city rushed on in its whirl of excitement, taking no note of the "short and simple annals of the poor." But while fashionables were listening to the thrilling voice of Jenny Lind in Metropolitan Hall, the thrilling voices of poor hunted colored people went up, in an agony of supplication, to the Lord, from Zion's church. Many families, who had lived in the city for twenty years, fled from it now. Many a poor washerwoman, who, by hard labor, had made herself a comfortable home, was obliged to sacrifice her furniture, bid a hurried farewell to friends, and seek her fortune among strangers in Canada. Many a wife discovered a secret she had never known before--that her husband was a fugitive, and must leave her to insure his own safety. Worse still, many a husband discovered that his wife had fled from slavery years ago, and as "the child follows the condition of its mother," the children of his love were liable to be seized and carried into slavery. Every where, in those humble homes, there was consternation and anguish. But what cared the legislators of the "dominant race" for the blood they were crushing out of trampled hearts? When my brother William spent his last evening with me, before he went to California, we talked nearly all the time of the distress brought on our oppressed people by the passage of this iniquitous law; and never had I seen him manifest such bitterness of spirit, such stern hostility to our oppressors. He was himself free from the operation of the law; for he did not run from any Slaveholding State, being brought into the Free States by his master. But I was subject to it; and so were hundreds of intelligent and industrious people all around us. I seldom ventured into the streets; and when it was necessary to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, or any of the family, I went as much as possible through back streets and by-ways. What a disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants, guiltless of offence, and seeking to perform their duties conscientiously, should be condemned to live in such incessant fear, and have nowhere to turn for protection! This state of things, of course, gave rise to many impromptu vigilance committees. Every colored person, and every friend of their persecuted race, kept their eyes wide open. Every evening I examined the newspapers carefully, to see what Southerners had put up at the hotels. I did this for my own sake, thinking my young mistress and her husband might be among the list; I wished also to give information to others, if necessary; for if many were "running to and fro," I resolved that "knowledge should be increased." This brings up one of my Southern reminiscences, which I will here briefly relate. I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to a wealthy man in our vicinity. His master died, leaving a son and daughter heirs to his large fortune. In the division of the slaves, Luke was included in the son's portion. This young man became a prey to the vices he went to the north, to complete his education, he carried his vices with him. He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs, by excessive dissipation. Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own helplessness. He kept a cowhide beside him, and, for the most trivial occurrence, he would order his attendant to bare his back, and kneel beside the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted. Some days he was not allowed to wear any thing but his shirt, in order to be in readiness to be flogged. A day seldom passed without his receiving more or less blows. If the slightest resistance was offered, the town constable was sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how much more the constable's strong arm was to be dreaded than the comparatively feeble one of his master. The arm of his tyrant grew weaker, and was finally palsied; and then the constable's services were in constant requisition. The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke's care, and was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his irritability and cruelty. As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism; and if Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the constable was immediately sent for. Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated. When I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch. One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man approaching, whose face was familiar to me. As he came nearer, I recognized Luke. I always rejoiced to see or hear of any one who had escaped from the black pit; I was peculiarly glad to see him on Northern soil, though I no longer called it _free_ soil. I well remembered what a desolate feeling it was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him cordially. At first, he did not know me; but when I mentioned my name, he remembered all about me. I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers. He replied, "De risk ain't so bad for me, as 'tis fur you. 'Cause I runned away from de speculator, and you runned away from de massa. Dem speculators vont spen dar money to come here fur a runaway, if dey ain't sartin sure to put dar hans right on him. An I tell you I's tuk good car 'bout dat. I had too hard times down dar, to let 'em ketch dis nigger." He then told me of the advice he had received, and the plans he had laid. I asked if he had money enough to take him to Canada. "'Pend upon it, I hab," he replied. "I tuk car fur dat. I'd bin workin all my days fur dem cussed whites, an got no pay but kicks and cuffs. So I tought dis nigger had a right to money nuff to bring him to de Free States. Massa Henry he lib till ebery body vish him dead; an ven he did die, I knowed de debbil would hab him, an vouldn't vant him to bring his money 'long too. So I tuk some of his bills, and put 'em in de pocket of his ole trousers. An ven he was buried, dis nigger ask fur dem ole trousers, an dey gub 'em to me." With a low, chuckling laugh, he added, "You see I didn't _steal_ it; dey _gub_ it to me. I tell you, I had mighty hard time to keep de speculator from findin it; but he didn't git it." This is a fair specimen of how the moral sense is educated by slavery. When a man has his wages stolen from him, year after year, and the laws sanction and enforce the theft, how can he be expected to have more regard to honesty than has the man who robs him? I have become somewhat enlightened, but I confess that I agree with poor, ignorant, much-abused Luke, in thinking he had a _right_ to that money, as a portion of his unpaid wages. He went to Canada forthwith, and I have not since heard from him. All that winter I lived in a state of anxiety. When I took the children out to breathe the air, I closely observed the countenances of all I met. I dreaded the approach of summer, when snakes and slaveholders make their appearance. I was, in fact, a slave in New York, as subject to slave laws as I had been in a Slave State. Strange incongruity in a State called free! Spring returned, and I received warning from the south that Dr. Flint knew of my return to my old place, and was making preparations to have me caught. I learned afterwards that my dress, and that of Mrs. Bruce's children, had been described to him by some of the Northern tools, which slaveholders employ for their base purposes, and then indulge in sneers at their cupidity and mean servility. I immediately informed Mrs. Bruce of my danger, and she took prompt measures for my safety. My place as nurse could not be supplied immediately, and this generous, sympathizing lady proposed that I should carry her baby away. It was a comfort to me to have the child with me; for the heart is reluctant to be torn away from every object it loves. But how few mothers would have consented to have one of their own babes become a fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on whom the legislators of the country had let loose the bloodhounds! When I spoke of the sacrifice she was making, in depriving herself of her dear baby, she replied, "It is better for you to have baby with you, Linda; for if they get on your track, they will be obliged to bring the child to me; and then, if there is a possibility of saving you, you shall be saved." This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her for harboring a fugitive slave; told her she was violating the laws of her country; and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She replied, "I am very well aware of it. It is imprisonment and one thousand dollars fine. Shame on my country that it _is_ so! I am ready to incur the penalty. I will go to the state's prison, rather than have any poor victim torn from _my_ house, to be carried back to slavery." The noble heart! The brave heart! The tears are in my eyes while I write of her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy with my persecuted people! I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of a senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This honorable gentleman would not have voted for the Fugitive Slave Law, as did the senator in "Uncle Tom's Cabin;" on the contrary, he was strongly opposed to it; but he was enough under its influence to be afraid of having me remain in his house many hours. So I was sent into the country, where I remained a month with the baby. When it was supposed that Dr. Flint's emissaries had lost track of me, and given up the pursuit for the present, I returned to New York. ----------CHAPTER 1--------- I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs. His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was two years younger than myself--a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her mother and his three children free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War; and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me; but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a little girl when she was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and her children from the profits. Upon these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved profitable; and each year she laid by a little, which was saved for a fund to purchase her children. Her master died, and the property was divided among his heirs. The widow had her dower in the hotel which she continued to keep open. My grandmother remained in her service as a slave; but her children were divided among her master's children. As she had five, Benjamin, the youngest one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference in our ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven hundred and twenty dollars were paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow to my grandmother, but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with renewed energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her mistress one day begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon. The reader probably knows that no promise or writing given to a slave is legally binding; for, according to Southern laws, a slave, _being_ property, can _hold_ no property. When my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely to her honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave! To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother Willie and I often received portions of the crackers, cakes, and preserves, she made to sell; and after we ceased to be children we were indebted to her for many more important services. Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I learned, by the talk around me, that I was a slave. My mother's mistress was the daughter of my grandmother's mistress. She was the foster sister of my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother's breast. In fact, my mother had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress might obtain sufficient food. They played together as children; and, when they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to her whiter foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her children should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she kept her word. They all spoke kindly of my dead mother, who had been a slave merely in name, but in nature was noble and womanly. I grieved for her, and my young mind was troubled with the thought who would now take care of me and my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her mistress; and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable duties were imposed on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I was always glad to do her bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as my young years would permit. I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently, with a heart as free from care as that of any free-born white child. When she thought I was tired, she would send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were happy days--too happy to last. The slave child had no thought for the morrow; but there came that blight, which too surely waits on every human being born to be a chattel. When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I prayed in my heart that she might live! I loved her; for she had been almost like a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died, and they buried her in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her grave. I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to begin to think of the future; and again and again I asked myself what they would do with me. I felt sure I should never find another mistress so kind as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that her children should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would be so. They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my mother's love and faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a faithful slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block. After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister's daughter, a child of five years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the precepts of God's Word: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them." But I was her slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her neighbor. I would give much to blot out from my memory that one great wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy days I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a slave, I bless her memory. She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed among her relatives. Five of them were my grandmother's children, and had shared the same milk that nourished her mother's children. Notwithstanding my grandmother's long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the horses they tend.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 2 with the given context.

chapter 2|chapter 3|chapter 5

The narrator and her brother William move in with their new family, headed by local physician Dr. Flint. They are not immediately made welcome. We finally get the narrator's name, courtesy of her grandmother. It's Linda. More sadness: Linda's dad dies. You'd think she might get the day off, but instead Mrs. Flint orders her to pick flowers to decorate the house. Remember Grandma's mistress, who borrowed all that money? She dies with the debt still outstanding. Grandma goes to the guy who inherited the mistress's estate to ask for the money back, which goes about as well as you'd expect: he basically laughs in her face.

----------CHAPTER 2--------- Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he daily detested the name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me, and I didn't know which I ought to go to first." "You are _my_ child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water." Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth. When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone. I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, "Come with me, Linda;" and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led me apart from the people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead." Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend. The good grandmother tried to comfort me. "Who knows the ways of God?" said she. "Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to come." Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a mother to her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and strengthened by her love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be allowed to go to my father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to go for flowers, that my mistress's house might be decorated for an evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach; presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters. The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my dear mother. There were those who knew my father's worth, and respected his memory. My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried to comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come by and by." "You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall have to stay here all our days; we shall never be free." I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We held daily controversies upon this subject. Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's house. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my grandmother's house, where there was always something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to _her_ for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to generation. My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold. On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up, proclaiming that there would be a "public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it. She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently, "Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was generally known, and every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for _you_." Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant her freedom. At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of every thing. Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly what size they ought to be. Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram it down her throat till she choked. They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been well cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach was stronger than the dog's; but her sufferings afterwards proved that he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a whole day and night. When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied up to the joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that situation he was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall; in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his "O, pray don't, massa," rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with his wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being the father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very fair. I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader's hands, she said. "You _promised_ to treat me well." To which he replied, "You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!" She had forgotten that it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child. From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white. In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and take me!" Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she exclaimed. "I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too." The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor child will soon be in heaven, too." "Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the like of her and her bastard." The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her, feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't grieve so, mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me." Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life. ----------CHAPTER 3--------- Dr. Flint owned a fine residence in town, several farms, and about fifty slaves, besides hiring a number by the year. Hiring-day at the south takes place on the 1st of January. On the 2d, the slaves are expected to go to their new masters. On a farm, they work until the corn and cotton are laid. They then have two holidays. Some masters give them a good dinner under the trees. This over, they work until Christmas eve. If no heavy charges are meantime brought against them, they are given four or five holidays, whichever the master or overseer may think proper. Then comes New Year's eve; and they gather together their little alls, or more properly speaking, their little nothings, and wait anxiously for the dawning of day. At the appointed hour the grounds are thronged with men, women, and children, waiting, like criminals, to hear their doom pronounced. The slave is sure to know who is the most humane, or cruel master, within forty miles of him. It is easy to find out, on that day, who clothes and feeds his slaves well; for he is surrounded by a crowd, begging, "Please, massa, hire me this year. I will work _very_ hard, massa." If a slave is unwilling to go with his new master, he is whipped, or locked up in jail, until he consents to go, and promises not to run away during the year. Should he chance to change his mind, thinking it justifiable to violate an extorted promise, woe unto him if he is caught! The whip is used till the blood flows at his feet; and his stiffened limbs are put in chains, to be dragged in the field for days and days! If he lives until the next year, perhaps the same man will hire him again, without even giving him an opportunity of going to the hiring-ground. After those for hire are disposed of, those for sale are called up. O, you happy free women, contrast _your_ New Year's day with that of the poor bond-woman! With you it is a pleasant season, and the light of the day is blessed. Friendly wishes meet you every where, and gifts are showered upon you. Even hearts that have been estranged from you soften at this season, and lips that have been silent echo back, "I wish you a happy New Year." Children bring their little offerings, and raise their rosy lips for a caress. They are your own, and no hand but that of death can take them from you. But to the slave mother New Year's day comes laden with peculiar sorrows. She sits on her cold cabin floor, watching the children who may all be torn from her the next morning; and often does she wish that she and they might die before the day dawns. She may be an ignorant creature, degraded by the system that has brutalized her from childhood; but she has a mother's instincts, and is capable of feeling a mother's agonies. On one of these sale days, I saw a mother lead seven children to the auction-block. She knew that _some_ of them would be taken from her; but they took _all_. The children were sold to a slave-trader, and their mother was bought by a man in her own town. Before night her children were all far away. She begged the trader to tell her where he intended to take them; this he refused to do. How _could_ he, when he knew he would sell them, one by one, wherever he could command the highest price? I met that mother in the street, and her wild, haggard face lives to-day in my mind. She wrung her hands in anguish, and exclaimed, "Gone! All gone! Why _don't_ God kill me?" I had no words wherewith to comfort her. Instances of this kind are of daily, yea, of hourly occurrence. Slaveholders have a method, peculiar to their institution, of getting rid of _old_ slaves, whose lives have been worn out in their service. I knew an old woman, who for seventy years faithfully served her master. She had become almost helpless, from hard labor and disease. Her owners moved to Alabama, and the old black woman was left to be sold to any body who would give twenty dollars for her. ----------CHAPTER 5--------- During the first years of my service in Dr. Flint's family, I was accustomed to share some indulgences with the children of my mistress. Though this seemed to me no more than right, I was grateful for it, and tried to merit the kindness by the faithful discharge of my duties. But I now entered on my fifteenth year--a sad epoch in the life of a slave girl. My master began to whisper foul words in my ear. Young as I was, I could not remain ignorant of their import. I tried to treat them with indifference or contempt. The master's age, my extreme youth, and the fear that his conduct would be reported to my grandmother, made him bear this treatment for many months. He was a crafty man, and resorted to many means to accomplish his purposes. Sometimes he had stormy, terrific ways, that made his victims tremble; sometimes he assumed a gentleness that he thought must surely subdue. Of the two, I preferred his stormy moods, although they left me trembling. He tried his utmost to corrupt the pure principles my grandmother had instilled. He peopled my young mind with unclean images, such as only a vile monster could think of. I turned from him with disgust and hatred. But he was my master. I was compelled to live under the same roof with him--where I saw a man forty years my senior daily violating the most sacred commandments of nature. He told me I was his property; that I must be subject to his will in all things. My soul revolted against the mean tyranny. But where could I turn for protection? No matter whether the slave girl be as black as ebony or as fair as her mistress. In either case, there is no shadow of law to protect her from insult, from violence, or even from death; all these are inflicted by fiends who bear the shape of men. The mistress, who ought to protect the helpless victim, has no other feelings towards her but those of jealousy and rage. The degradation, the wrongs, the vices, that grow out of slavery, are more than I can describe. They are greater than you would willingly believe. Surely, if you credited one half the truths that are told you concerning the helpless millions suffering in this cruel bondage, you at the north would not help to tighten the yoke. You surely would refuse to do for the master, on your own soil, the mean and cruel work which trained bloodhounds and the lowest class of whites do for him at the south. Every where the years bring to all enough of sin and sorrow; but in slavery the very dawn of life is darkened by these shadows. Even the little child, who is accustomed to wait on her mistress and her children, will learn, before she is twelve years old, why it is that her mistress hates such and such a one among the slaves. Perhaps the child's own mother is among those hated ones. She listens to violent outbreaks of jealous passion, and cannot help understanding what is the cause. She will become prematurely knowing in evil things. Soon she will learn to tremble when she hears her master's footfall. She will be compelled to realize that she is no longer a child. If God has bestowed beauty upon her, it will prove her greatest curse. That which commands admiration in the white woman only hastens the degradation of the female slave. I know that some are too much brutalized by slavery to feel the humiliation of their position; but many slaves feel it most acutely, and shrink from the memory of it. I cannot tell how much I suffered in the presence of these wrongs, nor how I am still pained by the retrospect. My master met me at every turn, reminding me that I belonged to him, and swearing by heaven and earth that he would compel me to submit to him. If I went out for a breath of fresh air, after a day of unwearied toil, his footsteps dogged me. If I knelt by my mother's grave, his dark shadow fell on me even there. The light heart which nature had given me became heavy with sad forebodings. The other slaves in my master's house noticed the change. Many of them pitied me; but none dared to ask the cause. They had no need to inquire. They knew too well the guilty practices under that roof; and they were aware that to speak of them was an offence that never went unpunished. I longed for some one to confide in. I would have given the world to have laid my head on my grandmother's faithful bosom, and told her all my troubles. But Dr. Flint swore he would kill me, if I was not as silent as the grave. Then, although my grandmother was all in all to me, I feared her as well as loved her. I had been accustomed to look up to her with a respect bordering upon awe. I was very young, and felt shamefaced about telling her such impure things, especially as I knew her to be very strict on such subjects. Moreover, she was a woman of a high spirit. She was usually very quiet in her demeanor; but if her indignation was once roused, it was not very easily quelled. I had been told that she once chased a white gentleman with a loaded pistol, because he insulted one of her daughters. I dreaded the consequences of a violent outbreak; and both pride and fear kept me silent. But though I did not confide in my grandmother, and even evaded her vigilant watchfulness and inquiry, her presence in the neighborhood was some protection to me. Though she had been a slave, Dr. Flint was afraid of her. He dreaded her scorching rebukes. Moreover, she was known and patronized by many people; and he did not wish to have his villany made public. It was lucky for me that I did not live on a distant plantation, but in a town not so large that the inhabitants were ignorant of each other's affairs. Bad as are the laws and customs in a slaveholding community, the doctor, as a professional man, deemed it prudent to keep up some outward show of decency. O, what days and nights of fear and sorrow that man caused me! Reader, it is not to awaken sympathy for myself that I am telling you truthfully what I suffered in slavery. I do it to kindle a flame of compassion in your hearts for my sisters who are still in bondage, suffering as I once suffered. I once saw two beautiful children playing together. One was a fair white child; the other was her slave, and also her sister. When I saw them embracing each other, and heard their joyous laughter, I turned sadly away from the lovely sight. I foresaw the inevitable blight that would fall on the little slave's heart. I knew how soon her laughter would be changed to sighs. The fair child grew up to be a still fairer woman. From childhood to womanhood her pathway was blooming with flowers, and overarched by a sunny sky. Scarcely one day of her life had been clouded when the sun rose on her happy bridal morning. How had those years dealt with her slave sister, the little playmate of her childhood? She, also, was very beautiful; but the flowers and sunshine of love were not for her. She drank the cup of sin, and shame, and misery, whereof her persecuted race are compelled to drink. In view of these things, why are ye silent, ye free men and women of the north? Why do your tongues falter in maintenance of the right? Would that I had more ability! But my heart is so full, and my pen is so weak! There are noble men and women who plead for us, striving to help those who cannot help themselves. God bless them! God give them strength and courage to go on! God bless those, every where, who are laboring to advance the cause of humanity!

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 7, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 6|chapter 7

Ah, young love. Linda has the hots for a young, freeborn carpenter, who proposes marriage. Afraid that Dr. Flint won't let her get married, Linda asks one of Dr. Flint's female friends to intervene for her. Dr. Flint says no way, and smacks Linda around a little for good measure. Oh, and if he ever sees her with the carpenter, he'll beat them both. This is a little weird: one day, Dr. Flint slips Linda a note, asking her to move to Louisiana with him and some other slaves. Unsurprisingly, this plan never works out. Linda tries to sneak visits with the carpenter but Dr. Flint has his eye on her. Finally she tells the carpenter that he should move to the Free States and forget about her. The carpenter takes her advice, and the two never see each other again. Linda and her little brother William start plotting for freedom.

----------CHAPTER 6--------- I would ten thousand times rather that my children should be the half-starved paupers of Ireland than to be the most pampered among the slaves of America. I would rather drudge out my life on a cotton plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to live with an unprincipled master and a jealous mistress. The felon's home in a penitentiary is preferable. He may repent, and turn from the error of his ways, and so find peace; but it is not so with a favorite slave. She is not allowed to have any pride of character. It is deemed a crime in her to wish to be virtuous. Mrs. Flint possessed the key to her husband's character before I was born. She might have used this knowledge to counsel and to screen the young and the innocent among her slaves; but for them she had no sympathy. They were the objects of her constant suspicion and malevolence. She watched her husband with unceasing vigilance; but he was well practised in means to evade it. What he could not find opportunity to say in words he manifested in signs. He invented more than were ever thought of in a deaf and dumb asylum. I let them pass, as if I did not understand what he meant; and many were the curses and threats bestowed on me for my stupidity. One day he caught me teaching myself to write. He frowned, as if he was not well pleased; but I suppose he came to the conclusion that such an accomplishment might help to advance his favorite scheme. Before long, notes were often slipped into my hand. I would return them, saying, "I can't read them, sir." "Can't you?" he replied; "then I must read them to you." He always finished the reading by asking, "Do you understand?" Sometimes he would complain of the heat of the tea room, and order his supper to be placed on a small table in the piazza. He would seat himself there with a well-satisfied smile, and tell me to stand by and brush away the flies. He would eat very slowly, pausing between the mouthfuls. These intervals were employed in describing the happiness I was so foolishly throwing away, and in threatening me with the penalty that finally awaited my stubborn disobedience. He boasted much of the forbearance he had exercised towards me, and reminded me that there was a limit to his patience. When I succeeded in avoiding opportunities for him to talk to me at home, I was ordered to come to his office, to do some errand. When there, I was obliged to stand and listen to such language as he saw fit to address to me. Sometimes I so openly expressed my contempt for him that he would become violently enraged, and I wondered why he did not strike me. Circumstanced as he was, he probably thought it was better policy to be forebearing. But the state of things grew worse and worse daily. In desperation I told him that I must and would apply to my grandmother for protection. He threatened me with death, and worse than death, if I made any complaint to her. Strange to say, I did not despair. I was naturally of a buoyant disposition, and always I had a hope of somehow getting out of his clutches. Like many a poor, simple slave before me, I trusted that some threads of joy would yet be woven into my dark destiny. I had entered my sixteenth year, and every day it became more apparent that my presence was intolerable to Mrs. Flint. Angry words frequently passed between her and her husband. He had never punished me himself, and he would not allow any body else to punish me. In that respect, she was never satisfied; but, in her angry moods, no terms were too vile for her to bestow upon me. Yet I, whom she detested so bitterly, had far more pity for her than he had, whose duty it was to make her life happy. I never wronged her, or wished to wrong her, and one word of kindness from her would have brought me to her feet. After repeated quarrels between the doctor and his wife, he announced his intention to take his youngest daughter, then four years old, to sleep in his apartment. It was necessary that a servant should sleep in the same room, to be on hand if the child stirred. I was selected for that office, and informed for what purpose that arrangement had been made. By managing to keep within sight of people, as much as possible, during the day time, I had hitherto succeeded in eluding my master, though a razor was often held to my throat to force me to change this line of policy. At night I slept by the side of my great aunt, where I felt safe. He was too prudent to come into her room. She was an old woman, and had been in the family many years. Moreover, as a married man, and a professional man, he deemed it necessary to save appearances in some degree. But he resolved to remove the obstacle in the way of his scheme; and he thought he had planned it so that he should evade suspicion. He was well aware how much I prized my refuge by the side of my old aunt, and he determined to dispossess me of it. The first night the doctor had the little child in his room alone. The next morning, I was ordered to take my station as nurse the following night. A kind Providence interposed in my favor. During the day Mrs. Flint heard of this new arrangement, and a storm followed. I rejoiced to hear it rage. After a while my mistress sent for me to come to her room. Her first question was, "Did you know you were to sleep in the doctor's room?" "Yes, ma'am." "Who told you?" "My master." "Will you answer truly all the questions I ask?" "Yes, ma'am." "Tell me, then, as you hope to be forgiven, are you innocent of what I have accused you?" "I am." She handed me a Bible, and said, "Lay your hand on your heart, kiss this holy book, and swear before God that you tell me the truth." I took the oath she required, and I did it with a clear conscience. "You have taken God's holy word to testify your innocence," said she. "If you have deceived me, beware! Now take this stool, sit down, look me directly in the face, and tell me all that has passed between your master and you." I did as she ordered. As I went on with my account her color changed frequently, she wept, and sometimes groaned. She spoke in tones so sad, that I was touched by her grief. The tears came to my eyes; but I was soon convinced that her emotions arose from anger and wounded pride. She felt that her marriage vows were desecrated, her dignity insulted; but she had no compassion for the poor victim of her husband's perfidy. She pitied herself as a martyr; but she was incapable of feeling for the condition of shame and misery in which her unfortunate, helpless slave was placed. Yet perhaps she had some touch of feeling for me; for when the conference was ended, she spoke kindly, and promised to protect me. I should have been much comforted by this assurance if I could have had confidence in it; but my experiences in slavery had filled me with distrust. She was not a very refined woman, and had not much control over her passions. I was an object of her jealousy, and, consequently, of her hatred; and I knew I could not expect kindness or confidence from her under the circumstances in which I was placed. I could not blame her. Slaveholders' wives feel as other women would under similar circumstances. The fire of her temper kindled from small-sparks, and now the flame became so intense that the doctor was obliged to give up his intended arrangement. I knew I had ignited the torch, and I expected to suffer for it afterwards; but I felt too thankful to my mistress for the timely aid she rendered me to care much about that. She now took me to sleep in a room adjoining her own. There I was an object of her especial care, though not to her especial comfort, for she spent many a sleepless night to watch over me. Sometimes I woke up, and found her bending over me. At other times she whispered in my ear, as though it was her husband who was speaking to me, and listened to hear what I would answer. If she startled me, on such occasions, she would glide stealthily away; and the next morning she would tell me I had been talking in my sleep, and ask who I was talking to. At last, I began to be fearful for my life. It had been often threatened; and you can imagine, better than I can describe, what an unpleasant sensation it must produce to wake up in the dead of night and find a jealous woman bending over you. Terrible as this experience was, I had fears that it would give place to one more terrible. My mistress grew weary of her vigils; they did not prove satisfactory. She changed her tactics. She now tried the trick of accusing my master of crime, in my presence, and gave my name as the author of the accusation. To my utter astonishment, he replied, "I don't believe it; but if she did acknowledge it, you tortured her into exposing me." Tortured into exposing him! Truly, Satan had no difficulty in distinguishing the color of his soul! I understood his object in making this false representation. It was to show me that I gained nothing by seeking the protection of my mistress; that the power was still all in his own hands. I pitied Mrs. Flint. She was a second wife, many years the junior of her husband; and the hoary-headed miscreant was enough to try the patience of a wiser and better woman. She was completely foiled, and knew not how to proceed. She would gladly have had me flogged for my supposed false oath; but, as I have already stated, the doctor never allowed any one to whip me. The old sinner was politic. The application of the lash might have led to remarks that would have exposed him in the eyes of his children and grandchildren. How often did I rejoice that I lived in a town where all the inhabitants knew each other! If I had been on a remote plantation, or lost among the multitude of a crowded city, I should not be a living woman at this day. The secrets of slavery are concealed like those of the Inquisition. My master was, to my knowledge, the father of eleven slaves. But did the mothers dare to tell who was the father of their children? Did the other slaves dare to allude to it, except in whispers among themselves? No, indeed! They knew too well the terrible consequences. My grandmother could not avoid seeing things which excited her suspicions. She was uneasy about me, and tried various ways to buy me; but the never-changing answer was always repeated: "Linda does not belong to _me_. She is my daughter's property, and I have no legal right to sell her." The conscientious man! He was too scrupulous to _sell_ me; but he had no scruples whatever about committing a much greater wrong against the helpless young girl placed under his guardianship, as his daughter's property. Sometimes my persecutor would ask me whether I would like to be sold. I told him I would rather be sold to any body than to lead such a life as I did. On such occasions he would assume the air of a very injured individual, and reproach me for my ingratitude. "Did I not take you into the house, and make you the companion of my own children?" he would say. "Have _I_ ever treated you like a negro? I have never allowed you to be punished, not even to please your mistress. And this is the recompense I get, you ungrateful girl!" I answered that he had reasons of his own for screening me from punishment, and that the course he pursued made my mistress hate me and persecute me. If I wept, he would say, "Poor child! Don't cry! don't cry! I will make peace for you with your mistress. Only let me arrange matters in my own way. Poor, foolish girl! you don't know what is for your own good. I would cherish you. I would make a lady of you. Now go, and think of all I have promised you." I did think of it. Reader, I draw no imaginary pictures of southern homes. I am telling you the plain truth. Yet when victims make their escape from the wild beast of Slavery, northerners consent to act the part of bloodhounds, and hunt the poor fugitive back into his den, "full of dead men's bones, and all uncleanness." Nay, more, they are not only willing, but proud, to give their daughters in marriage to slaveholders. The poor girls have romantic notions of a sunny clime, and of the flowering vines that all the year round shade a happy home. To what disappointments are they destined! The young wife soon learns that the husband in whose hands she has placed her happiness pays no regard to his marriage vows. Children of every shade of complexion play with her own fair babies, and too well she knows that they are born unto him of his own household. Jealousy and hatred enter the flowery home, and it is ravaged of its loveliness. Southern women often marry a man knowing that he is the father of many little slaves. They do not trouble themselves about it. They regard such children as property, as marketable as the pigs on the plantation; and it is seldom that they do not make them aware of this by passing them into the slave-trader's hands as soon as possible, and thus getting them out of their sight. I am glad to say there are some honorable exceptions. I have myself known two southern wives who exhorted their husbands to free those slaves towards whom they stood in a "parental relation;" and their request was granted. These husbands blushed before the superior nobleness of their wives' natures. Though they had only counselled them to do that which it was their duty to do, it commanded their respect, and rendered their conduct more exemplary. Concealment was at an end, and confidence took the place of distrust. Though this bad institution deadens the moral sense, even in white women, to a fearful extent, it is not altogether extinct. I have heard southern ladies say of Mr. Such a one, "He not only thinks it no disgrace to be the father of those little niggers, but he is not ashamed to call himself their master. I declare, such things ought not to be tolerated in any decent society!" ----------CHAPTER 7--------- Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, "Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!" But when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved and I indulged the hope that the dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind; Nor words a language; nor e'en men mankind. Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate hell. There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free born man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young girl's first love. But when I reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr. Flint was too willful and arbitrary a man to consent to that arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sort of opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home I should be just as much in her husband's power as I had previously been,--for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her. Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. "I will have you peeled and pickled, my lady," said she, "if I ever hear you mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending _my_ children with the children of that nigger?" The girl to whom she said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his helpless offspring. Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She had long suspected all was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes. This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint's, who often visited the house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great influence with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I was aware that my lover's being a free-born man would prove a great objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose. How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next morning, a message was brought to me: "Master wants you in his study." I found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, "I have half a mind to kill you on the spot." At last he broke the silence, and that was a relief to both of us. "So you want to be married, do you?" said he, "and to a free nigger." "Yes, sir." "Well, I'll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger fellow you honor so highly. If you _must_ have a husband, you may take up with one of my slaves." What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of _his_ slaves, even if my heart had been interested! I replied, "Don't you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?" "Do you love this nigger?" said he, abruptly. "Yes, sir." "How dare you tell me so!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight pause, he added, "I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt above the insults of such puppies." I replied, "If he is a puppy, I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not believe me to be a virtuous woman." He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, "You have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!" There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to reflect on what I had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, "Do you know what you have said?" "Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it." "Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,--that I can kill you, if I please?" "You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do as you like with me." "Silence!" he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. "By heavens, girl, you forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?" "I know I have been disrespectful, sir," I replied; "but you drove me to it; I couldn't help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me there than there is here." "You deserve to go there," said he, "and to be under such treatment, that you would forget the meaning of the word _peace_. It would do you good. It would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that fellow's name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I will cowhide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I'll teach you a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject." Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I never shall again. Somebody has called it "the atmosphere of hell;" and I believe it is so. For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me; to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base proposals of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it, and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was doing myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up his mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following day. The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to stop at his office on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter, and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, "I am your daughter's property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you please." He said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However that might be, I was determined that I would never go to Louisiana with him. Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint's eldest son was sent to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with _him_. That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields to work. Is it strange, that I was not proud of these protectors? As for the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a bloodhound. Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the corner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. "When is mistress to be married?" said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man! that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in the street! Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was an intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I knew they must "follow the condition of the mother." What a terrible blight that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For _his_ sake, I felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt lonely and desolate. Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by the reflection that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden freak of my master. If he had known how we loved each other, I think he would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was strongly opposed to her children's undertaking any such project. She had not forgotten poor Benjamin's sufferings, and she was afraid that if another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself, "William _must_ be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him." Many a slave sister has formed the same plans.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 11 using the context provided.

chapter 8|chapter 10|chapter 11

Linda is living at Aunt Martha's house, but she still belongs to Dr. Flint. One day, Dr. Flint shows up and demands to know the race of the baby's father. When he learns that he is a white man, Dr. Flint demands that Linda cut off ties with the guy. Plus, her plan has failed, since Dr. Flint is never going to sell her. Linda gets another visitor: Uncle Phillip, who's just back from a trip. After Linda gets really sick, her baby is born early. They're both in bad shape, and Linda is stuck in bed for an entire year. Luckily, they both pull through. Somehow, Dr. Flint still has the hots for Linda, and he gets William to pass her notes. This doesn't prevent him from throwing William in jail when he's late to work one day. At one year old, Linda's baby gets really sick. Linda prays for him to survive, even though she's pretty sure death is better than slavery.

----------CHAPTER 8--------- Slaveholders pride themselves upon being honorable men; but if you were to hear the enormous lies they tell their slaves, you would have small respect for their veracity. I have spoken plain English. Pardon me. I cannot use a milder term. When they visit the north, and return home, they tell their slaves of the runaways they have seen, and describe them to be in the most deplorable condition. A slaveholder once told me that he had seen a runaway friend of mine in New York, and that she besought him to take her back to her master, for she was literally dying of starvation; that many days she had only one cold potato to eat, and at other times could get nothing at all. He said he refused to take her, because he knew her master would not thank him for bringing such a miserable wretch to his house. He ended by saying to me, "This is the punishment she brought on herself for running away from a kind master." This whole story was false. I afterwards staid with that friend in New York, and found her in comfortable circumstances. She had never thought of such a thing as wishing to go back to slavery. Many of the slaves believe such stories, and think it is not worth while to exchange slavery for such a hard kind of freedom. It is difficult to persuade such that freedom could make them useful men, and enable them to protect their wives and children. If those heathen in our Christian land had as much teaching as some Hindoos, they would think otherwise. They would know that liberty is more valuable than life. They would begin to understand their own capabilities, and exert themselves to become men and women. But while the Free States sustain a law which hurls fugitives back into slavery, how can the slaves resolve to become men? There are some who strive to protect wives and daughters from the insults of their masters; but those who have such sentiments have had advantages above the general mass of slaves. They have been partially civilized and Christianized by favorable circumstances. Some are bold enough to _utter_ such sentiments to their masters. O, that there were more of them! Some poor creatures have been so brutalized by the lash that they will sneak out of the way to give their masters free access to their wives and daughters. Do you think this proves the black man to belong to an inferior order of beings? What would _you_ be, if you had been born and brought up a slave, with generations of slaves for ancestors? I admit that the black man _is_ inferior. But what is it that makes him so? It is the ignorance in which white men compel him to live; it is the torturing whip that lashes manhood out of him; it is the fierce bloodhounds of the South, and the scarcely less cruel human bloodhounds of the north, who enforce the Fugitive Slave Law. _They_ do the work. Southern gentlemen indulge in the most contemptuous expressions about the Yankees, while they, on their part, consent to do the vilest work for them, such as the ferocious bloodhounds and the despised negro-hunters are employed to do at home. When southerners go to the north, they are proud to do them honor; but the northern man is not welcome south of Mason and Dixon's line, unless he suppresses every thought and feeling at variance with their "peculiar institution." Nor is it enough to be silent. The masters are not pleased, unless they obtain a greater degree of subservience than that; and they are generally accommodated. Do they respect the northerner for this? I trow not. Even the slaves despise "a northern man with southern principles;" and that is the class they generally see. When northerners go to the south to reside, they prove very apt scholars. They soon imbibe the sentiments and disposition of their neighbors, and generally go beyond their teachers. Of the two, they are proverbially the hardest masters. They seem to satisfy their consciences with the doctrine that God created the Africans to be slaves. What a libel upon the heavenly Father, who "made of one blood all nations of men!" And then who _are_ Africans? Who can measure the amount of Anglo-Saxon blood coursing in the veins of American slaves? I have spoken of the pains slaveholders take to give their slaves a bad opinion of the north; but, notwithstanding this, intelligent slaves are aware that they have many friends in the Free States. Even the most ignorant have some confused notions about it. They knew that I could read; and I was often asked if I had seen any thing in the newspapers about white folks over in the big north, who were trying to get their freedom for them. Some believe that the abolitionists have already made them free, and that it is established by law, but that their masters prevent the law from going into effect. One woman begged me to get a newspaper and read it over. She said her husband told her that the black people had sent word to the queen of 'Merica that they were all slaves; that she didn't believe it, and went to Washington city to see the president about it. They quarrelled; she drew her sword upon him, and swore that he should help her to make them all free. That poor, ignorant woman thought that America was governed by a Queen, to whom the President was subordinate. I wish the President was subordinate to Queen Justice. ----------CHAPTER 10--------- After my lover went away, Dr. Flint contrived a new plan. He seemed to have an idea that my fear of my mistress was his greatest obstacle. In the blandest tones, he told me that he was going to build a small house for me, in a secluded place, four miles away from the town. I shuddered; but I was constrained to listen, while he talked of his intention to give me a home of my own, and to make a lady of me. Hitherto, I had escaped my dreaded fate, by being in the midst of people. My grandmother had already had high words with my master about me. She had told him pretty plainly what she thought of his character, and there was considerable gossip in the neighborhood about our affairs, to which the open-mouthed jealousy of Mrs. Flint contributed not a little. When my master said he was going to build a house for me, and that he could do it with little trouble and expense, I was in hopes something would happen to frustrate his scheme; but I soon heard that the house was actually begun. I vowed before my Maker that I would never enter it: I had rather toil on the plantation from dawn till dark; I had rather live and die in jail, than drag on, from day to day, through such a living death. I was determined that the master, whom I so hated and loathed, who had blighted the prospects of my youth, and made my life a desert, should not, after my long struggle with him, succeed at last in trampling his victim under his feet. I would do any thing, every thing, for the sake of defeating him. What _could_ I do? I thought and thought, till I became desperate, and made a plunge into the abyss. And now, reader, I come to a period in my unhappy life, which I would gladly forget if I could. The remembrance fills me with sorrow and shame. It pains me to tell you of it; but I have promised to tell you the truth, and I will do it honestly, let it cost me what it may. I will not try to screen myself behind the plea of compulsion from a master; for it was not so. Neither can I plead ignorance or thoughtlessness. For years, my master had done his utmost to pollute my mind with foul images, and to destroy the pure principles inculcated by my grandmother, and the good mistress of my childhood. The influences of slavery had had the same effect on me that they had on other young girls; they had made me prematurely knowing, concerning the evil ways of the world. I knew what I did, and I did it with deliberate calculation. But, O, ye happy women, whose purity has been sheltered from childhood, who have been free to choose the objects of your affection, whose homes are protected by law, do not judge the poor desolate slave girl too severely! If slavery had been abolished, I, also, could have married the man of my choice; I could have had a home shielded by the laws; and I should have been spared the painful task of confessing what I am now about to relate; but all my prospects had been blighted by slavery. I wanted to keep myself pure; and, under the most adverse circumstances, I tried hard to preserve my self-respect; but I was struggling alone in the powerful grasp of the demon Slavery; and the monster proved too strong for me. I felt as if I was forsaken by God and man; as if all my efforts must be frustrated; and I became reckless in my despair. I have told you that Dr. Flint's persecutions and his wife's jealousy had given rise to some gossip in the neighborhood. Among others, it chanced that a white unmarried gentleman had obtained some knowledge of the circumstances in which I was placed. He knew my grandmother, and often spoke to me in the street. He became interested for me, and asked questions about my master, which I answered in part. He expressed a great deal of sympathy, and a wish to aid me. He constantly sought opportunities to see me, and wrote to me frequently. I was a poor slave girl, only fifteen years old. So much attention from a superior person was, of course, flattering; for human nature is the same in all. I also felt grateful for his sympathy, and encouraged by his kind words. It seemed to me a great thing to have such a friend. By degrees, a more tender feeling crept into my heart. He was an educated and eloquent gentleman; too eloquent, alas, for the poor slave girl who trusted in him. Of course I saw whither all this was tending. I knew the impassable gulf between us; but to be an object of interest to a man who is not married, and who is not her master, is agreeable to the pride and feelings of a slave, if her miserable situation has left her any pride or sentiment. It seems less degrading to give one's self, than to submit to compulsion. There is something akin to freedom in having a lover who has no control over you, except that which he gains by kindness and attachment. A master may treat you as rudely as he pleases, and you dare not speak; moreover, the wrong does not seem so great with an unmarried man, as with one who has a wife to be made unhappy. There may be sophistry in all this; but the condition of a slave confuses all principles of morality, and, in fact, renders the practice of them impossible. When I found that my master had actually begun to build the lonely cottage, other feelings mixed with those I have described. Revenge, and calculations of interest, were added to flattered vanity and sincere gratitude for kindness. I knew nothing would enrage Dr. Flint so much as to know that I favored another, and it was something to triumph over my tyrant even in that small way. I thought he would revenge himself by selling me, and I was sure my friend, Mr. Sands, would buy me. He was a man of more generosity and feeling than my master, and I thought my freedom could be easily obtained from him. The crisis of my fate now came so near that I was desperate. I shuddered to think of being the mother of children that should be owned by my old tyrant. I knew that as soon as a new fancy took him, his victims were sold far off to get rid of them; especially if they had children. I had seen several women sold, with babies at the breast. He never allowed his offspring by slaves to remain long in sight of himself and his wife. Of a man who was not my master I could ask to have my children well supported; and in this case, I felt confident I should obtain the boon. I also felt quite sure that they would be made free. With all these thoughts revolving in my mind, and seeing no other way of escaping the doom I so much dreaded, I made a headlong plunge. Pity me, and pardon me, O virtuous reader! You never knew what it is to be a slave; to be entirely unprotected by law or custom; to have the laws reduce you to the condition of a chattel, entirely subject to the will of another. You never exhausted your ingenuity in avoiding the snares, and eluding the power of a hated tyrant; you never shuddered at the sound of his footsteps, and trembled within hearing of his voice. I know I did wrong. No one can feel it more sensibly than I do. The painful and humiliating memory will haunt me to my dying day. Still, in looking back, calmly, on the events of my life, I feel that the slave woman ought not to be judged by the same standard as others. The months passed on. I had many unhappy hours. I secretly mourned over the sorrow I was bringing on my grandmother, who had so tried to shield me from harm. I knew that I was the greatest comfort of her old age, and that it was a source of pride to her that I had not degraded myself, like most of the slaves. I wanted to confess to her that I was no longer worthy of her love; but I could not utter the dreaded words. As for Dr. Flint, I had a feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the thought of telling _him_. From time to time he told me of his intended arrangements, and I was silent. At last, he came and told me the cottage was completed, and ordered me to go to it. I told him I would never enter it. He said, "I have heard enough of such talk as that. You shall go, if you are carried by force; and you shall remain there." I replied, "I will never go there. In a few months I shall be a mother." He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house without a word. I thought I should be happy in my triumph over him. But now that the truth was out, and my relatives would hear of it, I felt wretched. Humble as were their circumstances, they had pride in my good character. Now, how could I look at them in the face? My self-respect was gone! I had resolved that I would be virtuous, though I was a slave. I had said, "Let the storm beat! I will brave it till I die." And now, how humiliated I felt! I went to my grandmother. My lips moved to make confession, but the words stuck in my throat. I sat down in the shade of a tree at her door and began to sew. I think she saw something unusual was the matter with me. The mother of slaves is very watchful. She knows there is no security for her children. After they have entered their teens she lives in daily expectation of trouble. This leads to many questions. If the girl is of a sensitive nature, timidity keeps her from answering truthfully, and this well-meant course has a tendency to drive her from maternal counsels. Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman, and accused me concerning her husband. My grandmother, whose suspicions had been previously awakened, believed what she said. She exclaimed, "O Linda! Has it come to this? I had rather see you dead than to see you as you now are. You are a disgrace to your dead mother." She tore from my fingers my mother's wedding ring and her silver thimble. "Go away!" she exclaimed, "and never come to my house, again." Her reproaches fell so hot and heavy, that they left me no chance to answer. Bitter tears, such as the eyes never shed but once, were my only answer. I rose from my seat, but fell back again, sobbing. She did not speak to me; but the tears were running down her furrowed cheeks, and they scorched me like fire. She had always been so kind to me! _So_ kind! How I longed to throw myself at her feet, and tell her all the truth! But she had ordered me to go, and never to come there again. After a few minutes, I mustered strength, and started to obey her. With what feelings did I now close that little gate, which I used to open with such an eager hand in my childhood! It closed upon me with a sound I never heard before. Where could I go? I was afraid to return to my master's. I walked on recklessly, not caring where I went, or what would become of me. When I had gone four or five miles, fatigue compelled me to stop. I sat down on the stump of an old tree. The stars were shining through the boughs above me. How they mocked me, with their bright, calm light! The hours passed by, and as I sat there alone a chilliness and deadly sickness came over me. I sank on the ground. My mind was full of horrid thoughts. I prayed to die; but the prayer was not answered. At last, with great effort I roused myself, and walked some distance further, to the house of a woman who had been a friend of my mother. When I told her why I was there, she spoke soothingly to me; but I could not be comforted. I thought I could bear my shame if I could only be reconciled to my grandmother. I longed to open my heart to her. I thought if she could know the real state of the case, and all I had been bearing for years, she would perhaps judge me less harshly. My friend advised me to send for her. I did so; but days of agonizing suspense passed before she came. Had she utterly forsaken me? No. She came at last. I knelt before her, and told her the things that had poisoned my life; how long I had been persecuted; that I saw no way of escape; and in an hour of extremity I had become desperate. She listened in silence. I told her I would bear any thing and do any thing, if in time I had hopes of obtaining her forgiveness. I begged of her to pity me, for my dead mother's sake. And she did pity me. She did not say, "I forgive you;" but she looked at me lovingly, with her eyes full of tears. She laid her old hand gently on my head, and murmured, "Poor child! Poor child!" ----------CHAPTER 11--------- I returned to my good grandmother's house. She had an interview with Mr. Sands. When she asked him why he could not have left her one ewe lamb,--whether there were not plenty of slaves who did not care about character,--he made no answer, but he spoke kind and encouraging words. He promised to care for my child, and to buy me, be the conditions what they might. I had not seen Dr. Flint for five days. I had never seen him since I made the avowal to him. He talked of the disgrace I had brought on myself; how I had sinned against my master, and mortified my old grandmother. He intimated that if I had accepted his proposals, he, as a physician, could have saved me from exposure. He even condescended to pity me. Could he have offered wormwood more bitter? He, whose persecutions had been the cause of my sin! "Linda," said he, "though you have been criminal towards me, I feel for you, and I can pardon you if you obey my wishes. Tell me whether the fellow you wanted to marry is the father of your child. If you deceive me, you shall feel the fires of hell." I did not feel as proud as I had done. My strongest weapon with him was gone. I was lowered in my own estimation, and had resolved to bear his abuse in silence. But when he spoke contemptuously of the lover who had always treated me honorably; when I remembered that but for _him_ I might have been a virtuous, free, and happy wife, I lost my patience. "I have sinned against God and myself," I replied; "but not against you." He clinched his teeth, and muttered, "Curse you!" He came towards me, with ill-suppressed rage, and exclaimed, "You obstinate girl! I could grind your bones to powder! You have thrown yourself away on some worthless rascal. You are weak-minded, and have been easily persuaded by those who don't care a straw for you. The future will settle accounts between us. You are blinded now; but hereafter you will be convinced that your master was your best friend. My lenity towards you is a proof of it. I might have punished you in many ways. I might have whipped till you fell dead under the lash. But I wanted you to live; I would have bettered your condition. Others cannot do it. You are my slave. Your mistress, disgusted by your conduct, forbids you to return to the house; therefore I leave you here for the present; but I shall see you often. I will call to-morrow." He came with frowning brows, that showed a dissatisfied state of mind. After asking about my health, he inquired whether my board was paid, and who visited me. He then went on to say that he had neglected his duty; that as a physician there were certain things that he ought to have explained to me. Then followed talk such as would have made the most shameless blush. He ordered me to stand up before him. I obeyed. "I command you," said he, "to tell me whether the father of your child is white or black." I hesitated. "Answer me this instant!" he exclaimed. I did answer. He sprang upon me like a wolf, and grabbed my arm as if he would have broken it. "Do you love him?" said he, in a hissing tone. "I am thankful that I do not despise him," I replied. He raised his hand to strike me; but it fell again. I don't know what arrested the blow. He sat down, with lips tightly compressed. At last he spoke. "I came here," said he, "to make you a friendly proposition; but your ingratitude chafes me beyond endurance. You turn aside all my good intentions towards you. I don't know what it is that keeps me from killing you." Again he rose, as if he had a mind to strike me. But he resumed. "On one condition I will forgive your insolence and crime. You must henceforth have no communication of any kind with the father of your child. You must not ask any thing from him, or receive any thing from him. I will take care of you and your child. You had better promise this at once, and not wait till you are deserted by him. This is the last act of mercy I shall show towards you." I said something about being unwilling to have my child supported by a man who had cursed it and me also. He rejoined, that a woman who had sunk to my level had no right to expect any thing else. He asked, for the last time, would I accept his kindness? I answered that I would not. "Very well," said he; "then take the consequences of your wayward course. Never look to me for help. You are my slave, and shall always be my slave. I will never sell you, that you may depend upon." Hope died away in my heart as he closed the door after him. I had calculated that in his rage he would sell me to a slave-trader; and I knew the father of my child was on the watch to buy me. About this time my uncle Phillip was expected to return from a voyage. The day before his departure I had officiated as bridesmaid to a young friend. My heart was then ill at ease, but my smiling countenance did not betray it. Only a year had passed; but what fearful changes it had wrought! My heart had grown gray in misery. Lives that flash in sunshine, and lives that are born in tears, receive their hue from circumstances. None of us know what a year may bring forth. I felt no joy when they told me my uncle had come. He wanted to see me, though he knew what had happened. I shrank from him at first; but at last consented that he should come to my room. He received me as he always had done. O, how my heart smote me when I felt his tears on my burning cheeks! The words of my grandmother came to my mind,--"Perhaps your mother and father are taken from the evil days to come." My disappointed heart could now praise God that it was so. But why, thought I, did my relatives ever cherish hopes for me? What was there to save me from the usual fate of slave girls? Many more beautiful and more intelligent than I had experienced a similar fate, or a far worse one. How could they hope that I should escape? My uncle's stay was short, and I was not sorry for it. I was too ill in mind and body to enjoy my friends as I had done. For some weeks I was unable to leave my bed. I could not have any doctor but my master, and I would not have him sent for. At last, alarmed by my increasing illness, they sent for him. I was very weak and nervous; and as soon as he entered the room, I began to scream. They told him my state was very critical. He had no wish to hasten me out of the world, and he withdrew. When my babe was born, they said it was premature. It weighed only four pounds; but God let it live. I heard the doctor say I could not survive till morning. I had often prayed for death; but now I did not want to die, unless my child could die too. Many weeks passed before I was able to leave my bed. I was a mere wreck of my former self. For a year there was scarcely a day when I was free from chills and fever. My babe also was sickly. His little limbs were often racked with pain. Dr. Flint continued his visits, to look after my health; and he did not fail to remind me that my child was an addition to his stock of slaves. I felt too feeble to dispute with him, and listened to his remarks in silence. His visits were less frequent; but his busy spirit could not remain quiet. He employed my brother in his office; and he was made the medium of frequent notes and messages to me. William was a bright lad, and of much use to the doctor. He had learned to put up medicines, to leech, cup, and bleed. He had taught himself to read and spell. I was proud of my brother, and the old doctor suspected as much. One day, when I had not seen him for several weeks, I heard his steps approaching the door. I dreaded the encounter, and hid myself. He inquired for me, of course; but I was nowhere to be found. He went to his office, and despatched William with a note. The color mounted to my brother's face when he gave it to me; and he said, "Don't you hate me, Linda, for bringing you these things?" I told him I could not blame him; he was a slave, and obliged to obey his master's will. The note ordered me to come to his office. I went. He demanded to know where I was when he called. I told him I was at home. He flew into a passion, and said he knew better. Then he launched out upon his usual themes,--my crimes against him, and my ingratitude for his forbearance. The laws were laid down to me anew, and I was dismissed. I felt humiliated that my brother should stand by, and listen to such language as would be addressed only to a slave. Poor boy! He was powerless to defend me; but I saw the tears, which he vainly strove to keep back. The manifestation of feeling irritated the doctor. William could do nothing to please him. One morning he did not arrive at the office so early as usual; and that circumstance afforded his master an opportunity to vent his spleen. He was put in jail. The next day my brother sent a trader to the doctor, with a request to be sold. His master was greatly incensed at what he called his insolence. He said he had put him there, to reflect upon his bad conduct, and he certainly was not giving any evidence of repentance. For two days he harassed himself to find somebody to do his office work; but every thing went wrong without William. He was released, and ordered to take his old stand, with many threats, if he was not careful about his future behavior. As the months passed on, my boy improved in health. When he was a year old, they called him beautiful. The little vine was taking deep root in my existence, though its clinging fondness excited a mixture of love and pain. When I was most sorely oppressed I found a solace in his smiles. I loved to watch his infant slumbers; but always there was a dark cloud over my enjoyment. I could never forget that he was a slave. Sometimes I wished that he might die in infancy. God tried me. My darling became very ill. The bright eyes grew dull, and the little feet and hands were so icy cold that I thought death had already touched them. I had prayed for his death, but never so earnestly as I now prayed for his life; and my prayer was heard. Alas, what mockery it is for a slave mother to try to pray back her dying child to life! Death is better than slavery. It was a sad thought that I had no name to give my child. His father caressed him and treated him kindly, whenever he had a chance to see him. He was not unwilling that he should bear his name; but he had no legal claim to it; and if I had bestowed it upon him, my master would have regarded it as a new crime, a new piece of insolence, and would, perhaps, revenge it on the boy. O, the serpent of Slavery has many and poisonous fangs!

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 12 based on the provided context.

chapter 12|chapter 14

Word spreads of Nat Turner's slave rebellion in Virginia. Worried that the slaves may be planning a revolt, the slaveholders in Edenton hire poor whites to search everyone. Dozens of slaves--men, women and children--are whipped and tortured. Linda cleans her grandmother's house to get the searchers off her back. Mr. Litch, a neighboring slaveholder, leads the search of Aunt Martha's house. They ask her what she's doing with so many letters, and she says they're poetry from one of her white friends. The search team leaves after not finding anything incriminating, and you can imagine they're a little disappointed. This goes on for weeks. It doesn't manage to turn up any plots for rebellion--although if you're just looking at numbers of people tortured and jailed, it's a huge success.

----------CHAPTER 12--------- Not far from this time Nat Turner's insurrection broke out; and the news threw our town into great commotion. Strange that they should be alarmed, when their slaves were so "contented and happy"! But so it was. It was always the custom to have a muster every year. On that occasion every white man shouldered his musket. The citizens and the so-called country gentlemen wore military uniforms. The poor whites took their places in the ranks in every-day dress, some without shoes, some without hats. This grand occasion had already passed; and when the slaves were told there was to be another muster, they were surprised and rejoiced. Poor creatures! They thought it was going to be a holiday. I was informed of the true state of affairs, and imparted it to the few I could trust. Most gladly would I have proclaimed it to every slave; but I dared not. All could not be relied on. Mighty is the power of the torturing lash. By sunrise, people were pouring in from every quarter within twenty miles of the town. I knew the houses were to be searched; and I expected it would be done by country bullies and the poor whites. I knew nothing annoyed them so much as to see colored people living in comfort and respectability; so I made arrangements for them with especial care. I arranged every thing in my grandmother's house as neatly as possible. I put white quilts on the beds, and decorated some of the rooms with flowers. When all was arranged, I sat down at the window to watch. Far as my eye could reach, it rested on a motley crowd of soldiers. Drums and fifes were discoursing martial music. The men were divided into companies of sixteen, each headed by a captain. Orders were given, and the wild scouts rushed in every direction, wherever a colored face was to be found. It was a grand opportunity for the low whites, who had no negroes of their own to scourge. They exulted in such a chance to exercise a little brief authority, and show their subserviency to the slaveholders; not reflecting that the power which trampled on the colored people also kept themselves in poverty, ignorance, and moral degradation. Those who never witnessed such scenes can hardly believe what I know was inflicted at this time on innocent men, women, and children, against whom there was not the slightest ground for suspicion. Colored people and slaves who lived in remote parts of the town suffered in an especial manner. In some cases the searchers scattered powder and shot among their clothes, and then sent other parties to find them, and bring them forward as proof that they were plotting insurrection. Every where men, women, and children were whipped till the blood stood in puddles at their feet. Some received five hundred lashes; others were tied hands and feet, and tortured with a bucking paddle, which blisters the skin terribly. The dwellings of the colored people, unless they happened to be protected by some influential white person, who was nigh at hand, were robbed of clothing and every thing else the marauders thought worth carrying away. All day long these unfeeling wretches went round, like a troop of demons, terrifying and tormenting the helpless. At night, they formed themselves into patrol bands, and went wherever they chose among the colored people, acting out their brutal will. Many women hid themselves in woods and swamps, to keep out of their way. If any of the husbands or fathers told of these outrages, they were tied up to the public whipping post, and cruelly scourged for telling lies about white men. The consternation was universal. No two people that had the slightest tinge of color in their faces dared to be seen talking together. I entertained no positive fears about our household, because we were in the midst of white families who would protect us. We were ready to receive the soldiers whenever they came. It was not long before we heard the tramp of feet and the sound of voices. The door was rudely pushed open; and in they tumbled, like a pack of hungry wolves. They snatched at every thing within their reach. Every box, trunk, closet, and corner underwent a thorough examination. A box in one of the drawers containing some silver change was eagerly pounced upon. When I stepped forward to take it from them, one of the soldiers turned and said angrily, "What d'ye foller us fur? D'ye s'pose white folks is come to steal?" I replied, "You have come to search; but you have searched that box, and I will take it, if you please." At that moment I saw a white gentleman who was friendly to us; and I called to him, and asked him to have the goodness to come in and stay till the search was over. He readily complied. His entrance into the house brought in the captain of the company, whose business it was to guard the outside of the house, and see that none of the inmates left it. This officer was Mr. Litch, the wealthy slaveholder whom I mentioned, in the account of neighboring planters, as being notorious for his cruelty. He felt above soiling his hands with the search. He merely gave orders; and, if a bit of writing was discovered, it was carried to him by his ignorant followers, who were unable to read. My grandmother had a large trunk of bedding and table cloths. When that was opened, there was a great shout of surprise; and one exclaimed, "Where'd the damned niggers git all dis sheet an' table clarf?" My grandmother, emboldened by the presence of our white protector said, "You may be sure we didn't pilfer 'em from _your_ houses." "Look here, mammy," said a grim-looking fellow without any coat, "you seem to feel mighty gran' 'cause you got all them 'ere fixens. White folks oughter have 'em all." His remarks were interrupted by a chorus of voices shouting, "We's got 'em! We's got 'em! Dis 'ere yaller gal's got letters!" There was a general rush for the supposed letter, which, upon examination, proved to be some verses written to me by a friend. In packing away my things, I had overlooked them. When their captain informed them of their contents, they seemed much disappointed. He inquired of me who wrote them. I told him it was one of my friends. "Can you read them?" he asked. When I told him I could, he swore, and raved, and tore the paper into bits. "Bring me all your letters!" said he, in commanding tone. I told him I had none. "Don't be afraid," he continued, in an insinuating way. "Bring them all to me. Nobody shall do you any harm." Seeing I did not move to obey him, his pleasant tone changed to oaths and threats. "Who writes to you? half free niggers?" inquired he. I replied, "O, no; most of my letters are from white people. Some request me to burn them after they are read, and some I destroy without reading." An exclamation of surprise from some of the company put a stop to our conversation. Some silver spoons which ornamented an old-fashioned buffet had just been discovered. My grandmother was in the habit of preserving fruit for many ladies in the town, and of preparing suppers for parties; consequently she had many jars of preserves. The closet that contained these was next invaded, and the contents tasted. One of them, who was helping himself freely, tapped his neighbor on the shoulder, and said, "Wal done! Don't wonder de niggers want to kill all de white folks, when dey live on 'sarves" [meaning preserves]. I stretched out my hand to take the jar, saying, "You were not sent here to search for sweetmeats." "And what _were_ we sent for?" said the captain, bristling up to me. I evaded the question. The search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn us. They next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush and vine, with no better success. The captain called his men together, and, after a short consultation, the order to march was given. As they passed out of the gate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a malediction on the house. He said it ought to be burned to the ground, and each of its inmates receive thirty-nine lashes. We came out of this affair very fortunately; not losing any thing except some wearing apparel. Towards evening the turbulence increased. The soldiers, stimulated by drink, committed still greater cruelties. Shrieks and shouts continually rent the air. Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under the window curtain. I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored people, each white man, with his musket upraised, threatening instant death if they did not stop their shrieks. Among the prisoners was a respectable old colored minister. They had found a few parcels of shot in his house, which his wife had for years used to balance her scales. For this they were going to shoot him on Court House Green. What a spectacle was that for a civilized country! A rabble, staggering under intoxication, assuming to be the administrators of justice! The better class of the community exerted their influence to save the innocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded, by keeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated. At last the white citizens found that their own property was not safe from the lawless rabble they had summoned to protect them. They rallied the drunken swarm, drove them back into the country, and set a guard over the town. The next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored people that lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were committed with perfect impunity. Every day for a fortnight, if I looked out, I saw horsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles, and compelled by the lash to keep up with their speed, till they arrived at the jail yard. Those who had been whipped too unmercifully to walk were washed with brine, tossed into a cart, and carried to jail. One black man, who had not fortitude to endure scourging, promised to give information about the conspiracy. But it turned out that he knew nothing at all. He had not even heard the name of Nat Turner. The poor fellow had, however, made up a story, which augmented his own sufferings and those of the colored people. The day patrol continued for some weeks, and at sundown a night guard was substituted. Nothing at all was proved against the colored people, bond or free. The wrath of the slaveholders was somewhat appeased by the capture of Nat Turner. The imprisoned were released. The slaves were sent to their masters, and the free were permitted to return to their ravaged homes. Visiting was strictly forbidden on the plantations. The slaves begged the privilege of again meeting at their little church in the woods, with their burying ground around it. It was built by the colored people, and they had no higher happiness than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour out their hearts in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the church was demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a certain portion of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There, when every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction had been pronounced, the minister said, "Come down, now, my colored friends." They obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine, in commemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, "God is your Father, and all ye are brethren." ----------CHAPTER 14--------- I had not returned to my master's house since the birth of my child. The old man raved to have me thus removed from his immediate power; but his wife vowed, by all that was good and great, she would kill me if I came back; and he did not doubt her word. Sometimes he would stay away for a season. Then he would come and renew the old threadbare discourse about his forbearance and my ingratitude. He labored, most unnecessarily, to convince me that I had lowered myself. The venomous old reprobate had no need of descanting on that theme. I felt humiliated enough. My unconscious babe was the ever-present witness of my shame. I listened with silent contempt when he talked about my having forfeited _his_ good opinion; but I shed bitter tears that I was no longer worthy of being respected by the good and pure. Alas! slavery still held me in its poisonous grasp. There was no chance for me to be respectable. There was no prospect of being able to lead a better life. Sometimes, when my master found that I still refused to accept what he called his kind offers, he would threaten to sell my child. "Perhaps that will humble you," said he. Humble _me_! Was I not already in the dust? But his threat lacerated my heart. I knew the law gave him power to fulfil it; for slaveholders have been cunning enough to enact that "the child shall follow the condition of the _mother_," not of the _father_, thus taking care that licentiousness shall not interfere with avarice. This reflection made me clasp my innocent babe all the more firmly to my heart. Horrid visions passed through my mind when I thought of his liability to fall into the slave trader's hands. I wept over him, and said, "O my child! perhaps they will leave you in some cold cabin to die, and then throw you into a hole, as if you were a dog." When Dr. Flint learned that I was again to be a mother, he was exasperated beyond measure. He rushed from the house, and returned with a pair of shears. I had a fine head of hair; and he often railed about my pride of arranging it nicely. He cut every hair close to my head, storming and swearing all the time. I replied to some of his abuse, and he struck me. Some months before, he had pitched me down stairs in a fit of passion; and the injury I received was so serious that I was unable to turn myself in bed for many days. He then said, "Linda, I swear by God I will never raise my hand against you again;" but I knew that he would forget his promise. After he discovered my situation, he was like a restless spirit from the pit. He came every day; and I was subjected to such insults as no pen can describe. I would not describe them if I could; they were too low, too revolting. I tried to keep them from my grandmother's knowledge as much as I could. I knew she had enough to sadden her life, without having my troubles to bear. When she saw the doctor treat me with violence, and heard him utter oaths terrible enough to palsy a man's tongue, she could not always hold her peace. It was natural and motherlike that she should try to defend me; but it only made matters worse. When they told me my new-born babe was a girl, my heart was heavier than it had ever been before. Slavery is terrible for men; but it is far more terrible for women. Superadded to the burden common to all, _they_ have wrongs, and sufferings, and mortifications peculiarly their own. Dr. Flint had sworn that he would make me suffer, to my last day, for this new crime against _him_, as he called it; and as long as he had me in his power he kept his word. On the fourth day after the birth of my babe, he entered my room suddenly, and commanded me to rise and bring my baby to him. The nurse who took care of me had gone out of the room to prepare some nourishment, and I was alone. There was no alternative. I rose, took up my babe, and crossed the room to where he sat. "Now stand there," said he, "till I tell you to go back!" My child bore a strong resemblance to her father, and to the deceased Mrs. Sands, her grandmother. He noticed this; and while I stood before him, trembling with weakness, he heaped upon me and my little one every vile epithet he could think of. Even the grandmother in her grave did not escape his curses. In the midst of his vituperations I fainted at his feet. This recalled him to his senses. He took the baby from my arms, laid it on the bed, dashed cold water in my face, took me up, and shook me violently, to restore my consciousness before any one entered the room. Just then my grandmother came in, and he hurried out of the house. I suffered in consequence of this treatment; but I begged my friends to let me die, rather than send for the doctor. There was nothing I dreaded so much as his presence. My life was spared; and I was glad for the sake of my little ones. Had it not been for these ties to life, I should have been glad to be released by death, though I had lived only nineteen years. Always it gave me a pang that my children had no lawful claim to a name. Their father offered his; but, if I had wished to accept the offer, I dared not while my master lived. Moreover, I knew it would not be accepted at their baptism. A Christian name they were at least entitled to; and we resolved to call my boy for our dear good Benjamin, who had gone far away from us. My grandmother belonged to the church; and she was very desirous of having the children christened. I knew Dr. Flint would forbid it, and I did not venture to attempt it. But chance favored me. He was called to visit a patient out of town, and was obliged to be absent during Sunday. "Now is the time," said my grandmother; "we will take the children to church, and have them christened." When I entered the church, recollections of my mother came over me, and I felt subdued in spirit. There she had presented me for baptism, without any reason to feel ashamed. She had been married, and had such legal rights as slavery allows to a slave. The vows had at least been sacred to _her_, and she had never violated them. I was glad she was not alive, to know under what different circumstances her grandchildren were presented for baptism. Why had my lot been so different from my mother's? _Her_ master had died when she was a child; and she remained with her mistress till she married. She was never in the power of any master; and thus she escaped one class of the evils that generally fall upon slaves. When my baby was about to be christened, the former mistress of my father stepped up to me, and proposed to give it her Christian name. To this I added the surname of my father, who had himself no legal right to it; for my grandfather on the paternal side was a white gentleman. What tangled skeins are the genealogies of slavery! I loved my father; but it mortified me to be obliged to bestow his name on my children. When we left the church, my father's old mistress invited me to go home with her. She clasped a gold chain round my baby's neck. I thanked her for this kindness; but I did not like the emblem. I wanted no chain to be fastened on my daughter, not even if its links were of gold. How earnestly I prayed that she might never feel the weight of slavery's chain, whose iron entereth into the soul!

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 17 based on the provided context.

chapter 15|chapter 17

Linda is out of there. She escapes the plantation in the middle of the night. First, she heads off to tell her friend Sally that she's run away. Then, she sneaks away to the house of a friend who will hide her. When Mr. Flint realizes Linda has run away, he searches Aunt Martha's house. Dr. Flint gets involved by placing a runaway slave ad for her.

----------CHAPTER 15--------- My children grew finely; and Dr. Flint would often say to me, with an exulting smile. "These brats will bring me a handsome sum of money one of these days." I thought to myself that, God being my helper, they should never pass into his hands. It seemed to me I would rather see them killed than have them given up to his power. The money for the freedom of myself and my children could be obtained; but I derived no advantage from that circumstance. Dr. Flint loved money, but he loved power more. After much discussion, my friends resolved on making another trial. There was a slaveholder about to leave for Texas, and he was commissioned to buy me. He was to begin with nine hundred dollars, and go up to twelve. My master refused his offers. "Sir," said he, "she don't belong to me. She is my daughter's property, and I have no right to sell her. I mistrust that you come from her paramour. If so, you may tell him that he cannot buy her for any money; neither can he buy her children." The doctor came to see me the next day, and my heart beat quicker as he entered. I never had seen the old man tread with so majestic a step. He seated himself and looked at me with withering scorn. My children had learned to be afraid of him. The little one would shut her eyes and hide her face on my shoulder whenever she saw him; and Benny, who was now nearly five years old, often inquired, "What makes that bad man come here so many times? Does he want to hurt us?" I would clasp the dear boy in my arms, trusting that he would be free before he was old enough to solve the problem. And now, as the doctor sat there so grim and silent, the child left his play and came and nestled up by me. At last my tormentor spoke. "So you are left in disgust, are you?" said he. "It is no more than I expected. You remember I told you years ago that you would be treated so. So he is tired of you? Ha! ha! ha! The virtuous madam don't like to hear about it, does she? Ha! ha! ha!" There was a sting in his calling me virtuous madam. I no longer had the power of answering him as I had formerly done. He continued: "So it seems you are trying to get up another intrigue. Your new paramour came to me, and offered to buy you; but you may be assured you will not succeed. You are mine; and you shall be mine for life. There lives no human being that can take you out of slavery. I would have done it; but you rejected my kind offer." I told him I did not wish to get up any intrigue; that I had never seen the man who offered to buy me. "Do you tell me I lie?" exclaimed he, dragging me from my chair. "Will you say again that you never saw that man?" I answered, "I do say so." He clinched my arm with a volley of oaths. Ben began to scream, and I told him to go to his grandmother. "Don't you stir a step, you little wretch!" said he. The child drew nearer to me, and put his arms round me, as if he wanted to protect me. This was too much for my enraged master. He caught him up and hurled him across the room. I thought he was dead, and rushed towards him to take him up. "Not yet!" exclaimed the doctor. "Let him lie there till he comes to." "Let me go! Let me go!" I screamed, "or I will raise the whole house." I struggled and got away; but he clinched me again. Somebody opened the door, and he released me. I picked up my insensible child, and when I turned my tormentor was gone. Anxiously, I bent over the little form, so pale and still; and when the brown eyes at last opened, I don't know whether I was very happy. All the doctor's former persecutions were renewed. He came morning, noon, and night. No jealous lover ever watched a rival more closely than he watched me and the unknown slaveholder, with whom he accused me of wishing to get up an intrigue. When my grandmother was out of the way he searched every room to find him. In one of his visits, he happened to find a young girl, whom he had sold to a trader a few days previous. His statement was, that he sold her because she had been too familiar with the overseer. She had had a bitter life with him, and was glad to be sold. She had no mother, and no near ties. She had been torn from all her family years before. A few friends had entered into bonds for her safety, if the trader would allow her to spend with them the time that intervened between her sale and the gathering up of his human stock. Such a favor was rarely granted. It saved the trader the expense of board and jail fees, and though the amount was small, it was a weighty consideration in a slavetrader's mind. Dr. Flint always had an aversion to meeting slaves after he had sold them. He ordered Rose out of the house; but he was no longer her master, and she took no notice of him. For once the crushed Rose was the conqueror. His gray eyes flashed angrily upon her; but that was the extent of his power. "How came this girl here?" he exclaimed. "What right had you to allow it, when you knew I had sold her?" I answered, "This is my grandmother's house, and Rose came to see her. I have no right to turn any body out of doors, that comes here for honest purposes." He gave me the blow that would have fallen upon Rose if she had still been his slave. My grandmother's attention had been attracted by loud voices, and she entered in time to see a second blow dealt. She was not a woman to let such an outrage, in her own house, go unrebuked. The doctor undertook to explain that I had been insolent. Her indignant feelings rose higher and higher, and finally boiled over in words. "Get out of my house!" she exclaimed. "Go home, and take care of your wife and children, and you will have enough to do, without watching my family." He threw the birth of my children in her face, and accused her of sanctioning the life I was leading. She told him I was living with her by compulsion of his wife; that he needn't accuse her, for he was the one to blame; he was the one who had caused all the trouble. She grew more and more excited as she went on. "I tell you what, Dr. Flint," said she, "you ain't got many more years to live, and you'd better be saying your prayers. It will take 'em all, and more too, to wash the dirt off your soul." "Do you know whom you are talking to?" he exclaimed. She replied, "Yes, I know very well who I am talking to." He left the house in a great rage. I looked at my grandmother. Our eyes met. Their angry expression had passed away, but she looked sorrowful and weary--weary of incessant strife. I wondered that it did not lessen her love for me; but if it did she never showed it. She was always kind, always ready to sympathize with my troubles. There might have been peace and contentment in that humble home if it had not been for the demon Slavery. The winter passed undisturbed by the doctor. The beautiful spring came; and when Nature resumes her loveliness, the human soul is apt to revive also. My drooping hopes came to life again with the flowers. I was dreaming of freedom again; more for my children's sake than my own. I planned and I planned. Obstacles hit against plans. There seemed no way of overcoming them; and yet I hoped. Back came the wily doctor. I was not at home when he called. A friend had invited me to a small party, and to gratify her I went. To my great consternation, a messenger came in haste to say that Dr. Flint was at my grandmother's, and insisted on seeing me. They did not tell him where I was, or he would have come and raised a disturbance in my friend's house. They sent me a dark wrapper, I threw it on and hurried home. My speed did not save me; the doctor had gone away in anger. I dreaded the morning, but I could not delay it; it came, warm and bright. At an early hour the doctor came and asked me where I had been last night. I told him. He did not believe me, and sent to my friend's house to ascertain the facts. He came in the afternoon to assure me he was satisfied that I had spoken the truth. He seemed to be in a facetious mood, and I expected some jeers were coming. "I suppose you need some recreation," said he, "but I am surprised at your being there, among those negroes. It was not the place for _you_. Are you _allowed_ to visit such people?" I understood this covert fling at the white gentleman who was my friend; but I merely replied, "I went to visit my friends, and any company they keep is good enough for me." He went on to say, "I have seen very little of you of late, but my interest in you is unchanged. When I said I would have no more mercy on you I was rash. I recall my words. Linda, you desire freedom for yourself and your children, and you can obtain it only through me. If you agree to what I am about to propose, you and they shall be free. There must be no communication of any kind between you and their father. I will procure a cottage, where you and the children can live together. Your labor shall be light, such as sewing for my family. Think what is offered you, Linda--a home and freedom! Let the past be forgotten. If I have been harsh with you at times, your willfulness drove me to it. You know I exact obedience from my own children, and I consider you as yet a child." He paused for an answer, but I remained silent. "Why don't you speak?" said he. "What more do you wait for?" "Nothing, sir." "Then you accept my offer?" "No, sir." His anger was ready to break loose; but he succeeded in curbing it, and replied, "You have answered without thought. But I must let you know there are two sides to my proposition; if you reject the bright side, you will be obliged to take the dark one. You must either accept my offer, or you and your children shall be sent to your young master's plantation, there to remain till your young mistress is married; and your children shall fare like the rest of the negro children. I give you a week to consider it." He was shrewd; but I knew he was not to be trusted. I told him I was ready to give my answer now. "I will not receive it now," he replied. "You act too much from impulse. Remember that you and your children can be free a week from to-day if you choose." On what a monstrous chance hung the destiny of my children! I knew that my master's offer was a snare, and that if I entered it escape would be impossible. As for his promise, I knew him so well that I was sure if he gave me free papers, they would be so managed as to have no legal value. The alternative was inevitable. I resolved to go to the plantation. But then I thought how completely I should be in his power, and the prospect was appalling. Even if I should kneel before him, and implore him to spare me, for the sake of my children, I knew he would spurn me with his foot, and my weakness would be his triumph. Before the week expired, I heard that young Mr. Flint was about to be married to a lady of his own stamp. I foresaw the position I should occupy in his establishment. I had once been sent to the plantation for punishment, and fear of the son had induced the father to recall me very soon. My mind was made up; I was resolved that I would foil my master and save my children, or I would perish in the attempt. I kept my plans to myself; I knew that friends would try to dissuade me from them, and I would not wound their feelings by rejecting their advice. On the decisive day the doctor came, and said he hoped I had made a wise choice. "I am ready to go to the plantation, sir," I replied. "Have you thought how important your decision is to your children?" said he. I told him I had. "Very well. Go to the plantation, and my curse go with you," he replied. "Your boy shall be put to work, and he shall soon be sold; and your girl shall be raised for the purpose of selling well. Go your own ways!" He left the room with curses, not to be repeated. As I stood rooted to the spot, my grandmother came and said, "Linda, child, what did you tell him?" I answered that I was going to the plantation. "_Must_ you go?" said she. "Can't something be done to stop it?" I told her it was useless to try; but she begged me not to give up. She said she would go to the doctor, and remind him how long and how faithfully she had served in the family, and how she had taken her own baby from her breast to nourish his wife. She would tell him I had been out of the family so long they would not miss me; that she would pay them for my time, and the money would procure a woman who had more strength for the situation than I had. I begged her not to go; but she persisted in saying, "He will listen to _me_, Linda." She went, and was treated as I expected. He coolly listened to what she said, but denied her request. He told her that what he did was for my good, that my feelings were entirely above my situation, and that on the plantation I would receive treatment that was suitable to my behavior. My grandmother was much cast down. I had my secret hopes; but I must fight my battle alone. I had a woman's pride, and a mother's love for my children; and I resolved that out of the darkness of this hour a brighter dawn should rise for them. My master had power and law on his side; I had a determined will. There is might in each. ----------CHAPTER 17--------- Mr. Flint was hard pushed for house servants, and rather than lose me he had restrained his malice. I did my work faithfully, though not, of course, with a willing mind. They were evidently afraid I should leave them. Mr. Flint wished that I should sleep in the great house instead of the servants' quarters. His wife agreed to the proposition, but said I mustn't bring my bed into the house, because it would scatter feathers on her carpet. I knew when I went there that they would never think of such a thing as furnishing a bed of any kind for me and my little ones. I therefore carried my own bed, and now I was forbidden to use it. I did as I was ordered. But now that I was certain my children were to be put in their power, in order to give them a stronger hold on me, I resolved to leave them that night. I remembered the grief this step would bring upon my dear old grandmother, and nothing less than the freedom of my children would have induced me to disregard her advice. I went about my evening work with trembling steps. Mr. Flint twice called from his chamber door to inquire why the house was not locked up. I replied that I had not done my work. "You have had time enough to do it," said he. "Take care how you answer me!" I shut all the windows, locked all the doors, and went up to the third story, to wait till midnight. How long those hours seemed, and how fervently I prayed that God would not forsake me in this hour of utmost need! I was about to risk every thing on the throw of a die; and if I failed, O what would become of me and my poor children? They would be made to suffer for my fault. At half past twelve I stole softly down stairs. I stopped on the second floor, thinking I heard a noise. I felt my way down into the parlor, and looked out of the window. The night was so intensely dark that I could see nothing. I raised the window very softly and jumped out. Large drops of rain were falling, and the darkness bewildered me. I dropped on my knees, and breathed a short prayer to God for guidance and protection. I groped my way to the road, and rushed towards the town with almost lightning speed. I arrived at my grandmother's house, but dared not see her. She would say, "Linda, you are killing me;" and I knew that would unnerve me. I tapped softly at the window of a room, occupied by a woman, who had lived in the house several years. I knew she was a faithful friend, and could be trusted with my secret. I tapped several times before she heard me. At last she raised the window, and I whispered, "Sally, I have run away. Let me in, quick." She opened the door softly, and said in low tones, "For God's sake, don't. Your grandmother is trying to buy you and de chillern. Mr. Sands was here last week. He tole her he was going away on business, but he wanted her to go ahead about buying you and de chillern, and he would help her all he could. Don't run away, Linda. Your grandmother is all bowed down wid trouble now." I replied, "Sally, they are going to carry my children to the plantation to-morrow; and they will never sell them to any body so long as they have me in their power. Now, would you advise me to go back?" "No, chile, no," answered she. "When dey finds you is gone, dey won't want de plague ob de chillern; but where is you going to hide? Dey knows ebery inch ob dis house." I told her I had a hiding-place, and that was all it was best for her to know. I asked her to go into my room as soon as it was light, and take all my clothes out of my trunk, and pack them in hers; for I knew Mr. Flint and the constable would be there early to search my room. I feared the sight of my children would be too much for my full heart; but I could not go into the uncertain future without one last look. I bent over the bed where lay my little Benny and baby Ellen. Poor little ones! fatherless and motherless! Memories of their father came over me. He wanted to be kind to them; but they were not all to him, as they were to my womanly heart. I knelt and prayed for the innocent little sleepers. I kissed them lightly, and turned away. As I was about to open the street door, Sally laid her hand on my shoulder, and said, "Linda, is you gwine all alone? Let me call your uncle." "No, Sally," I replied, "I want no one to be brought into trouble on my account." I went forth into the darkness and rain. I ran on till I came to the house of the friend who was to conceal me. Early the next morning Mr. Flint was at my grandmother's inquiring for me. She told him she had not seen me, and supposed I was at the plantation. He watched her face narrowly, and said, "Don't you know any thing about her running off?" She assured him that she did not. He went on to say, "Last night she ran off without the least provocation. We had treated her very kindly. My wife liked her. She will soon be found and brought back. Are her children with you?" When told that they were, he said, "I am very glad to hear that. If they are here, she cannot be far off. If I find out that any of my niggers have had any thing to do with this damned business, I'll give 'em five hundred lashes." As he started to go to his father's, he turned round and added, persuasively, "Let her be brought back, and she shall have her children to live with her." The tidings made the old doctor rave and storm at a furious rate. It was a busy day for them. My grandmother's house was searched from top to bottom. As my trunk was empty, they concluded I had taken my clothes with me. Before ten o'clock every vessel northward bound was thoroughly examined, and the law against harboring fugitives was read to all on board. At night a watch was set over the town. Knowing how distressed my grandmother would be, I wanted to send her a message; but it could not be done. Every one who went in or out of her house was closely watched. The doctor said he would take my children, unless she became responsible for them; which of course she willingly did. The next day was spent in searching. Before night, the following advertisement was posted at every corner, and in every public place for miles round:-- $300 REWARD! Ran away from the subscriber, an intelligent, bright, mulatto girl, named Linda, 21 years of age. Five feet four inches high. Dark eyes, and black hair inclined to curl; but it can be made straight. Has a decayed spot on a front tooth. She can read and write, and in all probability will try to get to the Free States. All persons are forbidden, under penalty of law, to harbor or employ said slave. $150 will be given to whoever takes her in the state, and $300 if taken out of the state and delivered to me, or lodged in jail. Dr. Flint.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 20, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 19|chapter 20|chapter 21

Trying a new tactic, Dr. Flint has Uncle Phillip arrested and jailed. Bet he's sorry he came back South now. Even after Phillip is eventually released, Dr. Flint stakes out Aunt Martha's house. Time for a new hiding place. Linda dresses up in a sailor's uniform and leaves Betty's house. A guy named Peter rows her out to the really ominously named Snaky Swamp, where Linda hides out for the night. The swamp, as you might suspect, is full of snakes. The next morning, only slightly traumatized, Linda heads to her new hiding spot.

----------CHAPTER 19--------- The Doctor came back from New York, of course without accomplishing his purpose. He had expended considerable money, and was rather disheartened. My brother and the children had now been in jail two months, and that also was some expense. My friends thought it was a favorable time to work on his discouraged feelings. Mr. Sands sent a speculator to offer him nine hundred dollars for my brother William, and eight hundred for the two children. These were high prices, as slaves were then selling; but the offer was rejected. If it had been merely a question of money, the doctor would have sold any boy of Benny's age for two hundred dollars; but he could not bear to give up the power of revenge. But he was hard pressed for money, and he revolved the matter in his mind. He knew that if he could keep Ellen till she was fifteen, he could sell her for a high price; but I presume he reflected that she might die, or might be stolen away. At all events, he came to the conclusion that he had better accept the slave-trader's offer. Meeting him in the street, he inquired when he would leave town. "To-day, at ten o'clock," he replied. "Ah, do you go so soon?" said the doctor. "I have been reflecting upon your proposition, and I have concluded to let you have the three negroes if you will say nineteen hundred dollars." After some parley, the trader agreed to his terms. He wanted the bill of sale drawn up and signed immediately, as he had a great deal to attend to during the short time he remained in town. The doctor went to the jail and told William he would take him back into his service if he would promise to behave himself but he replied that he would rather be sold. "And you _shall_ be sold, you ungrateful rascal!" exclaimed the doctor. In less than an hour the money was paid, the papers were signed, sealed, and delivered, and my brother and children were in the hands of the trader. It was a hurried transaction; and after it was over, the doctor's characteristic caution returned. He went back to the speculator, and said, "Sir, I have come to lay you under obligations of a thousand dollars not to sell any of those negroes in this state." "You come too late," replied the trader; "our bargain is closed." He had, in fact, already sold them to Mr. Sands, but he did not mention it. The doctor required him to put irons on "that rascal, Bill," and to pass through the back streets when he took his gang out of town. The trader was privately instructed to concede to his wishes. My good old aunt went to the jail to bid the children good by, supposing them to be the speculator's property, and that she should never see them again. As she held Benny in her lap, he said, "Aunt Nancy, I want to show you something." He led her to the door and showed her a long row of marks, saying, "Uncle Will taught me to count. I have made a mark for every day I have been here, and it is sixty days. It is a long time; and the speculator is going to take me and Ellen away. He's a bad man. It's wrong for him to take grandmother's children. I want to go to my mother." My grandmother was told that the children would be restored to her, but she was requested to act as if they were really to be sent away. Accordingly, she made up a bundle of clothes and went to the jail. When she arrived, she found William handcuffed among the gang, and the children in the trader's cart. The scene seemed too much like reality. She was afraid there might have been some deception or mistake. She fainted, and was carried home. When the wagon stopped at the hotel, several gentlemen came out and proposed to purchase William, but the trader refused their offers, without stating that he was already sold. And now came the trying hour for that drove of human beings, driven away like cattle, to be sold they knew not where. Husbands were torn from wives, parents from children, never to look upon each other again this side the grave. There was wringing of hands and cries of despair. Dr. Flint had the supreme satisfaction of seeing the wagon leave town, and Mrs. Flint had the gratification of supposing that my children were going "as far as wind and water would carry them." According to agreement, my uncle followed the wagon some miles, until they came to an old farm house. There the trader took the irons from William, and as he did so, he said, "You are a damned clever fellow. I should like to own you myself. Them gentlemen that wanted to buy you said you was a bright, honest chap, and I must git you a good home. I guess your old master will swear to-morrow, and call himself an old fool for selling the children. I reckon he'll never git their mammy back again. I expect she's made tracks for the north. Good by, old boy. Remember, I have done you a good turn. You must thank me by coaxing all the pretty gals to go with me next fall. That's going to be my last trip. This trading in niggers is a bad business for a fellow that's got any heart. Move on, you fellows!" And the gang went on, God alone knows where. Much as I despise and detest the class of slave-traders, whom I regard as the vilest wretches on earth, I must do this man the justice to say that he seemed to have some feeling. He took a fancy to William in the jail, and wanted to buy him. When he heard the story of my children, he was willing to aid them in getting out of Dr. Flint's power, even without charging the customary fee. My uncle procured a wagon and carried William and the children back to town. Great was the joy in my grandmother's house! The curtains were closed, and the candles lighted. The happy grandmother cuddled the little ones to her bosom. They hugged her, and kissed her, and clapped their hands, and shouted. She knelt down and poured forth one of her heartfelt prayers of thanksgiving to God. The father was present for a while; and though such a "parental relation" as existed between him and my children takes slight hold on the hearts or consciences of slaveholders, it must be that he experienced some moments of pure joy in witnessing the happiness he had imparted. I had no share in the rejoicings of that evening. The events of the day had not come to my knowledge. And now I will tell you something that happened to me; though you will, perhaps, think it illustrates the superstition of slaves. I sat in my usual place on the floor near the window, where I could hear much that was said in the street without being seen. The family had retired for the night, and all was still. I sat there thinking of my children, when I heard a low strain of music. A band of serenaders were under the window, playing "Home, sweet home." I listened till the sounds did not seem like music, but like the moaning of children. It seemed as if my heart would burst. I rose from my sitting posture, and knelt. A streak of moonlight was on the floor before me, and in the midst of it appeared the forms of my two children. They vanished; but I had seen them distinctly. Some will call it a dream, others a vision. I know not how to account for it, but it made a strong impression on my mind, and I felt certain something had happened to my little ones. I had not seen Betty since morning. Now I heard her softly turning the key. As soon as she entered, I clung to her, and begged her to let me know whether my children were dead, or whether they were sold; for I had seen their spirits in my room, and I was sure something had happened to them. "Lor, chile," said she, putting her arms round me, "you's got de high-sterics. I'll sleep wid you to-night, 'cause you'll make a noise, and ruin missis. Something has stirred you up mightily. When you is done cryin, I'll talk wid you. De chillern is well, and mighty happy. I seed 'em myself. Does dat satisfy you? Dar, chile, be still! Somebody vill hear you." I tried to obey her. She lay down, and was soon sound asleep; but no sleep would come to my eyelids. At dawn, Betty was up and off to the kitchen. The hours passed on, and the vision of the night kept constantly recurring to my thoughts. After a while I heard the voices of two women in the entry. In one of them I recognized the housemaid. The other said to her, "Did you know Linda Brent's children was sold to the speculator yesterday. They say ole massa Flint was mighty glad to see 'em drove out of town; but they say they've come back agin. I 'spect it's all their daddy's doings. They say he's bought William too. Lor! how it will take hold of ole massa Flint! I'm going roun' to aunt Marthy's to see 'bout it." I bit my lips till the blood came to keep from crying out. Were my children with their grandmother, or had the speculator carried them off? The suspense was dreadful. Would Betty _never_ come, and tell me the truth about it? At last she came, and I eagerly repeated what I had overheard. Her face was one broad, bright smile. "Lor, you foolish ting!" said she. "I'se gwine to tell you all 'bout it. De gals is eating thar breakfast, and missus tole me to let her tell you; but, poor creeter! t'aint right to keep you waitin', and I'se gwine to tell you. Brudder, chillern, all is bought by de daddy! I'se laugh more dan nuff, tinking 'bout ole massa Flint. Lor, how he _vill_ swar! He's got ketched dis time, any how; but I must be getting out o' dis, or dem gals vill come and ketch _me_." Betty went off laughing; and I said to myself, "Can it be true that my children are free? I have not suffered for them in vain. Thank God!" Great surprise was expressed when it was known that my children had returned to their grandmother's. The news spread through the town, and many a kind word was bestowed on the little ones. Dr. Flint went to my grandmother's to ascertain who was the owner of my children, and she informed him. "I expected as much," said he. "I am glad to hear it. I have had news from Linda lately, and I shall soon have her. You need never expect to see _her_ free. She shall be my slave as long as I live, and when I am dead she shall be the slave of my children. If I ever find out that you or Phillip had anything to do with her running off I'll kill him. And if I meet William in the street, and he presumes to look at me, I'll flog him within an inch of his life. Keep those brats out of my sight!" As he turned to leave, my grandmother said something to remind him of his own doings. He looked back upon her, as if he would have been glad to strike her to the ground. I had my season of joy and thanksgiving. It was the first time since my childhood that I had experienced any real happiness. I heard of the old doctor's threats, but they no longer had the same power to trouble me. The darkest cloud that hung over my life had rolled away. Whatever slavery might do to me, it could not shackle my children. If I fell a sacrifice, my little ones were saved. It was well for me that my simple heart believed all that had been promised for their welfare. It is always better to trust than to doubt. ----------CHAPTER 20--------- The doctor, more exasperated than ever, again tried to revenge himself on my relatives. He arrested uncle Phillip on the charge of having aided my flight. He was carried before a court, and swore truly that he knew nothing of my intention to escape, and that he had not seen me since I left my master's plantation. The doctor then demanded that he should give bail for five hundred dollars that he would have nothing to do with me. Several gentlemen offered to be security for him; but Mr. Sands told him he had better go back to jail, and he would see that he came out without giving bail. The news of his arrest was carried to my grandmother, who conveyed it to Betty. In the kindness of her heart, she again stowed me away under the floor; and as she walked back and forth, in the performance of her culinary duties, she talked apparently to herself, but with the intention that I should hear what was going on. I hoped that my uncle's imprisonment would last but few days; still I was anxious. I thought it likely Dr. Flint would do his utmost to taunt and insult him, and I was afraid my uncle might lose control of himself, and retort in some way that would be construed into a punishable offence; and I was well aware that in court his word would not be taken against any white man's. The search for me was renewed. Something had excited suspicions that I was in the vicinity. They searched the house I was in. I heard their steps and their voices. At night, when all were asleep, Betty came to release me from my place of confinement. The fright I had undergone, the constrained posture, and the dampness of the ground, made me ill for several days. My uncle was soon after taken out of prison; but the movements of all my relatives, and of all our friends, were very closely watched. We all saw that I could not remain where I was much longer. I had already staid longer than was intended, and I knew my presence must be a source of perpetual anxiety to my kind benefactress. During this time, my friends had laid many plans for my escape, but the extreme vigilance of my persecutors made it impossible to carry them into effect. One morning I was much startled by hearing somebody trying to get into my room. Several keys were tried, but none fitted. I instantly conjectured it was one of the housemaids; and I concluded she must either have heard some noise in the room, or have noticed the entrance of Betty. When my friend came, at her usual time, I told her what had happened. "I knows who it was," said she. "Tend upon it, 'twas dat Jenny. Dat nigger allers got de debble in her." I suggested that she might have seen or heard something that excited her curiosity. "Tut! tut! chile!" exclaimed Betty, "she ain't seen notin', nor hearn notin'. She only 'spects something. Dat's all. She wants to fine out who hab cut and make my gownd. But she won't nebber know. Dat's sartin. I'll git missis to fix her." I reflected a moment, and said, "Betty, I must leave here to-night." "Do as you tink best, poor chile," she replied. "I'se mighty 'fraid dat 'ere nigger vill pop on you some time." She reported the incident to her mistress, and received orders to keep Jenny busy in the kitchen till she could see my uncle Phillip. He told her he would send a friend for me that very evening. She told him she hoped I was going to the north, for it was very dangerous for me to remain any where in the vicinity. Alas, it was not an easy thing, for one in my situation, to go to the north. In order to leave the coast quite clear for me, she went into the country to spend the day with her brother, and took Jenny with her. She was afraid to come and bid me good by, but she left a kind message with Betty. I heard her carriage roll from the door, and I never again saw her who had so generously befriended the poor, trembling fugitive! Though she was a slaveholder, to this day my heart blesses her! I had not the slightest idea where I was going. Betty brought me a suit of sailor's clothes,--jacket, trowsers, and tarpaulin hat. She gave me a small bundle, saying I might need it where I was going. In cheery tones, she exclaimed, "I'se _so_ glad you is gwine to free parts! Don't forget ole Betty. P'raps I'll come 'long by and by." I tried to tell her how grateful I felt for all her kindness. But she interrupted me. "I don't want no tanks, honey. I'se glad I could help you, and I hope de good Lord vill open de path for you. I'se gwine wid you to de lower gate. Put your hands in your pockets, and walk ricketty, like de sailors." I performed to her satisfaction. At the gate I found Peter, a young colored man, waiting for me. I had known him for years. He had been an apprentice to my father, and had always borne a good character. I was not afraid to trust to him. Betty bade me a hurried good by, and we walked off. "Take courage, Linda," said my friend Peter. "I've got a dagger, and no man shall take you from me, unless he passes over my dead body." It was a long time since I had taken a walk out of doors, and the fresh air revived me. It was also pleasant to hear a human voice speaking to me above a whisper. I passed several people whom I knew, but they did not recognize me in my disguise. I prayed internally that, for Peter's sake, as well as my own, nothing might occur to bring out his dagger. We walked on till we came to the wharf. My aunt Nancy's husband was a seafaring man, and it had been deemed necessary to let him into our secret. He took me into his boat, rowed out to a vessel not far distant, and hoisted me on board. We three were the only occupants of the vessel. I now ventured to ask what they proposed to do with me. They said I was to remain on board till near dawn, and then they would hide me in Snaky Swamp, till my uncle Phillip had prepared a place of concealment for me. If the vessel had been bound north, it would have been of no avail to me, for it would certainly have been searched. About four o'clock, we were again seated in the boat, and rowed three miles to the swamp. My fear of snakes had been increased by the venomous bite I had received, and I dreaded to enter this hiding place. But I was in no situation to choose, and I gratefully accepted the best that my poor, persecuted friends could do for me. Peter landed first, and with a large knife cut a path through bamboos and briers of all descriptions. He came back, took me in his arms, and carried me to a seat made among the bamboos. Before we reached it, we were covered with hundreds of mosquitos. In an hour's time they had so poisoned my flesh that I was a pitiful sight to behold. As the light increased, I saw snake after snake crawling round us. I had been accustomed to the sight of snakes all my life, but these were larger than any I had ever seen. To this day I shudder when I remember that morning. As evening approached, the number of snakes increased so much that we were continually obliged to thrash them with sticks to keep them from crawling over us. The bamboos were so high and so thick that it was impossible to see beyond a very short distance. Just before it became dark we procured a seat nearer to the entrance of the swamp, being fearful of losing our way back to the boat. It was not long before we heard the paddle of oars, and the low whistle, which had been agreed upon as a signal. We made haste to enter the boat, and were rowed back to the vessel. I passed a wretched night; for the heat of the swamp, the mosquitos, and the constant terror of snakes, had brought on a burning fever. I had just dropped asleep, when they came and told me it was time to go back to that horrid swamp. I could scarcely summon courage to rise. But even those large, venomous snakes were less dreadful to my imagination than the white men in that community called civilized. This time Peter took a quantity of tobacco to burn, to keep off the mosquitos. It produced the desired effect on them, but gave me nausea and severe headache. At dark we returned to the vessel. I had been so sick during the day, that Peter declared I should go home that night, if the devil himself was on patrol. They told me a place of concealment had been provided for me at my grandmother's. I could not imagine how it was possible to hide me in her house, every nook and corner of which was known to the Flint family. They told me to wait and see. We were rowed ashore, and went boldly through the streets, to my grandmother's. I wore my sailor's clothes, and had blackened my face with charcoal. I passed several people whom I knew. The father of my children came so near that I brushed against his arm; but he had no idea who it was. "You must make the most of this walk," said my friend Peter, "for you may not have another very soon." I thought his voice sounded sad. It was kind of him to conceal from me what a dismal hole was to be my home for a long, long time. ----------CHAPTER 21--------- A small shed had been added to my grandmother's house years ago. Some boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between these boards and the roof was a very small garret, never occupied by any thing but rats and mice. It was a pent roof, covered with nothing but shingles, according to the southern custom for such buildings. The garret was only nine feet long and seven wide. The highest part was three feet high, and sloped down abruptly to the loose board floor. There was no admission for either light or air. My uncle Phillip, who was a carpenter, had very skilfully made a concealed trap-door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had been doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom opened upon a piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I entered the house. The air was stifling; the darkness total. A bed had been spread on the floor. I could sleep quite comfortably on one side; but the slope was so sudden that I could not turn on my other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice ran over my bed; but I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched may, when a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by the noises I heard; for in my small den day and night were all the same. I suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not comfortless. I heard the voices of my children. There was joy and there was sadness in the sound. It made my tears flow. How I longed to speak to them! I was eager to look on their faces; but there was no hole, no crack, through which I could peep. This continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of light. Yet I would have chosen this, rather than my lot as a slave, though white people considered it an easy one; and it was so compared with the fate of others. I was never cruelly overworked; I was never lacerated with the whip from head to foot; I was never so beaten and bruised that I could not turn from one side to the other; I never had my heel-strings cut to prevent my running away; I was never chained to a log and forced to drag it about, while I toiled in the fields from morning till night; I was never branded with hot iron, or torn by bloodhounds. On the contrary, I had always been kindly treated, and tenderly cared for, until I came into the hands of Dr. Flint. I had never wished for freedom till then. But though my life in slavery was comparatively devoid of hardships, God pity the woman who is compelled to lead such a life! My food was passed up to me through the trap-door my uncle had contrived; and my grandmother, my uncle Phillip, and aunt Nancy would seize such opportunities as they could, to mount up there and chat with me at the opening. But of course this was not safe in the daytime. It must all be done in darkness. It was impossible for me to move in an erect position, but I crawled about my den for exercise. One day I hit my head against something, and found it was a gimlet. My uncle had left it sticking there when he made the trap-door. I was as rejoiced as Robinson Crusoe could have been at finding such a treasure. It put a lucky thought into my head. I said to myself, "Now I will have some light. Now I will see my children." I did not dare to begin my work during the daytime, for fear of attracting attention. But I groped round; and having found the side next the street, where I could frequently see my children, I stuck the gimlet in and waited for evening. I bored three rows of holes, one above another; then I bored out the interstices between. I thus succeeded in making one hole about an inch long and an inch broad. I sat by it till late into the night, to enjoy the little whiff of air that floated in. In the morning I watched for my children. The first person I saw in the street was Dr. Flint. I had a shuddering, superstitious feeling that it was a bad omen. Several familiar faces passed by. At last I heard the merry laugh of children, and presently two sweet little faces were looking up at me, as though they knew I was there, and were conscious of the joy they imparted. How I longed to _tell_ them I was there! My condition was now a little improved. But for weeks I was tormented by hundreds of little red insects, fine as a needle's point, that pierced through my skin, and produced an intolerable burning. The good grandmother gave me herb teas and cooling medicines, and finally I got rid of them. The heat of my den was intense, for nothing but thin shingles protected me from the scorching summer's sun. But I had my consolations. Through my peeping-hole I could watch the children, and when they were near enough, I could hear their talk. Aunt Nancy brought me all the news she could hear at Dr. Flint's. From her I learned that the doctor had written to New York to a colored woman, who had been born and raised in our neighborhood, and had breathed his contaminating atmosphere. He offered her a reward if she could find out any thing about me. I know not what was the nature of her reply; but he soon after started for New York in haste, saying to his family that he had business of importance to transact. I peeped at him as he passed on his way to the steamboat. It was a satisfaction to have miles of land and water between us, even for a little while; and it was a still greater satisfaction to know that he believed me to be in the Free States. My little den seemed less dreary than it had done. He returned, as he did from his former journey to New York, without obtaining any satisfactory information. When he passed our house next morning, Benny was standing at the gate. He had heard them say that he had gone to find me, and he called out, "Dr. Flint, did you bring my mother home? I want to see her." The doctor stamped his foot at him in a rage, and exclaimed, "Get out of the way, you little damned rascal! If you don't, I'll cut off your head." Benny ran terrified into the house, saying, "You can't put me in jail again. I don't belong to you now." It was well that the wind carried the words away from the doctor's ear. I told my grandmother of it, when we had our next conference at the trap-door, and begged of her not to allow the children to be impertinent to the irascible old man. Autumn came, with a pleasant abatement of heat. My eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, and by holding my book or work in a certain position near the aperture I contrived to read and sew. That was a great relief to the tedious monotony of my life. But when winter came, the cold penetrated through the thin shingle roof, and I was dreadfully chilled. The winters there are not so long, or so severe, as in northern latitudes; but the houses are not built to shelter from cold, and my little den was peculiarly comfortless. The kind grandmother brought me bedclothes and warm drinks. Often I was obliged to lie in bed all day to keep comfortable; but with all my precautions, my shoulders and feet were frostbitten. O, those long, gloomy days, with no object for my eye to rest upon, and no thoughts to occupy my mind, except the dreary past and the uncertain future! I was thankful when there came a day sufficiently mild for me to wrap myself up and sit at the loophole to watch the passers by. Southerners have the habit of stopping and talking in the streets, and I heard many conversations not intended to meet my ears. I heard slave-hunters planning how to catch some poor fugitive. Several times I heard allusions to Dr. Flint, myself, and the history of my children, who, perhaps, were playing near the gate. One would say, "I wouldn't move my little finger to catch her, as old Flint's property." Another would say, "I'll catch _any_ nigger for the reward. A man ought to have what belongs to him, if he _is_ a damned brute." The opinion was often expressed that I was in the Free States. Very rarely did any one suggest that I might be in the vicinity. Had the least suspicion rested on my grandmother's house, it would have been burned to the ground. But it was the last place they thought of. Yet there was no place, where slavery existed, that could have afforded me so good a place of concealment. Dr. Flint and his family repeatedly tried to coax and bribe my children to tell something they had heard said about me. One day the doctor took them into a shop, and offered them some bright little silver pieces and gay handkerchiefs if they would tell where their mother was. Ellen shrank away from him, and would not speak; but Benny spoke up, and said, "Dr. Flint, I don't know where my mother is. I guess she's in New York; and when you go there again, I wish you'd ask her to come home, for I want to see her; but if you put her in jail, or tell her you'll cut her head off, I'll tell her to go right back."

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 23 based on the provided context.

chapter 22|chapter 23|chapter 24|chapter 25

Months pass. Linda freezes in the winter and soaks during the spring. During the second winter, a long illness almost kills her. Her brother William manages to get medicine from a doctor by pretending that her symptoms are his. She also sees her son covered in blood from a dog bite. He's fine, but it's a long time before he can walk. Mrs. Flint shows off her Christian charity by gloating and wishing that Benny had actually died. Meanwhile, Aunt Martha is very sick, too. She recovers, but it's close. This chapter is pretty grim.

----------CHAPTER 22--------- Christmas was approaching. Grandmother brought me materials, and I busied myself making some new garments and little playthings for my children. Were it not that hiring day is near at hand, and many families are fearfully looking forward to the probability of separation in a few days, Christmas might be a happy season for the poor slaves. Even slave mothers try to gladden the hearts of their little ones on that occasion. Benny and Ellen had their Christmas stockings filled. Their imprisoned mother could not have the privilege of witnessing their surprise and joy. But I had the pleasure of peeping at them as they went into the street with their new suits on. I heard Benny ask a little playmate whether Santa Claus brought him any thing. "Yes," replied the boy; "but Santa Claus ain't a real man. It's the children's mothers that put things into the stockings." "No, that can't be," replied Benny, "for Santa Claus brought Ellen and me these new clothes, and my mother has been gone this long time." How I longed to tell him that his mother made those garments, and that many a tear fell on them while she worked! Every child rises early on Christmas morning to see the Johnkannaus. Without them, Christmas would be shorn of its greatest attraction. They consist of companies of slaves from the plantations, generally of the lower class. Two athletic men, in calico wrappers, have a net thrown over them, covered with all manner of bright-colored stripes. Cows' tails are fastened to their backs, and their heads are decorated with horns. A box, covered with sheepskin, is called the gumbo box. A dozen beat on this, while other strike triangles and jawbones, to which bands of dancers keep time. For a month previous they are composing songs, which are sung on this occasion. These companies, of a hundred each, turn out early in the morning, and are allowed to go round till twelve o'clock, begging for contributions. Not a door is left unvisited where there is the least chance of obtaining a penny or a glass of rum. They do not drink while they are out, but carry the rum home in jugs, to have a carousal. These Christmas donations frequently amount to twenty or thirty dollars. It is seldom that any white man or child refuses to give them a trifle. If he does, they regale his ears with the following song:-- Poor massa, so dey say; Down in de heel, so dey say; Got no money, so dey say; Not one shillin, so dey say; God A'mighty bress you, so dey say. Christmas is a day of feasting, both with white and colored people. Slaves, who are lucky enough to have a few shillings, are sure to spend them for good eating; and many a turkey and pig is captured, without saying, "By your leave, sir." Those who cannot obtain these, cook a 'possum, or a raccoon, from which savory dishes can be made. My grandmother raised poultry and pigs for sale and it was her established custom to have both a turkey and a pig roasted for Christmas dinner. On this occasion, I was warned to keep extremely quiet, because two guests had been invited. One was the town constable, and the other was a free colored man, who tried to pass himself off for white, and who was always ready to do any mean work for the sake of currying favor with white people. My grandmother had a motive for inviting them. She managed to take them all over the house. All the rooms on the lower floor were thrown open for them to pass in and out; and after dinner, they were invited up stairs to look at a fine mocking bird my uncle had just brought home. There, too, the rooms were all thrown open that they might look in. When I heard them talking on the piazza, my heart almost stood still. I knew this colored man had spent many nights hunting for me. Every body knew he had the blood of a slave father in his veins; but for the sake of passing himself off for white, he was ready to kiss the slaveholders' feet. How I despised him! As for the constable, he wore no false colors. The duties of his office were despicable, but he was superior to his companion, inasmuch as he did not pretend to be what he was not. Any white man, who could raise money enough to buy a slave, would have considered himself degraded by being a constable; but the office enabled its possessor to exercise authority. If he found any slave out after nine o'clock, he could whip him as much as he liked; and that was a privilege to be coveted. When the guests were ready to depart, my grandmother gave each of them some of her nice pudding, as a present for their wives. Through my peep-hole I saw them go out of the gate, and I was glad when it closed after them. So passed the first Christmas in my den. ----------CHAPTER 23--------- When spring returned, and I took in the little patch of green the aperture commanded, I asked myself how many more summers and winters I must be condemned to spend thus. I longed to draw in a plentiful draught of fresh air, to stretch my cramped limbs, to have room to stand erect, to feel the earth under my feet again. My relatives were constantly on the lookout for a chance of escape; but none offered that seemed practicable, and even tolerably safe. The hot summer came again, and made the turpentine drop from the thin roof over my head. During the long nights I was restless for want of air, and I had no room to toss and turn. There was but one compensation; the atmosphere was so stifled that even mosquitos would not condescend to buzz in it. With all my detestation of Dr. Flint, I could hardly wish him a worse punishment, either in this world or that which is to come, than to suffer what I suffered in one single summer. Yet the laws allowed _him_ to be out in the free air, while I, guiltless of crime, was pent up here, as the only means of avoiding the cruelties the laws allowed him to inflict upon me! I don't know what kept life within me. Again and again, I thought I should die before long; but I saw the leaves of another autumn whirl through the air, and felt the touch of another winter. In summer the most terrible thunder storms were acceptable, for the rain came through the roof, and I rolled up my bed that it might cool the hot boards under it. Later in the season, storms sometimes wet my clothes through and through, and that was not comfortable when the air grew chilly. Moderate storms I could keep out by filling the chinks with oakum. But uncomfortable as my situation was, I had glimpses of things out of doors, which made me thankful for my wretched hiding-place. One day I saw a slave pass our gate, muttering, "It's his own, and he can kill it if he will." My grandmother told me that woman's history. Her mistress had that day seen her baby for the first time, and in the lineaments of its fair face she saw a likeness to her husband. She turned the bondwoman and her child out of doors, and forbade her ever to return. The slave went to her master, and told him what had happened. He promised to talk with her mistress, and make it all right. The next day she and her baby were sold to a Georgia trader. Another time I saw a woman rush wildly by, pursued by two men. She was a slave, the wet nurse of her mistress's children. For some trifling offence her mistress ordered her to be stripped and whipped. To escape the degradation and the torture, she rushed to the river, jumped in, and ended her wrongs in death. Senator Brown, of Mississippi, could not be ignorant of many such facts as these, for they are of frequent occurrence in every Southern State. Yet he stood up in the Congress of the United States, and declared that slavery was "a great moral, social, and political blessing; a blessing to the master, and a blessing to the slave!" I suffered much more during the second winter than I did during the first. My limbs were benumbed by inaction, and the cold filled them with cramp. I had a very painful sensation of coldness in my head; even my face and tongue stiffened, and I lost the power of speech. Of course it was impossible, under the circumstances, to summon any physician. My brother William came and did all he could for me. Uncle Phillip also watched tenderly over me; and poor grandmother crept up and down to inquire whether there were any signs of returning life. I was restored to consciousness by the dashing of cold water in my face, and found myself leaning against my brother's arm, while he bent over me with streaming eyes. He afterwards told me he thought I was dying, for I had been in an unconscious state sixteen hours. I next became delirious, and was in great danger of betraying myself and my friends. To prevent this, they stupefied me with drugs. I remained in bed six weeks, weary in body and sick at heart. How to get medical advice was the question. William finally went to a Thompsonian doctor, and described himself as having all my pains and aches. He returned with herbs, roots, and ointment. He was especially charged to rub on the ointment by a fire; but how could a fire be made in my little den? Charcoal in a furnace was tried, but there was no outlet for the gas, and it nearly cost me my life. Afterwards coals, already kindled, were brought up in an iron pan, and placed on bricks. I was so weak, and it was so long since I had enjoyed the warmth of a fire, that those few coals actually made me weep. I think the medicines did me some good; but my recovery was very slow. Dark thoughts passed through my mind as I lay there day after day. I tried to be thankful for my little cell, dismal as it was, and even to love it, as part of the price I had paid for the redemption of my children. Sometimes I thought God was a compassionate Father, who would forgive my sins for the sake of my sufferings. At other times, it seemed to me there was no justice or mercy in the divine government. I asked why the curse of slavery was permitted to exist, and why I had been so persecuted and wronged from youth upward. These things took the shape of mystery, which is to this day not so clear to my soul as I trust it will be hereafter. In the midst of my illness, grandmother broke down under the weight and anxiety and toil. The idea of losing her, who had always been my best friend and a mother to my children, was the sorest trial I had yet had. O, how earnestly I prayed that she might recover! How hard it seemed, that I could not tend upon her, who had so long and so tenderly watched over me! One day the screams of a child nerved me with strength to crawl to my peeping-hole, and I saw my son covered with blood. A fierce dog, usually kept chained, had seized and bitten him. A doctor was sent for, and I heard the groans and screams of my child while the wounds were being sewed up. O, what torture to a mother's heart, to listen to this and be unable to go to him! But childhood is like a day in spring, alternately shower and sunshine. Before night Benny was bright and lively, threatening the destruction of the dog; and great was his delight when the doctor told him the next day that the dog had bitten another boy and been shot. Benny recovered from his wounds; but it was long before he could walk. When my grandmother's illness became known, many ladies, who were her customers, called to bring her some little comforts, and to inquire whether she had every thing she wanted. Aunt Nancy one night asked permission to watch with her sick mother, and Mrs. Flint replied, "I don't see any need of your going. I can't spare you." But when she found other ladies in the neighborhood were so attentive, not wishing to be outdone in Christian charity, she also sallied forth, in magnificent condescension, and stood by the bedside of her who had loved her in her infancy, and who had been repaid by such grievous wrongs. She seemed surprised to find her so ill, and scolded uncle Phillip for not sending for Dr. Flint. She herself sent for him immediately, and he came. Secure as I was in my retreat, I should have been terrified if I had known he was so near me. He pronounced my grandmother in a very critical situation, and said if her attending physician wished it, he would visit her. Nobody wished to have him coming to the house at all hours, and we were not disposed to give him a chance to make out a long bill. As Mrs. Flint went out, Sally told her the reason Benny was lame was, that a dog had bitten him. "I'm glad of it," replied she. "I wish he had killed him. It would be good news to send to his mother. _Her_ day will come. The dogs will grab _her_ yet." With these Christian words she and her husband departed, and, to my great satisfaction, returned no more. I learned from uncle Phillip, with feelings of unspeakable joy and gratitude, that the crisis was passed and grandmother would live. I could now say from my heart, "God is merciful. He has spared me the anguish of feeling that I caused her death." ----------CHAPTER 24--------- The summer had nearly ended, when Dr. Flint made a third visit to New York, in search of me. Two candidates were running for Congress, and he returned in season to vote. The father of my children was the Whig candidate. The doctor had hitherto been a stanch Whig; but now he exerted all his energies for the defeat of Mr. Sands. He invited large parties of men to dine in the shade of his trees, and supplied them with plenty of rum and brandy. If any poor fellow drowned his wits in the bowl, and, in the openness of his convivial heart, proclaimed that he did not mean to vote the Democratic ticket, he was shoved into the street without ceremony. The doctor expended his liquor in vain. Mr. Sands was elected; an event which occasioned me some anxious thoughts. He had not emancipated my children, and if he should die they would be at the mercy of his heirs. Two little voices, that frequently met my ear, seemed to plead with me not to let their father depart without striving to make their freedom secure. Years had passed since I had spoken to him. I had not even seen him since the night I passed him, unrecognized, in my disguise of a sailor. I supposed he would call before he left, to say something to my grandmother concerning the children, and I resolved what course to take. The day before his departure for Washington I made arrangements, toward evening, to get from my hiding-place into the storeroom below. I found myself so stiff and clumsy that it was with great difficulty I could hitch from one resting place to another. When I reached the storeroom my ankles gave way under me, and I sank exhausted on the floor. It seemed as if I could never use my limbs again. But the purpose I had in view roused all the strength I had. I crawled on my hands and knees to the window, and, screened behind a barrel, I waited for his coming. The clock struck nine, and I knew the steamboat would leave between ten and eleven. My hopes were failing. But presently I heard his voice, saying to some one, "Wait for me a moment. I wish to see aunt Martha." When he came out, as he passed the window, I said, "Stop one moment, and let me speak for my children." He started, hesitated, and then passed on, and went out of the gate. I closed the shutter I had partially opened, and sank down behind the barrel. I had suffered much; but seldom had I experienced a keener pang than I then felt. Had my children, then, become of so little consequence to him? And had he so little feeling for their wretched mother that he would not listen a moment while she pleaded for them? Painful memories were so busy within me, that I forgot I had not hooked the shutter, till I heard some one opening it. I looked up. He had come back. "Who called me?" said he, in a low tone. "I did," I replied. "Oh, Linda," said he, "I knew your voice; but I was afraid to answer, lest my friend should hear me. Why do you come here? Is it possible you risk yourself in this house? They are mad to allow it. I shall expect to hear that you are all ruined," I did not wish to implicate him, by letting him know my place of concealment; so I merely said, "I thought you would come to bid grandmother good by, and so I came here to speak a few words to you about emancipating my children. Many changes may take place during the six months you are gone to Washington, and it does not seem right for you to expose them to the risk of such changes. I want nothing for myself; all I ask is, that you will free my children, or authorize some friend to do it, before you go." He promised he would do it, and also expressed a readiness; to make any arrangements whereby I could be purchased. I heard footsteps approaching, and closed the shutter hastily. I wanted to crawl back to my den, without letting the family know what I had done; for I knew they would deem it very imprudent. But he stepped back into the house, to tell my grandmother that he had spoken with me at the storeroom window, and to beg of her not to allow me to remain in the house over night. He said it was the height of madness for me to be there; that we should certainly all be ruined. Luckily, he was in too much of a hurry to wait for a reply, or the dear old woman would surely have told him all. I tried to go back to my den, but found it more difficult to go up than I had to come down. Now that my mission was fulfilled, the little strength that had supported me through it was gone, and I sank helpless on the floor. My grandmother, alarmed at the risk I had run, came into the storeroom in the dark, and locked the door behind her. "Linda," she whispered, "where are you?" "I am here by the window," I replied. "I _couldn't_ have him go away without emancipating the children. Who knows what may happen?" "Come, come, child," said she, "it won't do for you to stay here another minute. You've done wrong; but I can't blame you, poor thing!" I told her I could not return without assistance, and she must call my uncle. Uncle Phillip came, and pity prevented him from scolding me. He carried me back to my dungeon, laid me tenderly on the bed, gave me some medicine, and asked me if there was any thing more he could do. Then he went away, and I was left with my own thoughts--starless as the midnight darkness around me. My friends feared I should become a cripple for life; and I was so weary of my long imprisonment that, had it not been for the hope of serving my children, I should have been thankful to die; but, for their sakes, I was willing to bear on. ----------CHAPTER 25--------- Dr. Flint had not given me up. Every now and then he would say to my grandmother that I would yet come back, and voluntarily surrender myself; and that when I did, I could be purchased by my relatives, or any one who wished to buy me. I knew his cunning nature too well not to perceive that this was a trap laid for me; and so all my friends understood it. I resolved to match my cunning against his cunning. In order to make him believe that I was in New York, I resolved to write him a letter dated from that place. I sent for my friend Peter, and asked him if he knew any trustworthy seafaring person, who would carry such a letter to New York, and put it in the post office there. He said he knew one that he would trust with his own life to the ends of the world. I reminded him that it was a hazardous thing for him to undertake. He said he knew it, but he was willing to do any thing to help me. I expressed a wish for a New York paper, to ascertain the names of some of the streets. He run his hand into his pocket, and said, "Here is half a one, that was round a cap I bought of a pedler yesterday." I told him the letter would be ready the next evening. He bade me good by, adding, "Keep up your spirits, Linda; brighter days will come by and by." My uncle Phillip kept watch over the gate until our brief interview was over. Early the next morning, I seated myself near the little aperture to examine the newspaper. It was a piece of the New York Herald; and, for once, the paper that systematically abuses the colored people, was made to render them a service. Having obtained what information I wanted concerning streets and numbers, I wrote two letters, one to my grandmother, the other to Dr. Flint. I reminded him how he, a gray-headed man, had treated a helpless child, who had been placed in his power, and what years of misery he had brought upon her. To my grandmother, I expressed a wish to have my children sent to me at the north, where I could teach them to respect themselves, and set them a virtuous example; which a slave mother was not allowed to do at the south. I asked her to direct her answer to a certain street in Boston, as I did not live in New York, though I went there sometimes. I dated these letters ahead, to allow for the time it would take to carry them, and sent a memorandum of the date to the messenger. When my friend came for the letters, I said, "God bless and reward you, Peter, for this disinterested kindness. Pray be careful. If you are detected, both you and I will have to suffer dreadfully. I have not a relative who would dare to do it for me." He replied, "You may trust to me, Linda. I don't forget that your father was my best friend, and I will be a friend to his children so long as God lets me live." It was necessary to tell my grandmother what I had done, in order that she might be ready for the letter, and prepared to hear what Dr. Flint might say about my being at the north. She was sadly troubled. She felt sure mischief would come of it. I also told my plan to aunt Nancy, in order that she might report to us what was said at Dr. Flint's house. I whispered it to her through a crack, and she whispered back, "I hope it will succeed. I shan't mind being a slave all _my_ life, if I can only see you and the children free." I had directed that my letters should be put into the New York post office on the 20th of the month. On the evening of the 24th my aunt came to say that Dr. Flint and his wife had been talking in a low voice about a letter he had received, and that when he went to his office he promised to bring it when he came to tea. So I concluded I should hear my letter read the next morning. I told my grandmother Dr. Flint would be sure to come, and asked her to have him sit near a certain door, and leave it open, that I might hear what he said. The next morning I took my station within sound of that door, and remained motionless as a statue. It was not long before I heard the gate slam, and the well-known footsteps enter the house. He seated himself in the chair that was placed for him, and said, "Well, Martha, I've brought you a letter from Linda. She has sent me a letter, also. I know exactly where to find her; but I don't choose to go to Boston for her. I had rather she would come back of her own accord, in a respectable manner. Her uncle Phillip is the best person to go for her. With _him_, she would feel perfectly free to act. I am willing to pay his expenses going and returning. She shall be sold to her friends. Her children are free; at least I suppose they are; and when you obtain her freedom, you'll make a happy family. I suppose, Martha, you have no objection to my reading to you the letter Linda has written to you." He broke the seal, and I heard him read it. The old villain! He had suppressed the letter I wrote to grandmother, and prepared a substitute of his own, the purport of which was as follows:-- Dear Grandmother: I have long wanted to write to you; but the disgraceful manner in which I left you and my children made me ashamed to do it. If you knew how much I have suffered since I ran away, you would pity and forgive me. I have purchased freedom at a dear rate. If any arrangement could be made for me to return to the south without being a slave, I would gladly come. If not, I beg of you to send my children to the north. I cannot live any longer without them. Let me know in time, and I will meet them in New York or Philadelphia, whichever place best suits my uncle's convenience. Write as soon as possible to your unhappy daughter, Linda. "It is very much as I expected it would be," said the old hypocrite, rising to go. "You see the foolish girl has repented of her rashness, and wants to return. We must help her to do it, Martha. Talk with Phillip about it. If he will go for her, she will trust to him, and come back. I should like an answer to-morrow. Good morning, Martha." As he stepped out on the piazza, he stumbled over my little girl. "Ah, Ellen, is that you?" he said, in his most gracious manner. "I didn't see you. How do you do?" "Pretty well, sir," she replied. "I heard you tell grandmother that my mother is coming home. I want to see her." "Yes, Ellen, I am going to bring her home very soon," rejoined he; "and you shall see her as much as you like, you little curly-headed nigger." This was as good as a comedy to me, who had heard it all; but grandmother was frightened and distressed, because the doctor wanted my uncle to go for me. The next evening Dr. Flint called to talk the matter over. My uncle told him that from what he had heard of Massachusetts, he judged he should be mobbed if he went there after a runaway slave. "All stuff and nonsense, Phillip!" replied the doctor. "Do you suppose I want you to kick up a row in Boston? The business can all be done quietly. Linda writes that she wants to come back. You are her relative, and she would trust _you_. The case would be different if I went. She might object to coming with _me_; and the damned abolitionists, if they knew I was her master, would not believe me, if I told them she had begged to go back. They would get up a row; and I should not like to see Linda dragged through the streets like a common negro. She has been very ungrateful to me for all my kindness; but I forgive her, and want to act the part of a friend towards her. I have no wish to hold her as my slave. Her friends can buy her as soon as she arrives here." Finding that his arguments failed to convince my uncle, the doctor "let the cat out of the bag," by saying that he had written to the mayor of Boston, to ascertain whether there was a person of my description at the street and number from which my letter was dated. He had omitted this date in the letter he had made up to read to my grandmother. If I had dated from New York, the old man would probably have made another journey to that city. But even in that dark region, where knowledge is so carefully excluded from the slave, I had heard enough about Massachusetts to come to the conclusion that slaveholders did not consider it a comfortable place to go in search of a runaway. That was before the Fugitive Slave Law was passed; before Massachusetts had consented to become a "nigger hunter" for the south. My grandmother, who had become skittish by seeing her family always in danger, came to me with a very distressed countenance, and said, "What will you do if the mayor of Boston sends him word that you haven't been there? Then he will suspect the letter was a trick; and maybe he'll find out something about it, and we shall all get into trouble. O Linda, I wish you had never sent the letters." "Don't worry yourself, Grandmother," said I. "The mayor of Boston won't trouble himself to hunt niggers for Dr. Flint. The letters will do good in the end. I shall get out of this dark hole some time or other." "I hope you will, child," replied the good, patient old friend. "You have been here a long time; almost five years; but whenever you do go, it will break your old grandmother's heart. I should be expecting every day to hear that you were brought back in irons and put in jail. God help you, poor child! Let us be thankful that some time or other we shall go 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'" My heart responded, Amen. The fact that Dr. Flint had written to the mayor of Boston convinced me that he believed my letter to be genuine, and of course that he had no suspicion of my being any where in the vicinity. It was a great object to keep up this delusion, for it made me and my friends feel less anxious, and it would be very convenient whenever there was a chance to escape. I resolved, therefore, to continue to write letters from the north from time to time. Two or three weeks passed, and as no news came from the mayor of Boston, grandmother began to listen to my entreaty to be allowed to leave my cell, sometimes, and exercise my limbs to prevent my becoming a cripple. I was allowed to slip down into the small storeroom, early in the morning, and remain there a little while. The room was all filled up with barrels, except a small open space under my trap-door. This faced the door, the upper part of which was of glass, and purposely left uncurtained, that the curious might look in. The air of this place was close; but it was so much better than the atmosphere of my cell, that I dreaded to return. I came down as soon as it was light, and remained till eight o'clock, when people began to be about, and there was danger that some one might come on the piazza. I had tried various applications to bring warmth and feeling into my limbs, but without avail. They were so numb and stiff that it was a painful effort to move; and had my enemies come upon me during the first mornings I tried to exercise them a little in the small unoccupied space of the storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 26 based on the provided context.

chapter 26|chapter 27

Here's a little story about William. William went to Washington with Mr. Sands. They traveled all through the North and Canada, where William met lots of abolitionists. Meanwhile, Mr. Sands gets married. When Mr. Sands returns to Edenton with his new wife, he tells Aunt Martha that William has run off with abolitionists. Not so. Later, Linda learns that William escaped all on his own, selling his clothes and sailing off to Boston by himself. When Dr. Flint hears about his, he's filled with glee.

----------CHAPTER 26--------- I missed the company and kind attentions of my brother William, who had gone to Washington with his master, Mr. Sands. We received several letters from him, written without any allusion to me, but expressed in such a manner that I knew he did not forget me. I disguised my hand, and wrote to him in the same manner. It was a long session; and when it closed, William wrote to inform us that Mr. Sands was going to the north, to be gone some time, and that he was to accompany him. I knew that his master had promised to give him his freedom, but no time had been specified. Would William trust to a slave's chances? I remembered how we used to talk together, in our young days, about obtaining our freedom, and I thought it very doubtful whether he would come back to us. Grandmother received a letter from Mr. Sands, saying that William had proved a most faithful servant, and he would also say a valued friend; that no mother had ever trained a better boy. He said he had travelled through the Northern States and Canada; and though the abolitionists had tried to decoy him away, they had never succeeded. He ended by saying they should be at home shortly. We expected letters from William, describing the novelties of his journey, but none came. In time, it was reported that Mr. Sands would return late in the autumn, accompanied by a bride. Still no letters from William. I felt almost sure I should never see him again on southern soil; but had he no word of comfort to send to his friends at home? to the poor captive in her dungeon? My thoughts wandered through the dark past, and over the uncertain future. Alone in my cell, where no eye but God's could see me, I wept bitter tears. How earnestly I prayed to him to restore me to my children, and enable me to be a useful woman and a good mother! At last the day arrived for the return of the travellers. Grandmother had made loving preparations to welcome her absent boy back to the old hearthstone. When the dinner table was laid, William's place occupied its old place. The stage coach went by empty. My grandmother waited dinner. She thought perhaps he was necessarily detained by his master. In my prison I listened anxiously, expecting every moment to hear my dear brother's voice and step. In the course of the afternoon a lad was sent by Mr. Sands to tell grandmother that William did not return with him; that the abolitionists had decoyed him away. But he begged her not to feel troubled about it, for he felt confident she would see William in a few days. As soon as he had time to reflect he would come back, for he could never expect to be so well off at the north as he had been with him. If you had seen the tears, and heard the sobs, you would have thought the messenger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old grandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I was selfish. I thought more of what I had lost, than of what my brother had gained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended a good deal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss he had incurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of my children, who were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have their emancipation made certain. The more so, because their master and father was now married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know that promises made to slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere at the time, depend upon many contingencies for their fulfillment. Much as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad and anxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear; so beautiful that it seemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother brought the children out on the piazza, that I might hear their voices. She thought it would comfort me in my despondency; and it did. They chatted merrily, as only children can. Benny said, "Grandmother, do you think uncle Will has gone for good? Won't he ever come back again? May be he'll find mother. If he does, _won't_ she be glad to see him! Why don't you and uncle Phillip, and all of us, go and live where mother is? I should like it; wouldn't you, Ellen?" "Yes, I should like it," replied Ellen; "but how could we find her? Do you know the place, grandmother? I don't remember how mother looked--do you, Benny?" Benny was just beginning to describe me when they were interrupted by an old slave woman, a near neighbor, named Aggie. This poor creature had witnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to parts unknown, without any hopes of ever hearing from them again. She saw that my grandmother had been weeping, and she said, in a sympathizing tone, "What's the matter, aunt Marthy?" "O Aggie," she replied, "it seems as if I shouldn't have any of my children or grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I'm dying, and lay my old body in the ground. My boy didn't come back with Mr. Sands. He staid at the north." Poor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. "Is _dat_ what you's crying fur?" she exclaimed. "Git down on your knees and bress de Lord! I don't know whar my poor chillern is, and I nebber 'spect to know. You don't know whar poor Linda's gone to; but you _do_ know whar her brudder is. He's in free parts; and dat's de right place. Don't murmur at de Lord's doings but git down on your knees and tank him for his goodness." My selfishness was rebuked by what poor Aggie said. She rejoiced over the escape of one who was merely her fellow-bondman, while his own sister was only thinking what his good fortune might cost her children. I knelt and prayed God to forgive me; and I thanked him from my heart, that one of my family was saved from the grasp of slavery. It was not long before we received a letter from William. He wrote that Mr. Sands had always treated him kindly, and that he had tried to do his duty to him faithfully. But ever since he was a boy, he had longed to be free; and he had already gone through enough to convince him he had better not lose the chance that offered. He concluded by saying, "Don't worry about me, dear grandmother. I shall think of you always; and it will spur me on to work hard and try to do right. When I have earned money enough to give you a home, perhaps you will come to the north, and we can all live happy together." Mr. Sands told my uncle Phillip the particulars about William's leaving him. He said, "I trusted him as if he were my own brother, and treated him as kindly. The abolitionists talked to him in several places; but I had no idea they could tempt him. However, I don't blame William. He's young and inconsiderate, and those Northern rascals decoyed him. I must confess the scamp was very bold about it. I met him coming down the steps of the Astor House with his trunk on his shoulder, and I asked him where he was going. He said he was going to change his old trunk. I told him it was rather shabby, and asked if he didn't need some money. He said, No, thanked me, and went off. He did not return so soon as I expected; but I waited patiently. At last I went to see if our trunks were packed, ready for our journey. I found them locked, and a sealed note on the table informed me where I could find the keys. The fellow even tried to be religious. He wrote that he hoped God would always bless me, and reward me for my kindness; that he was not unwilling to serve me; but he wanted to be a free man; and that if I thought he did wrong, he hoped I would forgive him. I intended to give him his freedom in five years. He might have trusted me. He has shown himself ungrateful; but I shall not go for him, or send for him. I feel confident that he will soon return to me." I afterwards heard an account of the affair from William himself. He had not been urged away by abolitionists. He needed no information they could give him about slavery to stimulate his desire for freedom. He looked at his hands, and remembered that they were once in irons. What security had he that they would not be so again? Mr. Sands was kind to him; but he might indefinitely postpone the promise he had made to give him his freedom. He might come under pecuniary embarrassments, and his property be seized by creditors; or he might die, without making any arrangements in his favor. He had too often known such accidents to happen to slaves who had kind masters, and he wisely resolved to make sure of the present opportunity to own himself. He was scrupulous about taking any money from his master on false pretences; so he sold his best clothes to pay for his passage to Boston. The slaveholders pronounced him a base, ungrateful wretch, for thus requiting his master's indulgence. What would _they_ have done under similar circumstances? When Dr. Flint's family heard that William had deserted Mr. Sands, they chuckled greatly over the news. Mrs. Flint made her usual manifestations of Christian feeling, by saying, "I'm glad of it. I hope he'll never get him again. I like to see people paid back in their own coin. I reckon Linda's children will have to pay for it. I should be glad to see them in the speculator's hands again, for I'm tired of seeing those little niggers march about the streets." ----------CHAPTER 27--------- Mrs. Flint proclaimed her intention of informing Mrs. Sands who was the father of my children. She likewise proposed to tell her what an artful devil I was; that I had made a great deal of trouble in her family; that when Mr. Sands was at the north, she didn't doubt I had followed him in disguise, and persuaded William to run away. She had some reason to entertain such an idea; for I had written from the north, from time to time, and I dated my letters from various places. Many of them fell into Dr. Flint's hands, as I expected they would; and he must have come to the conclusion that I travelled about a good deal. He kept a close watch over my children, thinking they would eventually lead to my detection. A new and unexpected trial was in store for me. One day, when Mr. Sands and his wife were walking in the street, they met Benny. The lady took a fancy to him, and exclaimed, "What a pretty little negro! Whom does he belong to?" Benny did not hear the answer; but he came home very indignant with the stranger lady, because she had called him a negro. A few days afterwards, Mr. Sands called on my grandmother, and told her he wanted her to take the children to his house. He said he had informed his wife of his relation to them, and told her they were motherless; and she wanted to see them. When he had gone, my grandmother came and asked what I would do. The question seemed a mockery. What _could_ I do? They were Mr. Sands's slaves, and their mother was a slave, whom he had represented to be dead. Perhaps he thought I was. I was too much pained and puzzled to come to any decision; and the children were carried without my knowledge. Mrs. Sands had a sister from Illinois staying with her. This lady, who had no children of her own, was so much pleased with Ellen, that she offered to adopt her, and bring her up as she would a daughter. Mrs. Sands wanted to take Benjamin. When grandmother reported this to me, I was tried almost beyond endurance. Was this all I was to gain by what I had suffered for the sake of having my children free? True, the prospect _seemed_ fair; but I knew too well how lightly slaveholders held such "parental relations." If pecuniary troubles should come, or if the new wife required more money than could conveniently be spared, my children might be thought of as a convenient means of raising funds. I had no trust in thee, O Slavery! Never should I know peace till my children were emancipated with all due formalities of law. I was too proud to ask Mr. Sands to do any thing for my own benefit; but I could bring myself to become a supplicant for my children. I resolved to remind him of the promise he had made me, and to throw myself upon his honor for the performance of it. I persuaded my grandmother to go to him, and tell him I was not dead, and that I earnestly entreated him to keep the promise he had made me; that I had heard of the recent proposals concerning my children, and did not feel easy to accept them; that he had promised to emancipate them, and it was time for him to redeem his pledge. I knew there was some risk in thus betraying that I was in the vicinity; but what will not a mother do for her children? He received the message with surprise, and said, "The children are free. I have never intended to claim them as slaves. Linda may decide their fate. In my opinion, they had better be sent to the north. I don't think they are quite safe here. Dr. Flint boasts that they are still in his power. He says they were his daughter's property, and as she was not of age when they were sold, the contract is not legally binding." So, then, after all I had endured for their sakes, my poor children were between two fires; between my old master and their new master! And I was powerless. There was no protecting arm of the law for me to invoke. Mr. Sands proposed that Ellen should go, for the present, to some of his relatives, who had removed to Brooklyn, Long Island. It was promised that she should be well taken care of, and sent to school. I consented to it, as the best arrangement I could make for her. My grandmother, of course, negotiated it all; and Mrs. Sands knew of no other person in the transaction. She proposed that they should take Ellen with them to Washington, and keep her till they had a good chance of sending her, with friends, to Brooklyn. She had an infant daughter. I had had a glimpse of it, as the nurse passed with it in her arms. It was not a pleasant thought to me, that the bondwoman's child should tend her free-born sister; but there was no alternative. Ellen was made ready for the journey. O, how it tried my heart to send her away, so young, alone, among strangers! Without a mother's love to shelter her from the storms of life; almost without memory of a mother! I doubted whether she and Benny would have for me the natural affection that children feel for a parent. I thought to myself that I might perhaps never see my daughter again, and I had a great desire that she should look upon me, before she went, that she might take my image with her in her memory. It seemed to me cruel to have her brought to my dungeon. It was sorrow enough for her young heart to know that her mother was a victim of slavery, without seeing the wretched hiding-place to which it had driven her. I begged permission to pass the last night in one of the open chambers, with my little girl. They thought I was crazy to think of trusting such a young child with my perilous secret. I told them I had watched her character, and I felt sure she would not betray me; that I was determined to have an interview, and if they would not facilitate it, I would take my own way to obtain it. They remonstrated against the rashness of such a proceeding; but finding they could not change my purpose, they yielded. I slipped through the trap-door into the storeroom, and my uncle kept watch at the gate, while I passed into the piazza and went up stairs, to the room I used to occupy. It was more than five years since I had seen it; and how the memories crowded on me! There I had taken shelter when my mistress drove me from her house; there came my old tyrant, to mock, insult, and curse me; there my children were first laid in my arms; there I had watched over them, each day with a deeper and sadder love; there I had knelt to God, in anguish of heart, to forgive the wrong I had done. How vividly it all came back! And after this long, gloomy interval, I stood there such a wreck! In the midst of these meditations, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened, and my uncle Phillip came in, leading Ellen by the hand. I put my arms round her, and said, "Ellen, my dear child, I am your mother." She drew back a little, and looked at me; then, with sweet confidence, she laid her cheek against mine, and I folded her to the heart that had been so long desolated. She was the first to speak. Raising her head, she said, inquiringly, "You really _are_ my mother?" I told her I really was; that during all the long time she had not seen me, I had loved her most tenderly; and that now she was going away, I wanted to see her and talk with her, that she might remember me. With a sob in her voice, she said, "I'm glad you've come to see me; but why didn't you ever come before? Benny and I have wanted so much to see you! He remembers you, and sometimes he tells me about you. Why didn't you come home when Dr. Flint went to bring you?" I answered, "I couldn't come before, dear. But now that I am with you, tell me whether you like to go away." "I don't know," said she, crying. "Grandmother says I ought not to cry; that I am going to a good place, where I can learn to read and write, and that by and by I can write her a letter. But I shan't have Benny, or grandmother, or uncle Phillip, or any body to love me. Can't you go with me? O, _do_ go, dear mother!" I told her I couldn't go now; but sometime I would come to her, and then she and Benny and I would live together, and have happy times. She wanted to run and bring Benny to see me now. I told her he was going to the north, before long, with uncle Phillip, and then I would come to see him before he went away. I asked if she would like to have me stay all night and sleep with her. "O, yes," she replied. Then, turning to her uncle, she said, pleadingly, "_May_ I stay? Please, uncle! She is my own mother." He laid his hand on her head, and said, solemnly, "Ellen, this is the secret you have promised grandmother never to tell. If you ever speak of it to any body, they will never let you see your grandmother again, and your mother can never come to Brooklyn." "Uncle," she replied, "I will never tell." He told her she might stay with me; and when he had gone, I took her in my arms and told her I was a slave, and that was the reason she must never say she had seen me. I exhorted her to be a good child, to try to please the people where she was going, and that God would raise her up friends. I told her to say her prayers, and remember always to pray for her poor mother, and that God would permit us to meet again. She wept, and I did not check her tears. Perhaps she would never again have a chance to pour her tears into a mother's bosom. All night she nestled in my arms, and I had no inclination to slumber. The moments were too precious to lose any of them. Once, when I thought she was asleep, I kissed her forehead softly, and she said, "I am not asleep, dear mother." Before dawn they came to take me back to my den. I drew aside the window curtain, to take a last look of my child. The moonlight shone on her face, and I bent over her, as I had done years before, that wretched night when I ran away. I hugged her close to my throbbing heart; and tears, too sad for such young eyes to shed, flowed down her cheeks, as she gave her last kiss, and whispered in my ear, "Mother, I will never tell." And she never did. When I got back to my den, I threw myself on the bed and wept there alone in the darkness. It seemed as if my heart would burst. When the time for Ellen's departure drew nigh, I could hear neighbors and friends saying to her, "Good by, Ellen. I hope your poor mother will find you out. _Won't_ you be glad to see her!" She replied, "Yes, ma'am;" and they little dreamed of the weighty secret that weighed down her young heart. She was an affectionate child, but naturally very reserved, except with those she loved, and I felt secure that my secret would be safe with her. I heard the gate close after her, with such feelings as only a slave mother can experience. During the day my meditations were very sad. Sometimes I feared I had been very selfish not to give up all claim to her, and let her go to Illinois, to be adopted by Mrs. Sands's sister. It was my experience of slavery that decided me against it. I feared that circumstances might arise that would cause her to be sent back. I felt confident that I should go to New York myself; and then I should be able to watch over her, and in some degree protect her. Dr. Flint's family knew nothing of the proposed arrangement till after Ellen was gone, and the news displeased them greatly. Mrs. Flint called on Mrs. Sands's sister to inquire into the matter. She expressed her opinion very freely as to the respect Mr. Sands showed for his wife, and for his own character, in acknowledging those "young niggers." And as for sending Ellen away, she pronounced it to be just as much stealing as it would be for him to come and take a piece of furniture out of her parlor. She said her daughter was not of age to sign the bill of sale, and the children were her property; and when she became of age, or was married, she could take them, wherever she could lay hands on them. Miss Emily Flint, the little girl to whom I had been bequeathed, was now in her sixteenth year. Her mother considered it all right and honorable for her, or her future husband, to steal my children; but she did not understand how any body could hold up their heads in respectable society, after they had purchased their own children, as Mr. Sands had done. Dr. Flint said very little. Perhaps he thought that Benny would be less likely to be sent away if he kept quiet. One of my letters, that fell into his hands, was dated from Canada; and he seldom spoke of me now. This state of things enabled me to slip down into the storeroom more frequently, where I could stand upright, and move my limbs more freely. Days, weeks, and months passed, and there came no news of Ellen. I sent a letter to Brooklyn, written in my grandmother's name, to inquire whether she had arrived there. Answer was returned that she had not. I wrote to her in Washington; but no notice was taken of it. There was one person there, who ought to have had some sympathy with the anxiety of the child's friends at home; but the links of such relations as he had formed with me, are easily broken and cast away as rubbish. Yet how protectingly and persuasively he once talked to the poor, helpless slave girl! And how entirely I trusted him! But now suspicions darkened my mind. Was my child dead, or had they deceived me, and sold her? If the secret memoirs of many members of Congress should be published, curious details would be unfolded. I once saw a letter from a member of Congress to a slave, who was the mother of six of his children. He wrote to request that she would send her children away from the great house before his return, as he expected to be accompanied by friends. The woman could not read, and was obliged to employ another to read the letter. The existence of the colored children did not trouble this gentleman, it was only the fear that friends might recognize in their features a resemblance to him. At the end of six months, a letter came to my grandmother, from Brooklyn. It was written by a young lady in the family, and announced that Ellen had just arrived. It contained the following message from her: "I do try to do just as you told me to, and I pray for you every night and morning." I understood that these words were meant for me; and they were a balsam to my heart. The writer closed her letter by saying, "Ellen is a nice little girl, and we shall like to have her with us. My cousin, Mr. Sands, has given her to me, to be my little waiting maid. I shall send her to school, and I hope some day she will write to you herself." This letter perplexed and troubled me. Had my child's father merely placed her there till she was old enough to support herself? Or had he given her to his cousin, as a piece of property? If the last idea was correct, his cousin might return to the south at any time, and hold Ellen as a slave. I tried to put away from me the painful thought that such a foul wrong could have been done to us. I said to myself, "Surely there must be _some_ justice in man;" then I remembered, with a sigh, how slavery perverted all the natural feelings of the human heart. It gave me a pang to look on my light-hearted boy. He believed himself free; and to have him brought under the yoke of slavery, would be more than I could bear. How I longed to have him safely out of the reach of its power!

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 31 using the context provided.

chapter 28|chapter 30|chapter 31

When they reach Philadelphia, Linda meets a black man named Rev. Jeremiah Durham, a local minister. He offers Fanny and Linda places to stay for the night, while they wait for a morning car to New York. Linda stays with the Durhams, who are both kind to her, and ask her stories about her life in slavery. She tells them everything--and we mean everything. Mr. Durham says that maybe she shouldn't be quite so open, especially about all the sex. This new city life is blowing Linda's mind. Fire engines, street vendors, portraits of black children--it's crazy. One of their abolitionist friends offers to pay Linda's way to New York. She refuses, since she has money from Aunt Martha. Instead, they pay Fanny's way. The women stay in Philadelphia for a few days, until one of Mrs. Durham's friends offers to accompany them to New York. Here comes Linda's first experience of northern prejudice: they can ride the train, all right, but they can't ride in first-class. It's coach for them.

----------CHAPTER 28--------- I have mentioned my great-aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint's family, and who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered from him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is, as far as slaves _can_ marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress, and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without any legal value. Her master or mistress could annul it any day they pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint's chamber door, that she might be within call. When she was married, she was told she might have the use of a small room in an outhouse. Her mother and her husband furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was allowed to sleep there when he was at home. But on the wedding evening, the bride was ordered to her old post on the entry floor. Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to be a mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled to lie at her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give premature birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume her place on the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint's babe needed her attentions. She kept her station there through summer and winter, until she had given premature birth to six children; and all the while she was employed as night-nurse to Mrs. Flint's children. Finally, toiling all day, and being deprived of rest at night, completely broke down her constitution, and Dr. Flint declared it was impossible she could ever become the mother of a living child. The fear of losing so valuable a servant by death, now induced them to allow her to sleep in her little room in the out-house, except when there was sickness in the family. She afterwards had two feeble babes, one of whom died in a few days, and the other in four weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow as she held the last dead baby in her arms. "I wish it could have lived," she said; "it is not the will of God that any of my children should live. But I will try to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven." Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint's family. Indeed, she was the _factotum_ of the household. Nothing went on well without her. She was my mother's twin sister, and, as far as was in her power, she supplied a mother's place to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I lived in my old master's house, and the bond between us was very strong. When my friends tried to discourage me from running away; she always encouraged me. When they thought I had better return and ask my master's pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never to yield. She said if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my children; and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life. After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel down to listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack! "I am old, and have not long to live," she used to say; "and I could die happy if I could only see you and the children free. You must pray to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness." I would beg her not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I should always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life. A word from her always strengthened me; and not me only. The whole family relied upon her judgement, and were guided by her advice. I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter. She was very ill, and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint's house for several years. They had treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now. She was grateful for permission to watch by the death-bed of her child. They had always been devoted to each other; and now they sat looking into each other's eyes, longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both. My aunt had been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and the last day she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance, she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she would try to hold up her hand; to let her know that all was well with her. Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side. His eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flint took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to her. "Martha," said he, "aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for her sake." She replied, "Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little know me if you think I can feel any thing but good will for her children." "I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of it," said he; "and that Linda would come to supply her aunt's place. She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for her. I wish it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken away from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age." He knew he was touching a tender chord. Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, "It was not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren are gone; and of my nine children only one is left. God help me!" To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow. I knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had helped to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and the thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last, as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one inquire, "How is she?" and he answered, "She is dead." My little cell seemed whirling round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me. I had no need to ask any questions. He whispered, "Linda, she died happy." I could not weep. My fixed gaze troubled him. "Don't look _so_" he said. "Don't add to my poor mother's trouble. Remember how much she has to bear, and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her." Ah, yes, that blessed old grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms of a slave-mother's life. She did indeed need consolation! Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her health by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest. But now she became very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would be a beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her feet. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor's family burial-place. No colored person had ever been allowed interment in the white people's burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of your family reposed together in the old graveyard of the slaves. He therefore replied, "I have no objection to complying with your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy's _mother_ may have some choice as to where her remains shall be deposited." It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings. When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from _her_. She might have added with touching pathos, "I was so long _used_ to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor." My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense; and slaveholders are always ready to grant _such_ favors to slaves and their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, but perfectly respectable. She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs. Flint's minister read the funeral service. There was a large concourse of colored people, bond and free, and a few white persons who had always been friendly to our family. Dr. Flint's carriage was in the procession; and when the body was deposited in its humble resting place, the mistress dropped a tear, and returned to her carriage, probably thinking she had performed her duty nobly. It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern travellers, passing through the place, might have described this tribute of respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the "patriarchal institution;" a touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders and their servants; and tender-hearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed this impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. _We_ could have told them a different story. We could have given them a chapter of wrongs and sufferings, that would have touched their hearts, if they _had_ any hearts to feel for the colored people. We could have told them how the poor old slave-mother had toiled, year after year, to earn eight hundred dollars to buy her son Phillip's right to his own earnings; and how that same Phillip paid the expenses of the funeral, which they regarded as doing so much credit to the master. We could also have told them of a poor, blighted young creature, shut up in a living grave for years, to avoid the tortures that would be inflicted on her, if she ventured to come out and look on the face of her departed friend. All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole, waiting for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping, sometimes falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the living. It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had always been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported her. But her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble were leaving deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to knock for me to come to the trapdoor, and each place had a different meaning. She now came oftener than she had done, and talked to me of her dead daughter, while tears trickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks. I said all I could to comfort her; but it was a sad reflection, that instead of being able to help her, I was a constant source of anxiety and trouble. The poor old back was fitted to its burden. It bent under it, but did not break. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- I never could tell how we reached the wharf. My brain was all of a whirl, and my limbs tottered under me. At an appointed place we met my uncle Phillip, who had started before us on a different route, that he might reach the wharf first, and give us timely warning if there was any danger. A row-boat was in readiness. As I was about to step in, I felt something pull me gently, and turning round I saw Benny, looking pale and anxious. He whispered in my ear, "I've been peeping into the doctor's window, and he's at home. Good by, mother. Don't cry; I'll come." He hastened away. I clasped the hand of my good uncle, to whom I owed so much, and of Peter, the brave, generous friend who had volunteered to run such terrible risks to secure my safety. To this day I remember how his bright face beamed with joy, when he told me he had discovered a safe method for me to escape. Yet that intelligent, enterprising, noble-hearted man was a chattel! Liable, by the laws of a country that calls itself civilized, to be sold with horses and pigs! We parted in silence. Our hearts were all too full for words! Swiftly the boat glided over the water. After a while, one of the sailors said, "Don't be down-hearted, madam. We will take you safely to your husband, in ----." At first I could not imagine what he meant; but I had presence of mind to think that it probably referred to something the captain had told him; so I thanked him, and said I hoped we should have pleasant weather. When I entered the vessel the captain came forward to meet me. He was an elderly man, with a pleasant countenance. He showed me to a little box of a cabin, where sat my friend Fanny. She started as if she had seen a spectre. She gazed on me in utter astonishment, and exclaimed, "Linda, can this be _you_? or is it your ghost?" When we were locked in each other's arms, my overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained. My sobs reached the ears of the captain, who came and very kindly reminded us, that for his safety, as well as our own, it would be prudent for us not to attract any attention. He said that when there was a sail in sight he wished us to keep below; but at other times, he had no objection to our being on deck. He assured us that he would keep a good lookout, and if we acted prudently, he thought we should be in no danger. He had represented us as women going to meet our husbands in ----. We thanked him, and promised to observe carefully all the directions he gave us. Fanny and I now talked by ourselves, low and quietly, in our little cabin. She told me of the suffering she had gone through in making her escape, and of her terrors while she was concealed in her mother's house. Above all, she dwelt on the agony of separation from all her children on that dreadful auction day. She could scarcely credit me, when I told her of the place where I had passed nearly seven years. "We have the same sorrows," said I. "No," replied she, "you are going to see your children soon, and there is no hope that I shall ever even hear from mine." The vessel was soon under way, but we made slow progress. The wind was against us, I should not have cared for this, if we had been out of sight of the town; but until there were miles of water between us and our enemies, we were filled with constant apprehensions that the constables would come on board. Neither could I feel quite at ease with the captain and his men. I was an entire stranger to that class of people, and I had heard that sailors were rough, and sometimes cruel. We were so completely in their power, that if they were bad men, our situation would be dreadful. Now that the captain was paid for our passage, might he not be tempted to make more money by giving us up to those who claimed us as property? I was naturally of a confiding disposition, but slavery had made me suspicious of every body. Fanny did not share my distrust of the captain or his men. She said she was afraid at first, but she had been on board three days while the vessel lay in the dock, and nobody had betrayed her, or treated her otherwise than kindly. The captain soon came to advise us to go on deck for fresh air. His friendly and respectful manner, combined with Fanny's testimony, reassured me, and we went with him. He placed us in a comfortable seat, and occasionally entered into conversation. He told us he was a Southerner by birth, and had spent the greater part of his life in the Slave States, and that he had recently lost a brother who traded in slaves. "But," said he, "it is a pitiable and degrading business, and I always felt ashamed to acknowledge my brother in connection with it." As we passed Snaky Swamp, he pointed to it, and said, "There is a slave territory that defies all the laws." I thought of the terrible days I had spent there, and though it was not called Dismal Swamp, it made me feel very dismal as I looked at it. I shall never forget that night. The balmy air of spring was so refreshing! And how shall I describe my sensations when we were fairly sailing on Chesapeake Bay? O, the beautiful sunshine! the exhilarating breeze! And I could enjoy them without fear or restraint. I had never realized what grand things air and sunlight are till I had been deprived of them. Ten days after we left land we were approaching Philadelphia. The captain said we should arrive there in the night, but he thought we had better wait till morning, and go on shore in broad daylight, as the best way to avoid suspicion. I replied, "You know best. But will you stay on board and protect us?" He saw that I was suspicious, and he said he was sorry, now that he had brought us to the end of our voyage, to find I had so little confidence in him. Ah, if he had ever been a slave he would have known how difficult it was to trust a white man. He assured us that we might sleep through the night without fear; that he would take care we were not left unprotected. Be it said to the honor of this captain, Southerner as he was, that if Fanny and I had been white ladies, and our passage lawfully engaged, he could not have treated us more respectfully. My intelligent friend, Peter, had rightly estimated the character of the man to whose honor he had intrusted us. The next morning I was on deck as soon as the day dawned. I called Fanny to see the sun rise, for the first time in our lives, on free soil; for such I _then_ believed it to be. We watched the reddening sky, and saw the great orb come up slowly out of the water, as it seemed. Soon the waves began to sparkle, and every thing caught the beautiful glow. Before us lay the city of strangers. We looked at each other, and the eyes of both were moistened with tears. We had escaped from slavery, and we supposed ourselves to be safe from the hunters. But we were alone in the world, and we had left dear ties behind us; ties cruelly sundered by the demon Slavery. ----------CHAPTER 31--------- I had heard that the poor slave had many friends at the north. I trusted we should find some of them. Meantime, we would take it for granted that all were friends, till they proved to the contrary. I sought out the kind captain, thanked him for his attentions, and told him I should never cease to be grateful for the service he had rendered us. I gave him a message to the friends I had left at home, and he promised to deliver it. We were placed in a row-boat, and in about fifteen minutes were landed on a wood wharf in Philadelphia. As I stood looking round, the friendly captain touched me on the shoulder, and said, "There is a respectable-looking colored man behind you. I will speak to him about the New York trains, and tell him you wish to go directly on." I thanked him, and asked him to direct me to some shops where I could buy gloves and veils. He did so, and said he would talk with the colored man till I returned. I made what haste I could. Constant exercise on board the vessel, and frequent rubbing with salt water, had nearly restored the use of my limbs. The noise of the great city confused me, but I found the shops, and bought some double veils and gloves for Fanny and myself. The shopman told me they were so many levies. I had never heard the word before, but I did not tell him so. I thought if he knew I was a stranger he might ask me where I came from. I gave him a gold piece, and when he returned the change, I counted it, and found out how much a levy was. I made my way back to the wharf, where the captain introduced me to the colored man, as the Rev. Jeremiah Durham, minister of Bethel church. He took me by the hand, as if I had been an old friend. He told us we were too late for the morning cars to New York, and must wait until the evening, or the next morning. He invited me to go home with him, assuring me that his wife would give me a cordial welcome; and for my friend he would provide a home with one of his neighbors. I thanked him for so much kindness to strangers, and told him if I must be detained, I should like to hunt up some people who formerly went from our part of the country. Mr. Durham insisted that I should dine with him, and then he would assist me in finding my friends. The sailors came to bid us good by. I shook their hardy hands, with tears in my eyes. They had all been kind to us, and they had rendered us a greater service than they could possibly conceive of. I had never seen so large a city, or been in contact with so many people in the streets. It seemed as if those who passed looked at us with an expression of curiosity. My face was so blistered and peeled, by sitting on deck, in wind and sunshine, that I thought they could not easily decide to what nation I belonged. Mrs. Durham met me with a kindly welcome, without asking any questions. I was tired, and her friendly manner was a sweet refreshment. God bless her! I was sure that she had comforted other weary hearts, before I received her sympathy. She was surrounded by her husband and children, in a home made sacred by protecting laws. I thought of my own children, and sighed. After dinner Mr. Durham went with me in quest of the friends I had spoken of. They went from my native town, and I anticipated much pleasure in looking on familiar faces. They were not at home, and we retracted our steps through streets delightfully clean. On the way, Mr. Durham observed that I had spoken to him of a daughter I expected to meet; that he was surprised, for I looked so young he had taken me for a single woman. He was approaching a subject on which I was extremely sensitive. He would ask about my husband next, I thought, and if I answered him truly, what would he think of me? I told him I had two children, one in New York the other at the south. He asked some further questions, and I frankly told him some of the most important events of my life. It was painful for me to do it; but I would not deceive him. If he was desirous of being my friend, I thought he ought to know how far I was worthy of it. "Excuse me, if I have tried your feelings," said he. "I did not question you from idle curiosity. I wanted to understand your situation, in order to know whether I could be of any service to you, or your little girl. Your straight-forward answers do you credit; but don't answer every body so openly. It might give some heartless people a pretext for treating you with contempt." That word _contempt_ burned me like coals of fire. I replied, "God alone knows how I have suffered; and He, I trust, will forgive me. If I am permitted to have my children, I intend to be a good mother, and to live in such a manner that people cannot treat me with contempt." "I respect your sentiments," said he. "Place your trust in God, and be governed by good principles, and you will not fail to find friends." When we reached home, I went to my room, glad to shut out the world for a while. The words he had spoken made an indelible impression upon me. They brought up great shadows from the mournful past. In the midst of my meditations I was startled by a knock at the door. Mrs. Durham entered, her face all beaming with kindness, to say that there was an anti-slavery friend down stairs, who would like to see me. I overcame my dread of encountering strangers, and went with her. Many questions were asked concerning my experiences, and my escape from slavery; but I observed how careful they all were not to say any thing that might wound my feelings. How gratifying this was, can be fully understood only by those who have been accustomed to be treated as if they were not included within the pale of human beings. The anti-slavery friend had come to inquire into my plans, and to offer assistance, if needed. Fanny was comfortably established, for the present, with a friend of Mr. Durham. The Anti-Slavery Society agreed to pay her expenses to New York. The same was offered to me, but I declined to accept it, telling them that my grandmother had given me sufficient to pay my expenses to the end of my journey. We were urged to remain in Philadelphia a few days, until some suitable escort could be found for us. I gladly accepted the proposition, for I had a dread of meeting slaveholders, and some dread also of railroads. I had never entered a railroad car in my life, and it seemed to me quite an important event. That night I sought my pillow with feelings I had never carried to it before. I verily believed myself to be a free woman. I was wakeful for a long time, and I had no sooner fallen asleep, than I was roused by fire-bells. I jumped up, and hurried on my clothes. Where I came from, every body hastened to dress themselves on such occasions. The white people thought a great fire might be used as a good opportunity for insurrection, and that it was best to be in readiness; and the colored people were ordered out to labor in extinguishing the flames. There was but one engine in our town, and colored women and children were often required to drag it to the river's edge and fill it. Mrs. Durham's daughter slept in the same room with me, and seeing that she slept through all the din, I thought it was my duty to wake her. "What's the matter?" said she, rubbing her eyes. "They're screaming fire in the streets, and the bells are ringing," I replied. "What of that?" said she, drowsily. "We are used to it. We never get up, without the fire is very near. What good would it do?" I was quite surprised that it was not necessary for us to go and help fill the engine. I was an ignorant child, just beginning to learn how things went on in great cities. At daylight, I heard women crying fresh fish, berries, radishes, and various other things. All this was new to me. I dressed myself at an early hour, and sat at the window to watch that unknown tide of life. Philadelphia seemed to me a wonderfully great place. At the breakfast table, my idea of going out to drag the engine was laughed over, and I joined in the mirth. I went to see Fanny, and found her so well contented among her new friends that she was in no haste to leave. I was also very happy with my kind hostess. She had had advantages for education, and was vastly my superior. Every day, almost every hour, I was adding to my little stock of knowledge. She took me out to see the city as much as she deemed prudent. One day she took me to an artist's room, and showed me the portraits of some of her children. I had never seen any paintings of colored people before, and they seemed to be beautiful. At the end of five days, one of Mrs. Durham's friends offered to accompany us to New York the following morning. As I held the hand of my good hostess in a parting clasp, I longed to know whether her husband had repeated to her what I had told him. I supposed he had, but she never made any allusion to it. I presume it was the delicate silence of womanly sympathy. When Mr. Durham handed us our tickets, he said, "I am afraid you will have a disagreeable ride; but I could not procure tickets for the first-class cars." Supposing I had not given him money enough, I offered more. "O, no," said he, "they could not be had for any money. They don't allow colored people to go in the first-class cars." This was the first chill to my enthusiasm about the Free States. Colored people were allowed to ride in a filthy box, behind white people, at the south, but there they were not required to pay for the privilege. It made me sad to find how the north aped the customs of slavery. We were stowed away in a large, rough car, with windows on each side, too high for us to look out without standing up. It was crowded with people, apparently of all nations. There were plenty of beds and cradles, containing screaming and kicking babies. Every other man had a cigar or pipe in his mouth, and jugs of whiskey were handed round freely. The fumes of the whiskey and the dense tobacco smoke were sickening to my senses, and my mind was equally nauseated by the coarse jokes and ribald songs around me. It was a very disagreeable ride. Since that time there has been some improvement in these matters.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 35 based on the provided context.

chapter 32|chapter 33|chapter 34|chapter 35

Linda and Mrs. Bruce go off on vacation, and Linda experiences plenty of ugly prejudice, even though she's working as a nurse for Mrs. Bruce's child. Like: The waiters won't give her tea when she's eating with Mrs. Bruce. She's not allowed to sit in a chair and hold the child on her lap, but has to place the child in the chair and stand behind her. The servants won't bring her dinner to her room when Mrs. Bruce asks them to, so she has to go down to the kitchen to get it herself. Finally, Linda puts her foot down and says that Mrs. Bruce is paying for her just like any of the white servants, so she'd better be treated like one of them. This actually works. See, Linda says, you've just got to stand up for your rights.

----------CHAPTER 32--------- When we arrived in New York, I was half crazed by the crowd of coachmen calling out, "Carriage, ma'am?" We bargained with one to take us to Sullivan Street for twelve shillings. A burly Irishman stepped up and said, "I'll tak' ye for sax shillings." The reduction of half the price was an object to us, and we asked if he could take us right away. "Troth an I will, ladies," he replied. I noticed that the hackmen smiled at each other, and I inquired whether his conveyance was decent. "Yes, it's dacent it is, marm. Devil a bit would I be after takin' ladies in a cab that was not dacent." We gave him our checks. He went for the baggage, and soon reappeared, saying, "This way, if you plase, ladies." We followed, and found our trunks on a truck, and we were invited to take our seats on them. We told him that was not what we bargained for, and he must take the trunks off. He swore they should not be touched till we had paid him six shillings. In our situation it was not prudent to attract attention, and I was about to pay him what he required, when a man near by shook his head for me not to do it. After a great ado we got rid of the Irishman, and had our trunks fastened on a hack. We had been recommended to a boarding-house in Sullivan Street, and thither we drove. There Fanny and I separated. The Anti-Slavery Society provided a home for her, and I afterwards heard of her in prosperous circumstances. I sent for an old friend from my part of the country, who had for some time been doing business in New York. He came immediately. I told him I wanted to go to my daughter, and asked him to aid me in procuring an interview. I cautioned him not to let it be known to the family that I had just arrived from the south, because they supposed I had been at the north seven years. He told me there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the same town I did, and I had better go to her house, and have my daughter meet me there. I accepted the proposition thankfully, and he agreed to escort me to Brooklyn. We crossed Fulton ferry, went up Myrtle Avenue, and stopped at the house he designated. I was just about to enter, when two girls passed. My friend called my attention to them. I turned, and recognized in the eldest, Sarah, the daughter of a woman who used to live with my grandmother, but who had left the south years ago. Surprised and rejoiced at this unexpected meeting, I threw my arms round her, and inquired concerning her mother. "You take no notice of the other girl," said my friend. I turned, and there stood my Ellen! I pressed her to my heart, then held her away from me to take a look at her. She had changed a good deal in the two years since I parted from her. Signs of neglect could be discerned by eyes less observing than a mother's. My friend invited us all to go into the house; but Ellen said she had been sent of an errand, which she would do as quickly as possible, and go home and ask Mrs. Hobbs to let her come and see me. It was agreed that I should send for her the next day. Her companion, Sarah, hastened to tell her mother of my arrival. When I entered the house, I found the mistress of it absent, and I waited for her return. Before I saw her, I heard her saying, "Where is Linda Brent? I used to know her father and mother." Soon Sarah came with her mother. So there was quite a company of us, all from my grandmother's neighborhood. These friends gathered round me and questioned me eagerly. They laughed, they cried, and they shouted. They thanked God that I had got away from my persecutors and was safe on Long Island. It was a day of great excitement. How different from the silent days I had passed in my dreary den! The next morning was Sunday. My first waking thoughts were occupied with the note I was to send to Mrs. Hobbs, the lady with whom Ellen lived. That I had recently come into that vicinity was evident; otherwise I should have sooner inquired for my daughter. It would not do to let them know I had just arrived from the south, for that would involve the suspicion of my having been harbored there, and might bring trouble, if not ruin, on several people. I like a straightforward course, and am always reluctant to resort to subterfuges. So far as my ways have been crooked, I charge them all upon slavery. It was that system of violence and wrong which now left me no alternative but to enact a falsehood. I began my note by stating that I had recently arrived from Canada, and was very desirous to have my daughter come to see me. She came and brought a message from Mrs. Hobbs, inviting me to her house, and assuring me that I need not have any fears. The conversation I had with my child did not leave my mind at ease. When I asked if she was well treated, she answered yes; but there was no heartiness in the tone, and it seemed to me that she said it from an unwillingness to have me troubled on her account. Before she left me, she asked very earnestly, "Mother, will you take me to live with you?" It made me sad to think that I could not give her a home till I went to work and earned the means; and that might take me a long time. When she was placed with Mrs. Hobbs, the agreement was that she should be sent to school She had been there two years, and was now nine years old, and she scarcely knew her letters. There was no excuse for this, for there were good public schools in Brooklyn, to which she could have been sent without expense. She staid with me till dark, and I went home with her. I was received in a friendly manner by the family, and all agreed in saying that Ellen was a useful, good girl. Mrs. Hobbs looked me coolly in the face, and said, "I suppose you know that my cousin, Mr. Sands, has _given_ her to my eldest daughter. She will make a nice waiting-maid for her when she grows up." I did not answer a word. How _could_ she, who knew by experience the strength of a mother's love, and who was perfectly aware of the relation Mr. Sands bore to my children,--how _could_ she look me in the face, while she thrust such a dagger into my heart? I was no longer surprised that they had kept her in such a state of ignorance. Mr. Hobbs had formerly been wealthy, but he had failed, and afterwards obtained a subordinate situation in the Custom House. Perhaps they expected to return to the south some day; and Ellen's knowledge was quite sufficient for a slave's condition. I was impatient to go to work and earn money, that I might change the uncertain position of my children. Mr. Sands had not kept his promise to emancipate them. I had also been deceived about Ellen. What security had I with regard to Benjamin? I felt that I had none. I returned to my friend's house in an uneasy state of mind. In order to protect my children, it was necessary that I should own myself. I called myself free, and sometimes felt so; but I knew I was insecure. I sat down that night and wrote a civil letter to Dr. Flint, asking him to state the lowest terms on which he would sell me; and as I belonged by law to his daughter, I wrote to her also, making a similar request. Since my arrival at the north I had not been unmindful of my dear brother William. I had made diligent inquiries for him, and having heard of him in Boston, I went thither. When I arrived there, I found he had gone to New Bedford. I wrote to that place, and was informed he had gone on a whaling voyage, and would not return for some months. I went back to New York to get employment near Ellen. I received an answer from Dr. Flint, which gave me no encouragement. He advised me to return and submit myself to my rightful owners, and then any request I might make would be granted. I lent this letter to a friend, who lost it; otherwise I would present a copy to my readers. ----------CHAPTER 33--------- My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed strangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could, of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully served. One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe, and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions, but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was engaged for a month. The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more cheerful. The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs's salary at the Custom House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed. That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes, occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was any thing improper in a mother's making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel otherwise. Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It _must_ be he--and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other's adventures! I took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den. He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are formed by suffering together. ----------CHAPTER 34--------- My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a reply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind that the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had no idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search of me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred dollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy's death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept the letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:-- Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother, it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect. From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you. Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my sister was always attached to you, and that you were never treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house, and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least, felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away. Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age she needs the consolation of having her children round her. Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church. In her Christian life she taught us how to live--and, O, too high the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have seen us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend and well wisher. This letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on "the stupidity of the African race." I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their cordial invitation--a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with base ingratitude. Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a friend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my journey immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting for a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal power to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money, but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to their "peculiar institution," and he becomes unpopular. There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. "O mother!" he exclaimed, "here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d'you do?" O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go. "Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, 'O Ben, I wish I was going too.' I thought she'd know ever so much; but she don't know so much as I do; for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I 'spose free boys can get along here at the north as well as white boys." I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with the wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to tell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston. Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate family, who were waiting for me with "open arms," were doomed to disappointment. As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews with my darling daughter. But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air, and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is, to be free to _say_ so! ----------CHAPTER 35--------- It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We went to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded for tea, Mrs. Bruce said, "Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come to the table with me." I replied, "I know it is time baby had her supper, but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being insulted." "O no, not if you are with _me_," she said. I saw several white nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the extreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated, than a gruff voice said, "Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here." I looked up, and, to my astonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a colored man. If his office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at least, have done it politely. I replied, "I shall not get up, unless the captain comes and takes me up." No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs. Bruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the other nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly waited on. Next morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was making a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, "Take my arm, Linda, and we'll go in together." The landlord heard her, and said, "Madam, will you allow your nurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?" I knew this was to be attributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did not mind it. At Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with gladness, of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people, but here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round me with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who would recognize me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time. We soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said, were, "O, mother, don't go to Mrs. Hobbs's. Her brother, Mr. Thorne, has come from the south, and may be he'll tell where you are." I accepted the warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and would try to see her when I came back. Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a "Jim Crow car," on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride through the streets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where I found the same manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings, and represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway before dark, and put up at the Pavilion--a large hotel, beautifully situated by the sea-side--a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty or forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the ladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse tinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary and followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young man, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or three times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As there was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon the young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, "Will you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you will have a good supper." This was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I looked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one shade lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my presence were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce ordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered for a few days; but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they soon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The landlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his servants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of other boarders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike. My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with _themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such treatment; that there was no difference in the price of board for colored and white servants, and there was no justification for difference of treatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled under foot by our oppressors.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 38, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 36|chapter 37|chapter 38|chapter 39

Dr. Flint's recently married daughter writes Linda, asking her to come back to the South. Or, if Linda would rather, she can buy herself. As long as she just comes back. Linda doesn't respond because she's not stupid enough to fall for that trick, and even if she could buy herself free, it's totally ridiculous that she would have to spend her hard-earned money on that rather than paying for her children's education and future.

----------CHAPTER 36--------- After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and see Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed Mrs. Hobbs's southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid seeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen, and insisted on my going up stairs. "My brother wants to see you," said she, "and he is sorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me to say to you that he owes thanks to good old aunt Martha for too many little acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her grandchild." This Mr. Thorne had become poor and reckless long before he left the south, and such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to borrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider an equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to feel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as he was here, and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be gained by trying to avoid him; on the contrary, it might be the means of exciting his ill will. I followed his sister up stairs. He met me in a very friendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I had a good place, where I felt happy. I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good thoughtful child, never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for my safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and troubles; but a mother's observing eye easily perceived that she was not happy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious. When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally, I ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was continually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for rum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they had to call her to pour out the liquor for them. "But for all that," said she, "Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can't help liking him. I feel sorry for him." I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and Benjamin a home, and send them to school. She was always desirous not to add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till years afterwards that Mr. Thorne's intemperance was not the only annoyance she suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild. I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday, I found Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house. "O, mother," said she, "I've been waiting for you this long time. I'm afraid Mr. Thorne has written to tell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell you all about it!" The story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grape-vine arbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which he tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time, and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and carried them to the children, saying, "I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been writing to." "I'm sure I don't know, and don't care," replied the oldest of the children; "and I don't see how it concerns you." "But it does concern me," replied Ellen; "for I'm afraid he's been writing to the south about my mother." They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put the fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her. They were no sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, "I declare, Ellen, I believe you are right." The contents of Mr. Thorne's letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as follows: "I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be taken very easily, if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to swear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my country, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws." He concluded by informing the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children carried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother's room for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw him go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the post office. The natural inference was, that he had sent to Dr. Flint a copy of those fragments. When he returned, his sister accused him of it, and he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the next morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York, before any of the family were astir. It was evident that I had no time to lose; and I hastened back to the city with a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all my plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon Slavery! I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not concealed it merely on account of being a fugitive; that would have made her anxious, but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued her good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the particulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her to know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly, without explaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went home resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face attracted her attention, and, in answer to her kind inquiries, I poured out my full heart to her, before bed time. She listened with true womanly sympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my heart blessed her! Early the next morning, Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted. They said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great if the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of one of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother could arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts were much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine by Southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her so. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs, who felt badly about her brother's treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on condition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise. She came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school satchel on her arm, containing a few articles. It was late in October, and I knew the child must suffer; and not daring to go out in the streets to purchase any thing, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into one for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good by, and when she saw that I had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She said, "Wait for me, Linda," and went out. She soon returned with a nice warm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom of heaven. My brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to Boston by the Stonington route, as there was less Southern travel in that direction. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I formerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat Rhode Island in safety. That boat employed colored hands, but I knew that colored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for the seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night air, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for us. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favor, that she would treat us well. He said to me, "Go and speak to the captain yourself by and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure that he will not let her sleep on deck." With these kind words and a shake of the hand he departed. The boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home where I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to purchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he would. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave me three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner I said, "You have made a mistake; I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot possibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter." She assured me there was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were allowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much travelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain's office, and she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the hand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our tickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was contrary to their custom, but he would see that we had berths below; he would also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars; of that he was not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the boat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the ladies' cabin. He came afterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he had spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much surprised at receiving so much kindness. I don't know whether the pleasing face of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess inferred from Lawyer Hopper's manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded with him in my behalf. When the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and showed us to seats in the first car, nearest the engine. He asked us to take seats next the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on toward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we reached Boston in safety. The day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I was beyond the reach of the bloodhounds; and, for the first time during many years, I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed their reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a swelling heart. Their every motion delighted me. I could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend, that we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to Mrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for that purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age, so instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself till she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed pleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their books. ----------CHAPTER 37--------- In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again, in this world, should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I had lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr. Bruce wished the child to visit some of her mother's relatives in England, and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left Ellen to remain in the house with my friend and go to school. We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had seen in American hotels; but my situation was indescribably more pleasant. For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. Ensconced in a pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow, for the first time, with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated freedom. As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the wonders of that great city; but I watched the tide of life that flowed through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in our Southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all children--sometimes docile and sometimes wayward. We next went to Steventon, in Berkshire. It was a small town, said to be the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six shillings, and seven shillings, a week, and women for sixpence, and sevenpence, a day, out of which they boarded themselves. Of course they lived in the most primitive manner; it could not be otherwise, where a woman's wages for an entire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat. They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the poorest poor. But when I visited them in their little thatched cottages, I felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America. They labored hard; but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer, through heat and cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble; but they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come, in the dead of night, and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer could come and take from him his wife, or his daughter. They must separate to earn their living; but the parents knew where their children were going, and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor people. Schools were established among them, and benevolent societies were active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law forbidding them to learn to read and write; and if they helped each other in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as was the case with myself and poor, pious, old uncle Fred. I repeat that the most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousand fold better off than the most pampered American slave. I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to paint their condition so rose-colored as the Hon. Miss Murray paints the condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of _my_ experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If she were to lay aside her title, and, instead of visiting among the fashionable, become domesticated, as a poor governess, on some plantation in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her tell quite a different story. My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my having there received strong religious impressions. The contemptuous manner in which the communion had been administered to colored people, in my native place; the church membership of Dr. Flint, and others like him; and the buying and selling of slaves, by professed ministers of the gospel, had given me a prejudice against the Episcopal church. The whole service seemed to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace entered my heart, and I knelt at the communion table, I trust, in true humility of soul. I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated. During all that time, I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice against color. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to return to America. ----------CHAPTER 38--------- We had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance spectres seemed to rise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be afraid of one's native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I hastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and improving at her school; but Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been left at a good place to learn a trade, and for several months every thing worked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favorite with his fellow-apprentices; but one day they accidentally discovered a fact they had never before suspected--that he was colored! This at once transformed him into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans, others American-born Irish; and it was offensive to their dignity to have a "nigger" among them, after they had been told that he _was_ a "nigger." They began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned the same, they resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to stand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support himself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a whaling voyage. When I received these tidings I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached myself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now all I could do was to pray to the heavenly Father to guide and protect him. Not long after my return, I received the following letter from Miss Emily Flint, now Mrs. Dodge:-- In this you will recognize the hand of your friend and mistress. Having heard that you had gone with a family to Europe, I have waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself; but I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Think this over, and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion. Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and mistress. Of course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I felt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions. "Come up into my parlor," said the spider to the fly; "Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy." It was plain that Dr. Flint's family were apprised of my movements, since they knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from them; but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in future. The money I had earned, I was desirous to devote to the education of my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but unjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of property. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that time had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts in food and clothing. My children certainly belonged to me; but though Dr. Flint had incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of money for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and would probably still give his daughter a claim to my children; but I regarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I was bound to respect. The Fugitive Slave Law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had not then stooped under chains to enter her courts of justice, so called. I knew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her love of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honored the old Commonwealth beyond her deserts. ----------CHAPTER 39--------- For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably in Boston. At the end of that time, my brother William offered to send Ellen to a boarding school. It required a great effort for me to consent to part with her, for I had few near ties, and it was her presence that made my two little rooms seem home-like. But my judgment prevailed over my selfish feelings. I made preparations for her departure. During the two years we had lived together I had often resolved to tell her something about her father; but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage. I had a shrinking dread of diminishing my child's love. I knew she must have curiosity on the subject, but she had never asked a question. She was always very careful not to say any thing to remind me of my troubles. Now that she was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned, she might hear my story from some one who did not understand the palliating circumstances; and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject, her sensitive nature might receive a rude shock. When we retired for the night, she said, "Mother, it is very hard to leave you alone. I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to improve myself. But you will write to me often; won't you, mother?" I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer her. But in a calm, solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, "Listen to me, Ellen; I have something to tell you!" I recounted my early sufferings in slavery, and told her how nearly they had crushed me. I began to tell her how they had driven me into a great sin, when she clasped me in her arms, and exclaimed, "O, don't, mother! Please don't tell me any more." I said, "But, my child, I want you to know about your father." "I know all about it, mother," she replied; "I am nothing to my father, and he is nothing to me. All my love is for you. I was with him five months in Washington, and he never cared for me. He never spoke to me as he did to his little Fanny. I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny's nurse told me so, but she said I must never tell any body, and I never did. I used to wish he would take me in his arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or that he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought if he was my own father, he ought to love me. I was a little girl then, and didn't know any better. But now I never think any thing about my father. All my love is for you." She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the affection of my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion of my history. If I had, I should have spoken to her long before; for my pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to some one I could trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had manifested towards her unfortunate mother. The next morning, she and her uncle started on their journey to the village in New York, where she was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully lonely. I was thankful when a message came from a lady, accustomed to employ me, requesting me to come and sew in her family for several weeks. On my return, I found a letter from brother William. He thought of opening an anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, and combining with it the sale of some books and stationery; and he wanted me to unite with him. We tried it, but it was not successful. We found warm anti-slavery friends there, but the feeling was not general enough to support such an establishment. I passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac and Amy Post, practical believers in the Christian doctrine of human brotherhood. They measure a man's worth by his character, not by his complexion. The memory of those beloved and honored friends will remain with me to my latest hour.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 1 with the given context.

chapter 40|chapter 1

As the narrative opens, Linda Brent recounts the "unusually fortunate circumstances" of her early childhood before she realized she was a slave. Linda's father is a carpenter who -- because of his extraordinary skills -- is granted many of the privileges of a free man. The chapter introduces Linda's mother, her brother William, and her Uncle Benjamin, who is sold at age ten. Linda also introduces her maternal grandmother , a strong-willed, resourceful woman who establishes a bakery to earn money to buy her children's freedom. She manages to earn $300, which she loans to her mistress, who never repays her. When Linda is six years old, her mother dies. When she is 12, her mistress dies, and Linda is sold to the five-year-old daughter of her mistress' sister.

----------CHAPTER 40--------- My brother, being disappointed in his project, concluded to go to California; and it was agreed that Benjamin should go with him. Ellen liked her school, and was a great favorite there. They did not know her history, and she did not tell it, because she had no desire to make capital out of their sympathy. But when it was accidentally discovered that her mother was a fugitive slave, every method was used to increase her advantages and diminish her expenses. I was alone again. It was necessary for me to be earning money, and I preferred that it should be among those who knew me. On my return from Rochester, I called at the house of Mr. Bruce, to see Mary, the darling little babe that had thawed my heart, when it was freezing into a cheerless distrust of all my fellow-beings. She was growing a tall girl now, but I loved her always. Mr. Bruce had married again, and it was proposed that I should become nurse to a new infant. I had but one hesitation, and that was feeling of insecurity in New York, now greatly increased by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law. However, I resolved to try the experiment. I was again fortunate in my employer. The new Mrs. Bruce was an American, brought up under aristocratic influences, and still living in the midst of them; but if she had any prejudice against color, I was never made aware of it; and as for the system of slavery, she had a most hearty dislike of it. No sophistry of Southerners could blind her to its enormity. She was a person of excellent principles and a noble heart. To me, from that hour to the present, she has been a true and sympathizing friend. Blessings be with her and hers! About the time that I reentered the Bruce family, an event occurred of disastrous import to the colored people. The slave Hamlin, the first fugitive that came under the new law, was given up by the bloodhounds of the north to the bloodhounds of the south. It was the beginning of a reign of terror to the colored population. The great city rushed on in its whirl of excitement, taking no note of the "short and simple annals of the poor." But while fashionables were listening to the thrilling voice of Jenny Lind in Metropolitan Hall, the thrilling voices of poor hunted colored people went up, in an agony of supplication, to the Lord, from Zion's church. Many families, who had lived in the city for twenty years, fled from it now. Many a poor washerwoman, who, by hard labor, had made herself a comfortable home, was obliged to sacrifice her furniture, bid a hurried farewell to friends, and seek her fortune among strangers in Canada. Many a wife discovered a secret she had never known before--that her husband was a fugitive, and must leave her to insure his own safety. Worse still, many a husband discovered that his wife had fled from slavery years ago, and as "the child follows the condition of its mother," the children of his love were liable to be seized and carried into slavery. Every where, in those humble homes, there was consternation and anguish. But what cared the legislators of the "dominant race" for the blood they were crushing out of trampled hearts? When my brother William spent his last evening with me, before he went to California, we talked nearly all the time of the distress brought on our oppressed people by the passage of this iniquitous law; and never had I seen him manifest such bitterness of spirit, such stern hostility to our oppressors. He was himself free from the operation of the law; for he did not run from any Slaveholding State, being brought into the Free States by his master. But I was subject to it; and so were hundreds of intelligent and industrious people all around us. I seldom ventured into the streets; and when it was necessary to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, or any of the family, I went as much as possible through back streets and by-ways. What a disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants, guiltless of offence, and seeking to perform their duties conscientiously, should be condemned to live in such incessant fear, and have nowhere to turn for protection! This state of things, of course, gave rise to many impromptu vigilance committees. Every colored person, and every friend of their persecuted race, kept their eyes wide open. Every evening I examined the newspapers carefully, to see what Southerners had put up at the hotels. I did this for my own sake, thinking my young mistress and her husband might be among the list; I wished also to give information to others, if necessary; for if many were "running to and fro," I resolved that "knowledge should be increased." This brings up one of my Southern reminiscences, which I will here briefly relate. I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to a wealthy man in our vicinity. His master died, leaving a son and daughter heirs to his large fortune. In the division of the slaves, Luke was included in the son's portion. This young man became a prey to the vices he went to the north, to complete his education, he carried his vices with him. He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs, by excessive dissipation. Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own helplessness. He kept a cowhide beside him, and, for the most trivial occurrence, he would order his attendant to bare his back, and kneel beside the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted. Some days he was not allowed to wear any thing but his shirt, in order to be in readiness to be flogged. A day seldom passed without his receiving more or less blows. If the slightest resistance was offered, the town constable was sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how much more the constable's strong arm was to be dreaded than the comparatively feeble one of his master. The arm of his tyrant grew weaker, and was finally palsied; and then the constable's services were in constant requisition. The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke's care, and was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his irritability and cruelty. As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism; and if Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the constable was immediately sent for. Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated. When I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch. One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man approaching, whose face was familiar to me. As he came nearer, I recognized Luke. I always rejoiced to see or hear of any one who had escaped from the black pit; I was peculiarly glad to see him on Northern soil, though I no longer called it _free_ soil. I well remembered what a desolate feeling it was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him cordially. At first, he did not know me; but when I mentioned my name, he remembered all about me. I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers. He replied, "De risk ain't so bad for me, as 'tis fur you. 'Cause I runned away from de speculator, and you runned away from de massa. Dem speculators vont spen dar money to come here fur a runaway, if dey ain't sartin sure to put dar hans right on him. An I tell you I's tuk good car 'bout dat. I had too hard times down dar, to let 'em ketch dis nigger." He then told me of the advice he had received, and the plans he had laid. I asked if he had money enough to take him to Canada. "'Pend upon it, I hab," he replied. "I tuk car fur dat. I'd bin workin all my days fur dem cussed whites, an got no pay but kicks and cuffs. So I tought dis nigger had a right to money nuff to bring him to de Free States. Massa Henry he lib till ebery body vish him dead; an ven he did die, I knowed de debbil would hab him, an vouldn't vant him to bring his money 'long too. So I tuk some of his bills, and put 'em in de pocket of his ole trousers. An ven he was buried, dis nigger ask fur dem ole trousers, an dey gub 'em to me." With a low, chuckling laugh, he added, "You see I didn't _steal_ it; dey _gub_ it to me. I tell you, I had mighty hard time to keep de speculator from findin it; but he didn't git it." This is a fair specimen of how the moral sense is educated by slavery. When a man has his wages stolen from him, year after year, and the laws sanction and enforce the theft, how can he be expected to have more regard to honesty than has the man who robs him? I have become somewhat enlightened, but I confess that I agree with poor, ignorant, much-abused Luke, in thinking he had a _right_ to that money, as a portion of his unpaid wages. He went to Canada forthwith, and I have not since heard from him. All that winter I lived in a state of anxiety. When I took the children out to breathe the air, I closely observed the countenances of all I met. I dreaded the approach of summer, when snakes and slaveholders make their appearance. I was, in fact, a slave in New York, as subject to slave laws as I had been in a Slave State. Strange incongruity in a State called free! Spring returned, and I received warning from the south that Dr. Flint knew of my return to my old place, and was making preparations to have me caught. I learned afterwards that my dress, and that of Mrs. Bruce's children, had been described to him by some of the Northern tools, which slaveholders employ for their base purposes, and then indulge in sneers at their cupidity and mean servility. I immediately informed Mrs. Bruce of my danger, and she took prompt measures for my safety. My place as nurse could not be supplied immediately, and this generous, sympathizing lady proposed that I should carry her baby away. It was a comfort to me to have the child with me; for the heart is reluctant to be torn away from every object it loves. But how few mothers would have consented to have one of their own babes become a fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on whom the legislators of the country had let loose the bloodhounds! When I spoke of the sacrifice she was making, in depriving herself of her dear baby, she replied, "It is better for you to have baby with you, Linda; for if they get on your track, they will be obliged to bring the child to me; and then, if there is a possibility of saving you, you shall be saved." This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her for harboring a fugitive slave; told her she was violating the laws of her country; and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She replied, "I am very well aware of it. It is imprisonment and one thousand dollars fine. Shame on my country that it _is_ so! I am ready to incur the penalty. I will go to the state's prison, rather than have any poor victim torn from _my_ house, to be carried back to slavery." The noble heart! The brave heart! The tears are in my eyes while I write of her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy with my persecuted people! I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of a senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This honorable gentleman would not have voted for the Fugitive Slave Law, as did the senator in "Uncle Tom's Cabin;" on the contrary, he was strongly opposed to it; but he was enough under its influence to be afraid of having me remain in his house many hours. So I was sent into the country, where I remained a month with the baby. When it was supposed that Dr. Flint's emissaries had lost track of me, and given up the pursuit for the present, I returned to New York. ----------CHAPTER 1--------- I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs. His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a piece of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was two years younger than myself--a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his death, left her mother and his three children free, with money to go to St. Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War; and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me; but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a little girl when she was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she would clothe herself and her children from the profits. Upon these terms, after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved profitable; and each year she laid by a little, which was saved for a fund to purchase her children. Her master died, and the property was divided among his heirs. The widow had her dower in the hotel which she continued to keep open. My grandmother remained in her service as a slave; but her children were divided among her master's children. As she had five, Benjamin, the youngest one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference in our ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He was a bright, handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven hundred and twenty dollars were paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow to my grandmother, but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with renewed energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her mistress one day begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon. The reader probably knows that no promise or writing given to a slave is legally binding; for, according to Southern laws, a slave, _being_ property, can _hold_ no property. When my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely to her honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave! To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother Willie and I often received portions of the crackers, cakes, and preserves, she made to sell; and after we ceased to be children we were indebted to her for many more important services. Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I learned, by the talk around me, that I was a slave. My mother's mistress was the daughter of my grandmother's mistress. She was the foster sister of my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother's breast. In fact, my mother had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress might obtain sufficient food. They played together as children; and, when they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to her whiter foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her children should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she kept her word. They all spoke kindly of my dead mother, who had been a slave merely in name, but in nature was noble and womanly. I grieved for her, and my young mind was troubled with the thought who would now take care of me and my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her mistress; and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable duties were imposed on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I was always glad to do her bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as my young years would permit. I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently, with a heart as free from care as that of any free-born white child. When she thought I was tired, she would send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were happy days--too happy to last. The slave child had no thought for the morrow; but there came that blight, which too surely waits on every human being born to be a chattel. When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I prayed in my heart that she might live! I loved her; for she had been almost like a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died, and they buried her in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her grave. I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to begin to think of the future; and again and again I asked myself what they would do with me. I felt sure I should never find another mistress so kind as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that her children should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would be so. They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my mother's love and faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a faithful slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block. After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister's daughter, a child of five years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the precepts of God's Word: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them." But I was her slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her neighbor. I would give much to blot out from my memory that one great wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy days I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a slave, I bless her memory. She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed among her relatives. Five of them were my grandmother's children, and had shared the same milk that nourished her mother's children. Notwithstanding my grandmother's long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the horses they tend.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 2 with the given context.

chapter 2|chapter 7

Dr. Flint, a neighborhood physician, had married the sister of Linda Brent's mistress, and Linda is now the property of their young daughter. The family also purchased her brother, William. The chapter opens with an incident concerning William, who is severely reprimanded by his father for answering to his mistress instead of his father after being summoned by both of them. Linda then recounts her friend's funeral, her father's sudden, unexpected death, and the sale of her grandmother. Her grandmother's mistress had always promised that, upon her death, the grandmother would be granted her freedom. But when the mistress dies, Dr. Flint reneges on this promise and puts Linda's grandmother up for sale. However, the sister of the deceased mistress purchases her, and, finally, her grandmother is granted her freedom. This chapter details vivid accounts of the Flint's cruelty and brutality -- as well as that of neighboring slaveholders -- toward their slaves.

----------CHAPTER 2--------- Dr. Flint, a physician in the neighborhood, had married the sister of my mistress, and I was now the property of their little daughter. It was not without murmuring that I prepared for my new home; and what added to my unhappiness, was the fact that my brother William was purchased by the same family. My father, by his nature, as well as by the habit of transacting business as a skillful mechanic, had more of the feelings of a freeman than is common among slaves. My brother was a spirited boy; and being brought up under such influences, he daily detested the name of master and mistress. One day, when his father and his mistress both happened to call him at the same time, he hesitated between the two; being perplexed to know which had the strongest claim upon his obedience. He finally concluded to go to his mistress. When my father reproved him for it, he said, "You both called me, and I didn't know which I ought to go to first." "You are _my_ child," replied our father, "and when I call you, you should come immediately, if you have to pass through fire and water." Poor Willie! He was now to learn his first lesson of obedience to a master. Grandmother tried to cheer us with hopeful words, and they found an echo in the credulous hearts of youth. When we entered our new home we encountered cold looks, cold words, and cold treatment. We were glad when the night came. On my narrow bed I moaned and wept, I felt so desolate and alone. I had been there nearly a year, when a dear little friend of mine was buried. I heard her mother sob, as the clods fell on the coffin of her only child, and I turned away from the grave, feeling thankful that I still had something left to love. I met my grandmother, who said, "Come with me, Linda;" and from her tone I knew that something sad had happened. She led me apart from the people, and then said, "My child, your father is dead." Dead! How could I believe it? He had died so suddenly I had not even heard that he was sick. I went home with my grandmother. My heart rebelled against God, who had taken from me mother, father, mistress, and friend. The good grandmother tried to comfort me. "Who knows the ways of God?" said she. "Perhaps they have been kindly taken from the evil days to come." Years afterwards I often thought of this. She promised to be a mother to her grandchildren, so far as she might be permitted to do so; and strengthened by her love, I returned to my master's. I thought I should be allowed to go to my father's house the next morning; but I was ordered to go for flowers, that my mistress's house might be decorated for an evening party. I spent the day gathering flowers and weaving them into festoons, while the dead body of my father was lying within a mile of me. What cared my owners for that? he was merely a piece of property. Moreover, they thought he had spoiled his children, by teaching them to feel that they were human beings. This was blasphemous doctrine for a slave to teach; presumptuous in him, and dangerous to the masters. The next day I followed his remains to a humble grave beside that of my dear mother. There were those who knew my father's worth, and respected his memory. My home now seemed more dreary than ever. The laugh of the little slave-children sounded harsh and cruel. It was selfish to feel so about the joy of others. My brother moved about with a very grave face. I tried to comfort him, by saying, "Take courage, Willie; brighter days will come by and by." "You don't know any thing about it, Linda," he replied. "We shall have to stay here all our days; we shall never be free." I argued that we were growing older and stronger, and that perhaps we might, before long, be allowed to hire our own time, and then we could earn money to buy our freedom. William declared this was much easier to say than to do; moreover, he did not intend to _buy_ his freedom. We held daily controversies upon this subject. Little attention was paid to the slaves' meals in Dr. Flint's house. If they could catch a bit of food while it was going, well and good. I gave myself no trouble on that score, for on my various errands I passed my grandmother's house, where there was always something to spare for me. I was frequently threatened with punishment if I stopped there; and my grandmother, to avoid detaining me, often stood at the gate with something for my breakfast or dinner. I was indebted to _her_ for all my comforts, spiritual or temporal. It was _her_ labor that supplied my scanty wardrobe. I have a vivid recollection of the linsey-woolsey dress given me every winter by Mrs. Flint. How I hated it! It was one of the badges of slavery. While my grandmother was thus helping to support me from her hard earnings, the three hundred dollars she had lent her mistress were never repaid. When her mistress died, her son-in-law, Dr. Flint, was appointed executor. When grandmother applied to him for payment, he said the estate was insolvent, and the law prohibited payment. It did not, however, prohibit him from retaining the silver candelabra, which had been purchased with that money. I presume they will be handed down in the family, from generation to generation. My grandmother's mistress had always promised her that, at her death, she should be free; and it was said that in her will she made good the promise. But when the estate was settled, Dr. Flint told the faithful old servant that, under existing circumstances, it was necessary she should be sold. On the appointed day, the customary advertisement was posted up, proclaiming that there would be a "public sale of negroes, horses, &c." Dr. Flint called to tell my grandmother that he was unwilling to wound her feelings by putting her up at auction, and that he would prefer to dispose of her at private sale. My grandmother saw through his hypocrisy; she understood very well that he was ashamed of the job. She was a very spirited woman, and if he was base enough to sell her, when her mistress intended she should be free, she was determined the public should know it. She had for a long time supplied many families with crackers and preserves; consequently, "Aunt Marthy," as she was called, was generally known, and every body who knew her respected her intelligence and good character. Her long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon the auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for _you_." Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady, seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant her freedom. At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of every thing. Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped, till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings. The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them. Provisions were weighed out by the pound and ounce, three times a day. I can assure you she gave them no chance to eat wheat bread from her flour barrel. She knew how many biscuits a quart of flour would make, and exactly what size they ought to be. Dr. Flint was an epicure. The cook never sent a dinner to his table without fear and trembling; for if there happened to be a dish not to his liking, he would either order her to be whipped, or compel her to eat every mouthful of it in his presence. The poor, hungry creature might not have objected to eating it; but she did object to having her master cram it down her throat till she choked. They had a pet dog, that was a nuisance in the house. The cook was ordered to make some Indian mush for him. He refused to eat, and when his head was held over it, the froth flowed from his mouth into the basin. He died a few minutes after. When Dr. Flint came in, he said the mush had not been well cooked, and that was the reason the animal would not eat it. He sent for the cook, and compelled her to eat it. He thought that the woman's stomach was stronger than the dog's; but her sufferings afterwards proved that he was mistaken. This poor woman endured many cruelties from her master and mistress; sometimes she was locked up, away from her nursing baby, for a whole day and night. When I had been in the family a few weeks, one of the plantation slaves was brought to town, by order of his master. It was near night when he arrived, and Dr. Flint ordered him to be taken to the work house, and tied up to the joist, so that his feet would just escape the ground. In that situation he was to wait till the doctor had taken his tea. I shall never forget that night. Never before, in my life, had I heard hundreds of blows fall; in succession, on a human being. His piteous groans, and his "O, pray don't, massa," rang in my ear for months afterwards. There were many conjectures as to the cause of this terrible punishment. Some said master accused him of stealing corn; others said the slave had quarrelled with his wife, in presence of the overseer, and had accused his master of being the father of her child. They were both black, and the child was very fair. I went into the work house next morning, and saw the cowhide still wet with blood, and the boards all covered with gore. The poor man lived, and continued to quarrel with his wife. A few months afterwards Dr. Flint handed them both over to a slave-trader. The guilty man put their value into his pocket, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were out of sight and hearing. When the mother was delivered into the trader's hands, she said. "You _promised_ to treat me well." To which he replied, "You have let your tongue run too far; damn you!" She had forgotten that it was a crime for a slave to tell who was the father of her child. From others than the master persecution also comes in such cases. I once saw a young slave girl dying soon after the birth of a child nearly white. In her agony she cried out, "O Lord, come and take me!" Her mistress stood by, and mocked at her like an incarnate fiend. "You suffer, do you?" she exclaimed. "I am glad of it. You deserve it all, and more too." The girl's mother said, "The baby is dead, thank God; and I hope my poor child will soon be in heaven, too." "Heaven!" retorted the mistress. "There is no such place for the like of her and her bastard." The poor mother turned away, sobbing. Her dying daughter called her, feebly, and as she bent over her, I heard her say, "Don't grieve so, mother; God knows all about it; and HE will have mercy upon me." Her sufferings, afterwards, became so intense, that her mistress felt unable to stay; but when she left the room, the scornful smile was still on her lips. Seven children called her mother. The poor black woman had but the one child, whose eyes she saw closing in death, while she thanked God for taking her away from the greater bitterness of life. ----------CHAPTER 7--------- Why does the slave ever love? Why allow the tendrils of the heart to twine around objects which may at any moment be wrenched away by the hand of violence? When separations come by the hand of death, the pious soul can bow in resignation, and say, "Not my will, but thine be done, O Lord!" But when the ruthless hand of man strikes the blow, regardless of the misery he causes, it is hard to be submissive. I did not reason thus when I was a young girl. Youth will be youth. I loved and I indulged the hope that the dark clouds around me would turn out a bright lining. I forgot that in the land of my birth the shadows are too dense for light to penetrate. A land Where laughter is not mirth; nor thought the mind; Nor words a language; nor e'en men mankind. Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, And each is tortured in his separate hell. There was in the neighborhood a young colored carpenter; a free born man. We had been well acquainted in childhood, and frequently met together afterwards. We became mutually attached, and he proposed to marry me. I loved him with all the ardor of a young girl's first love. But when I reflected that I was a slave, and that the laws gave no sanction to the marriage of such, my heart sank within me. My lover wanted to buy me; but I knew that Dr. Flint was too willful and arbitrary a man to consent to that arrangement. From him, I was sure of experiencing all sort of opposition, and I had nothing to hope from my mistress. She would have been delighted to have got rid of me, but not in that way. It would have relieved her mind of a burden if she could have seen me sold to some distant state, but if I was married near home I should be just as much in her husband's power as I had previously been,--for the husband of a slave has no power to protect her. Moreover, my mistress, like many others, seemed to think that slaves had no right to any family ties of their own; that they were created merely to wait upon the family of the mistress. I once heard her abuse a young slave girl, who told her that a colored man wanted to make her his wife. "I will have you peeled and pickled, my lady," said she, "if I ever hear you mention that subject again. Do you suppose that I will have you tending _my_ children with the children of that nigger?" The girl to whom she said this had a mulatto child, of course not acknowledged by its father. The poor black man who loved her would have been proud to acknowledge his helpless offspring. Many and anxious were the thoughts I revolved in my mind. I was at a loss what to do. Above all things, I was desirous to spare my lover the insults that had cut so deeply into my own soul. I talked with my grandmother about it, and partly told her my fears. I did not dare to tell her the worst. She had long suspected all was not right, and if I confirmed her suspicions I knew a storm would rise that would prove the overthrow of all my hopes. This love-dream had been my support through many trials; and I could not bear to run the risk of having it suddenly dissipated. There was a lady in the neighborhood, a particular friend of Dr. Flint's, who often visited the house. I had a great respect for her, and she had always manifested a friendly interest in me. Grandmother thought she would have great influence with the doctor. I went to this lady, and told her my story. I told her I was aware that my lover's being a free-born man would prove a great objection; but he wanted to buy me; and if Dr. Flint would consent to that arrangement, I felt sure he would be willing to pay any reasonable price. She knew that Mrs. Flint disliked me; therefore, I ventured to suggest that perhaps my mistress would approve of my being sold, as that would rid her of me. The lady listened with kindly sympathy, and promised to do her utmost to promote my wishes. She had an interview with the doctor, and I believe she pleaded my cause earnestly; but it was all to no purpose. How I dreaded my master now! Every minute I expected to be summoned to his presence; but the day passed, and I heard nothing from him. The next morning, a message was brought to me: "Master wants you in his study." I found the door ajar, and I stood a moment gazing at the hateful man who claimed a right to rule me, body and soul. I entered, and tried to appear calm. I did not want him to know how my heart was bleeding. He looked fixedly at me, with an expression which seemed to say, "I have half a mind to kill you on the spot." At last he broke the silence, and that was a relief to both of us. "So you want to be married, do you?" said he, "and to a free nigger." "Yes, sir." "Well, I'll soon convince you whether I am your master, or the nigger fellow you honor so highly. If you _must_ have a husband, you may take up with one of my slaves." What a situation I should be in, as the wife of one of _his_ slaves, even if my heart had been interested! I replied, "Don't you suppose, sir, that a slave can have some preference about marrying? Do you suppose that all men are alike to her?" "Do you love this nigger?" said he, abruptly. "Yes, sir." "How dare you tell me so!" he exclaimed, in great wrath. After a slight pause, he added, "I supposed you thought more of yourself; that you felt above the insults of such puppies." I replied, "If he is a puppy, I am a puppy, for we are both of the negro race. It is right and honorable for us to love each other. The man you call a puppy never insulted me, sir; and he would not love me if he did not believe me to be a virtuous woman." He sprang upon me like a tiger, and gave me a stunning blow. It was the first time he had ever struck me; and fear did not enable me to control my anger. When I had recovered a little from the effects, I exclaimed, "You have struck me for answering you honestly. How I despise you!" There was silence for some minutes. Perhaps he was deciding what should be my punishment; or, perhaps, he wanted to give me time to reflect on what I had said, and to whom I had said it. Finally, he asked, "Do you know what you have said?" "Yes, sir; but your treatment drove me to it." "Do you know that I have a right to do as I like with you,--that I can kill you, if I please?" "You have tried to kill me, and I wish you had; but you have no right to do as you like with me." "Silence!" he exclaimed, in a thundering voice. "By heavens, girl, you forget yourself too far! Are you mad? If you are, I will soon bring you to your senses. Do you think any other master would bear what I have borne from you this morning? Many masters would have killed you on the spot. How would you like to be sent to jail for your insolence?" "I know I have been disrespectful, sir," I replied; "but you drove me to it; I couldn't help it. As for the jail, there would be more peace for me there than there is here." "You deserve to go there," said he, "and to be under such treatment, that you would forget the meaning of the word _peace_. It would do you good. It would take some of your high notions out of you. But I am not ready to send you there yet, notwithstanding your ingratitude for all my kindness and forbearance. You have been the plague of my life. I have wanted to make you happy, and I have been repaid with the basest ingratitude; but though you have proved yourself incapable of appreciating my kindness, I will be lenient towards you, Linda. I will give you one more chance to redeem your character. If you behave yourself and do as I require, I will forgive you and treat you as I always have done; but if you disobey me, I will punish you as I would the meanest slave on my plantation. Never let me hear that fellow's name mentioned again. If I ever know of your speaking to him, I will cowhide you both; and if I catch him lurking about my premises, I will shoot him as soon as I would a dog. Do you hear what I say? I'll teach you a lesson about marriage and free niggers! Now go, and let this be the last time I have occasion to speak to you on this subject." Reader, did you ever hate? I hope not. I never did but once; and I trust I never shall again. Somebody has called it "the atmosphere of hell;" and I believe it is so. For a fortnight the doctor did not speak to me. He thought to mortify me; to make me feel that I had disgraced myself by receiving the honorable addresses of a respectable colored man, in preference to the base proposals of a white man. But though his lips disdained to address me, his eyes were very loquacious. No animal ever watched its prey more narrowly than he watched me. He knew that I could write, though he had failed to make me read his letters; and he was now troubled lest I should exchange letters with another man. After a while he became weary of silence; and I was sorry for it. One morning, as he passed through the hall, to leave the house, he contrived to thrust a note into my hand. I thought I had better read it, and spare myself the vexation of having him read it to me. It expressed regret for the blow he had given me, and reminded me that I myself was wholly to blame for it. He hoped I had become convinced of the injury I was doing myself by incurring his displeasure. He wrote that he had made up his mind to go to Louisiana; that he should take several slaves with him, and intended I should be one of the number. My mistress would remain where she was; therefore I should have nothing to fear from that quarter. If I merited kindness from him, he assured me that it would be lavishly bestowed. He begged me to think over the matter, and answer the following day. The next morning I was called to carry a pair of scissors to his room. I laid them on the table, with the letter beside them. He thought it was my answer, and did not call me back. I went as usual to attend my young mistress to and from school. He met me in the street, and ordered me to stop at his office on my way back. When I entered, he showed me his letter, and asked me why I had not answered it. I replied, "I am your daughter's property, and it is in your power to send me, or take me, wherever you please." He said he was very glad to find me so willing to go, and that we should start early in the autumn. He had a large practice in the town, and I rather thought he had made up the story merely to frighten me. However that might be, I was determined that I would never go to Louisiana with him. Summer passed away, and early in the autumn Dr. Flint's eldest son was sent to Louisiana to examine the country, with a view to emigrating. That news did not disturb me. I knew very well that I should not be sent with _him_. That I had not been taken to the plantation before this time, was owing to the fact that his son was there. He was jealous of his son; and jealousy of the overseer had kept him from punishing me by sending me into the fields to work. Is it strange, that I was not proud of these protectors? As for the overseer, he was a man for whom I had less respect than I had for a bloodhound. Young Mr. Flint did not bring back a favorable report of Louisiana, and I heard no more of that scheme. Soon after this, my lover met me at the corner of the street, and I stopped to speak to him. Looking up, I saw my master watching us from his window. I hurried home, trembling with fear. I was sent for, immediately, to go to his room. He met me with a blow. "When is mistress to be married?" said he, in a sneering tone. A shower of oaths and imprecations followed. How thankful I was that my lover was a free man! that my tyrant had no power to flog him for speaking to me in the street! Again and again I revolved in my mind how all this would end. There was no hope that the doctor would consent to sell me on any terms. He had an iron will, and was determined to keep me, and to conquer me. My lover was an intelligent and religious man. Even if he could have obtained permission to marry me while I was a slave, the marriage would give him no power to protect me from my master. It would have made him miserable to witness the insults I should have been subjected to. And then, if we had children, I knew they must "follow the condition of the mother." What a terrible blight that would be on the heart of a free, intelligent father! For _his_ sake, I felt that I ought not to link his fate with my own unhappy destiny. He was going to Savannah to see about a little property left him by an uncle; and hard as it was to bring my feelings to it, I earnestly entreated him not to come back. I advised him to go to the Free States, where his tongue would not be tied, and where his intelligence would be of more avail to him. He left me, still hoping the day would come when I could be bought. With me the lamp of hope had gone out. The dream of my girlhood was over. I felt lonely and desolate. Still I was not stripped of all. I still had my good grandmother, and my affectionate brother. When he put his arms round my neck, and looked into my eyes, as if to read there the troubles I dared not tell, I felt that I still had something to love. But even that pleasant emotion was chilled by the reflection that he might be torn from me at any moment, by some sudden freak of my master. If he had known how we loved each other, I think he would have exulted in separating us. We often planned together how we could get to the north. But, as William remarked, such things are easier said than done. My movements were very closely watched, and we had no means of getting any money to defray our expenses. As for grandmother, she was strongly opposed to her children's undertaking any such project. She had not forgotten poor Benjamin's sufferings, and she was afraid that if another child tried to escape, he would have a similar or a worse fate. To me, nothing seemed more dreadful than my present life. I said to myself, "William _must_ be free. He shall go to the north, and I will follow him." Many a slave sister has formed the same plans.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of chapter 22 using the context provided.

chapter 21|chapter 22|chapter 30

Linda describes the rituals and festivities surrounding Christmas, focusing on the Johnkannaus dancers. She discusses her grandmother's two "special" guests -- the town constable and the "free colored man" who tries to pass for white -- who are invited specifically to convince them that Linda is nowhere near her grandmother's house.

----------CHAPTER 21--------- A small shed had been added to my grandmother's house years ago. Some boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between these boards and the roof was a very small garret, never occupied by any thing but rats and mice. It was a pent roof, covered with nothing but shingles, according to the southern custom for such buildings. The garret was only nine feet long and seven wide. The highest part was three feet high, and sloped down abruptly to the loose board floor. There was no admission for either light or air. My uncle Phillip, who was a carpenter, had very skilfully made a concealed trap-door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had been doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom opened upon a piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I entered the house. The air was stifling; the darkness total. A bed had been spread on the floor. I could sleep quite comfortably on one side; but the slope was so sudden that I could not turn on my other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice ran over my bed; but I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched may, when a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by the noises I heard; for in my small den day and night were all the same. I suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not comfortless. I heard the voices of my children. There was joy and there was sadness in the sound. It made my tears flow. How I longed to speak to them! I was eager to look on their faces; but there was no hole, no crack, through which I could peep. This continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of light. Yet I would have chosen this, rather than my lot as a slave, though white people considered it an easy one; and it was so compared with the fate of others. I was never cruelly overworked; I was never lacerated with the whip from head to foot; I was never so beaten and bruised that I could not turn from one side to the other; I never had my heel-strings cut to prevent my running away; I was never chained to a log and forced to drag it about, while I toiled in the fields from morning till night; I was never branded with hot iron, or torn by bloodhounds. On the contrary, I had always been kindly treated, and tenderly cared for, until I came into the hands of Dr. Flint. I had never wished for freedom till then. But though my life in slavery was comparatively devoid of hardships, God pity the woman who is compelled to lead such a life! My food was passed up to me through the trap-door my uncle had contrived; and my grandmother, my uncle Phillip, and aunt Nancy would seize such opportunities as they could, to mount up there and chat with me at the opening. But of course this was not safe in the daytime. It must all be done in darkness. It was impossible for me to move in an erect position, but I crawled about my den for exercise. One day I hit my head against something, and found it was a gimlet. My uncle had left it sticking there when he made the trap-door. I was as rejoiced as Robinson Crusoe could have been at finding such a treasure. It put a lucky thought into my head. I said to myself, "Now I will have some light. Now I will see my children." I did not dare to begin my work during the daytime, for fear of attracting attention. But I groped round; and having found the side next the street, where I could frequently see my children, I stuck the gimlet in and waited for evening. I bored three rows of holes, one above another; then I bored out the interstices between. I thus succeeded in making one hole about an inch long and an inch broad. I sat by it till late into the night, to enjoy the little whiff of air that floated in. In the morning I watched for my children. The first person I saw in the street was Dr. Flint. I had a shuddering, superstitious feeling that it was a bad omen. Several familiar faces passed by. At last I heard the merry laugh of children, and presently two sweet little faces were looking up at me, as though they knew I was there, and were conscious of the joy they imparted. How I longed to _tell_ them I was there! My condition was now a little improved. But for weeks I was tormented by hundreds of little red insects, fine as a needle's point, that pierced through my skin, and produced an intolerable burning. The good grandmother gave me herb teas and cooling medicines, and finally I got rid of them. The heat of my den was intense, for nothing but thin shingles protected me from the scorching summer's sun. But I had my consolations. Through my peeping-hole I could watch the children, and when they were near enough, I could hear their talk. Aunt Nancy brought me all the news she could hear at Dr. Flint's. From her I learned that the doctor had written to New York to a colored woman, who had been born and raised in our neighborhood, and had breathed his contaminating atmosphere. He offered her a reward if she could find out any thing about me. I know not what was the nature of her reply; but he soon after started for New York in haste, saying to his family that he had business of importance to transact. I peeped at him as he passed on his way to the steamboat. It was a satisfaction to have miles of land and water between us, even for a little while; and it was a still greater satisfaction to know that he believed me to be in the Free States. My little den seemed less dreary than it had done. He returned, as he did from his former journey to New York, without obtaining any satisfactory information. When he passed our house next morning, Benny was standing at the gate. He had heard them say that he had gone to find me, and he called out, "Dr. Flint, did you bring my mother home? I want to see her." The doctor stamped his foot at him in a rage, and exclaimed, "Get out of the way, you little damned rascal! If you don't, I'll cut off your head." Benny ran terrified into the house, saying, "You can't put me in jail again. I don't belong to you now." It was well that the wind carried the words away from the doctor's ear. I told my grandmother of it, when we had our next conference at the trap-door, and begged of her not to allow the children to be impertinent to the irascible old man. Autumn came, with a pleasant abatement of heat. My eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, and by holding my book or work in a certain position near the aperture I contrived to read and sew. That was a great relief to the tedious monotony of my life. But when winter came, the cold penetrated through the thin shingle roof, and I was dreadfully chilled. The winters there are not so long, or so severe, as in northern latitudes; but the houses are not built to shelter from cold, and my little den was peculiarly comfortless. The kind grandmother brought me bedclothes and warm drinks. Often I was obliged to lie in bed all day to keep comfortable; but with all my precautions, my shoulders and feet were frostbitten. O, those long, gloomy days, with no object for my eye to rest upon, and no thoughts to occupy my mind, except the dreary past and the uncertain future! I was thankful when there came a day sufficiently mild for me to wrap myself up and sit at the loophole to watch the passers by. Southerners have the habit of stopping and talking in the streets, and I heard many conversations not intended to meet my ears. I heard slave-hunters planning how to catch some poor fugitive. Several times I heard allusions to Dr. Flint, myself, and the history of my children, who, perhaps, were playing near the gate. One would say, "I wouldn't move my little finger to catch her, as old Flint's property." Another would say, "I'll catch _any_ nigger for the reward. A man ought to have what belongs to him, if he _is_ a damned brute." The opinion was often expressed that I was in the Free States. Very rarely did any one suggest that I might be in the vicinity. Had the least suspicion rested on my grandmother's house, it would have been burned to the ground. But it was the last place they thought of. Yet there was no place, where slavery existed, that could have afforded me so good a place of concealment. Dr. Flint and his family repeatedly tried to coax and bribe my children to tell something they had heard said about me. One day the doctor took them into a shop, and offered them some bright little silver pieces and gay handkerchiefs if they would tell where their mother was. Ellen shrank away from him, and would not speak; but Benny spoke up, and said, "Dr. Flint, I don't know where my mother is. I guess she's in New York; and when you go there again, I wish you'd ask her to come home, for I want to see her; but if you put her in jail, or tell her you'll cut her head off, I'll tell her to go right back." ----------CHAPTER 22--------- Christmas was approaching. Grandmother brought me materials, and I busied myself making some new garments and little playthings for my children. Were it not that hiring day is near at hand, and many families are fearfully looking forward to the probability of separation in a few days, Christmas might be a happy season for the poor slaves. Even slave mothers try to gladden the hearts of their little ones on that occasion. Benny and Ellen had their Christmas stockings filled. Their imprisoned mother could not have the privilege of witnessing their surprise and joy. But I had the pleasure of peeping at them as they went into the street with their new suits on. I heard Benny ask a little playmate whether Santa Claus brought him any thing. "Yes," replied the boy; "but Santa Claus ain't a real man. It's the children's mothers that put things into the stockings." "No, that can't be," replied Benny, "for Santa Claus brought Ellen and me these new clothes, and my mother has been gone this long time." How I longed to tell him that his mother made those garments, and that many a tear fell on them while she worked! Every child rises early on Christmas morning to see the Johnkannaus. Without them, Christmas would be shorn of its greatest attraction. They consist of companies of slaves from the plantations, generally of the lower class. Two athletic men, in calico wrappers, have a net thrown over them, covered with all manner of bright-colored stripes. Cows' tails are fastened to their backs, and their heads are decorated with horns. A box, covered with sheepskin, is called the gumbo box. A dozen beat on this, while other strike triangles and jawbones, to which bands of dancers keep time. For a month previous they are composing songs, which are sung on this occasion. These companies, of a hundred each, turn out early in the morning, and are allowed to go round till twelve o'clock, begging for contributions. Not a door is left unvisited where there is the least chance of obtaining a penny or a glass of rum. They do not drink while they are out, but carry the rum home in jugs, to have a carousal. These Christmas donations frequently amount to twenty or thirty dollars. It is seldom that any white man or child refuses to give them a trifle. If he does, they regale his ears with the following song:-- Poor massa, so dey say; Down in de heel, so dey say; Got no money, so dey say; Not one shillin, so dey say; God A'mighty bress you, so dey say. Christmas is a day of feasting, both with white and colored people. Slaves, who are lucky enough to have a few shillings, are sure to spend them for good eating; and many a turkey and pig is captured, without saying, "By your leave, sir." Those who cannot obtain these, cook a 'possum, or a raccoon, from which savory dishes can be made. My grandmother raised poultry and pigs for sale and it was her established custom to have both a turkey and a pig roasted for Christmas dinner. On this occasion, I was warned to keep extremely quiet, because two guests had been invited. One was the town constable, and the other was a free colored man, who tried to pass himself off for white, and who was always ready to do any mean work for the sake of currying favor with white people. My grandmother had a motive for inviting them. She managed to take them all over the house. All the rooms on the lower floor were thrown open for them to pass in and out; and after dinner, they were invited up stairs to look at a fine mocking bird my uncle had just brought home. There, too, the rooms were all thrown open that they might look in. When I heard them talking on the piazza, my heart almost stood still. I knew this colored man had spent many nights hunting for me. Every body knew he had the blood of a slave father in his veins; but for the sake of passing himself off for white, he was ready to kiss the slaveholders' feet. How I despised him! As for the constable, he wore no false colors. The duties of his office were despicable, but he was superior to his companion, inasmuch as he did not pretend to be what he was not. Any white man, who could raise money enough to buy a slave, would have considered himself degraded by being a constable; but the office enabled its possessor to exercise authority. If he found any slave out after nine o'clock, he could whip him as much as he liked; and that was a privilege to be coveted. When the guests were ready to depart, my grandmother gave each of them some of her nice pudding, as a present for their wives. Through my peep-hole I saw them go out of the gate, and I was glad when it closed after them. So passed the first Christmas in my den. ----------CHAPTER 30--------- I never could tell how we reached the wharf. My brain was all of a whirl, and my limbs tottered under me. At an appointed place we met my uncle Phillip, who had started before us on a different route, that he might reach the wharf first, and give us timely warning if there was any danger. A row-boat was in readiness. As I was about to step in, I felt something pull me gently, and turning round I saw Benny, looking pale and anxious. He whispered in my ear, "I've been peeping into the doctor's window, and he's at home. Good by, mother. Don't cry; I'll come." He hastened away. I clasped the hand of my good uncle, to whom I owed so much, and of Peter, the brave, generous friend who had volunteered to run such terrible risks to secure my safety. To this day I remember how his bright face beamed with joy, when he told me he had discovered a safe method for me to escape. Yet that intelligent, enterprising, noble-hearted man was a chattel! Liable, by the laws of a country that calls itself civilized, to be sold with horses and pigs! We parted in silence. Our hearts were all too full for words! Swiftly the boat glided over the water. After a while, one of the sailors said, "Don't be down-hearted, madam. We will take you safely to your husband, in ----." At first I could not imagine what he meant; but I had presence of mind to think that it probably referred to something the captain had told him; so I thanked him, and said I hoped we should have pleasant weather. When I entered the vessel the captain came forward to meet me. He was an elderly man, with a pleasant countenance. He showed me to a little box of a cabin, where sat my friend Fanny. She started as if she had seen a spectre. She gazed on me in utter astonishment, and exclaimed, "Linda, can this be _you_? or is it your ghost?" When we were locked in each other's arms, my overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained. My sobs reached the ears of the captain, who came and very kindly reminded us, that for his safety, as well as our own, it would be prudent for us not to attract any attention. He said that when there was a sail in sight he wished us to keep below; but at other times, he had no objection to our being on deck. He assured us that he would keep a good lookout, and if we acted prudently, he thought we should be in no danger. He had represented us as women going to meet our husbands in ----. We thanked him, and promised to observe carefully all the directions he gave us. Fanny and I now talked by ourselves, low and quietly, in our little cabin. She told me of the suffering she had gone through in making her escape, and of her terrors while she was concealed in her mother's house. Above all, she dwelt on the agony of separation from all her children on that dreadful auction day. She could scarcely credit me, when I told her of the place where I had passed nearly seven years. "We have the same sorrows," said I. "No," replied she, "you are going to see your children soon, and there is no hope that I shall ever even hear from mine." The vessel was soon under way, but we made slow progress. The wind was against us, I should not have cared for this, if we had been out of sight of the town; but until there were miles of water between us and our enemies, we were filled with constant apprehensions that the constables would come on board. Neither could I feel quite at ease with the captain and his men. I was an entire stranger to that class of people, and I had heard that sailors were rough, and sometimes cruel. We were so completely in their power, that if they were bad men, our situation would be dreadful. Now that the captain was paid for our passage, might he not be tempted to make more money by giving us up to those who claimed us as property? I was naturally of a confiding disposition, but slavery had made me suspicious of every body. Fanny did not share my distrust of the captain or his men. She said she was afraid at first, but she had been on board three days while the vessel lay in the dock, and nobody had betrayed her, or treated her otherwise than kindly. The captain soon came to advise us to go on deck for fresh air. His friendly and respectful manner, combined with Fanny's testimony, reassured me, and we went with him. He placed us in a comfortable seat, and occasionally entered into conversation. He told us he was a Southerner by birth, and had spent the greater part of his life in the Slave States, and that he had recently lost a brother who traded in slaves. "But," said he, "it is a pitiable and degrading business, and I always felt ashamed to acknowledge my brother in connection with it." As we passed Snaky Swamp, he pointed to it, and said, "There is a slave territory that defies all the laws." I thought of the terrible days I had spent there, and though it was not called Dismal Swamp, it made me feel very dismal as I looked at it. I shall never forget that night. The balmy air of spring was so refreshing! And how shall I describe my sensations when we were fairly sailing on Chesapeake Bay? O, the beautiful sunshine! the exhilarating breeze! And I could enjoy them without fear or restraint. I had never realized what grand things air and sunlight are till I had been deprived of them. Ten days after we left land we were approaching Philadelphia. The captain said we should arrive there in the night, but he thought we had better wait till morning, and go on shore in broad daylight, as the best way to avoid suspicion. I replied, "You know best. But will you stay on board and protect us?" He saw that I was suspicious, and he said he was sorry, now that he had brought us to the end of our voyage, to find I had so little confidence in him. Ah, if he had ever been a slave he would have known how difficult it was to trust a white man. He assured us that we might sleep through the night without fear; that he would take care we were not left unprotected. Be it said to the honor of this captain, Southerner as he was, that if Fanny and I had been white ladies, and our passage lawfully engaged, he could not have treated us more respectfully. My intelligent friend, Peter, had rightly estimated the character of the man to whose honor he had intrusted us. The next morning I was on deck as soon as the day dawned. I called Fanny to see the sun rise, for the first time in our lives, on free soil; for such I _then_ believed it to be. We watched the reddening sky, and saw the great orb come up slowly out of the water, as it seemed. Soon the waves began to sparkle, and every thing caught the beautiful glow. Before us lay the city of strangers. We looked at each other, and the eyes of both were moistened with tears. We had escaped from slavery, and we supposed ourselves to be safe from the hunters. But we were alone in the world, and we had left dear ties behind us; ties cruelly sundered by the demon Slavery.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 33 based on the provided context.

chapter 31|chapter 32|chapter 33

Linda searches for work, but finds job hunting difficult, because potential employers require recommendations that she, as a fugitive, is unable to provide. Finally she meets Mrs. Bruce, a kindly English woman, who hires her as a nurse for her baby, Mary. Mrs. Bruce is a "true and sympathizing friend" to Linda. When Linda is unable to perform her duties because constant stair climbing causes her legs to swell, Mrs. Bruce brings in her personal physician to attend to Linda. Mrs. Bruce also offers Linda the opportunity to bring Ellen to live with her, but Linda declines her offer for fear of offending Mrs. Hobbs. Mrs. Bruce also offers to have her personal physician, Dr. Elliot, attend to Ellen, who is still experiencing problems with her eyes, a condition related to a bout of measles at age two. But when Linda asks Mrs. Hobbs' permission for Ellen to see Dr. Elliot, she refuses. Later, she informs Linda that she has employed her own doctor to attend to Ellen. Meanwhile, Linda, who is using her meager earnings to help provide for Ellen, grows increasingly anxious about her daughter's future. The chapter ends brightly, because William, Linda's brother arrives in New York -- dressed in sailor attire -- and reunites with Linda and Ellen. The three easily re-establish the bonds among them, "There are no bonds so strong as those which are formed by suffering together."

----------CHAPTER 31--------- I had heard that the poor slave had many friends at the north. I trusted we should find some of them. Meantime, we would take it for granted that all were friends, till they proved to the contrary. I sought out the kind captain, thanked him for his attentions, and told him I should never cease to be grateful for the service he had rendered us. I gave him a message to the friends I had left at home, and he promised to deliver it. We were placed in a row-boat, and in about fifteen minutes were landed on a wood wharf in Philadelphia. As I stood looking round, the friendly captain touched me on the shoulder, and said, "There is a respectable-looking colored man behind you. I will speak to him about the New York trains, and tell him you wish to go directly on." I thanked him, and asked him to direct me to some shops where I could buy gloves and veils. He did so, and said he would talk with the colored man till I returned. I made what haste I could. Constant exercise on board the vessel, and frequent rubbing with salt water, had nearly restored the use of my limbs. The noise of the great city confused me, but I found the shops, and bought some double veils and gloves for Fanny and myself. The shopman told me they were so many levies. I had never heard the word before, but I did not tell him so. I thought if he knew I was a stranger he might ask me where I came from. I gave him a gold piece, and when he returned the change, I counted it, and found out how much a levy was. I made my way back to the wharf, where the captain introduced me to the colored man, as the Rev. Jeremiah Durham, minister of Bethel church. He took me by the hand, as if I had been an old friend. He told us we were too late for the morning cars to New York, and must wait until the evening, or the next morning. He invited me to go home with him, assuring me that his wife would give me a cordial welcome; and for my friend he would provide a home with one of his neighbors. I thanked him for so much kindness to strangers, and told him if I must be detained, I should like to hunt up some people who formerly went from our part of the country. Mr. Durham insisted that I should dine with him, and then he would assist me in finding my friends. The sailors came to bid us good by. I shook their hardy hands, with tears in my eyes. They had all been kind to us, and they had rendered us a greater service than they could possibly conceive of. I had never seen so large a city, or been in contact with so many people in the streets. It seemed as if those who passed looked at us with an expression of curiosity. My face was so blistered and peeled, by sitting on deck, in wind and sunshine, that I thought they could not easily decide to what nation I belonged. Mrs. Durham met me with a kindly welcome, without asking any questions. I was tired, and her friendly manner was a sweet refreshment. God bless her! I was sure that she had comforted other weary hearts, before I received her sympathy. She was surrounded by her husband and children, in a home made sacred by protecting laws. I thought of my own children, and sighed. After dinner Mr. Durham went with me in quest of the friends I had spoken of. They went from my native town, and I anticipated much pleasure in looking on familiar faces. They were not at home, and we retracted our steps through streets delightfully clean. On the way, Mr. Durham observed that I had spoken to him of a daughter I expected to meet; that he was surprised, for I looked so young he had taken me for a single woman. He was approaching a subject on which I was extremely sensitive. He would ask about my husband next, I thought, and if I answered him truly, what would he think of me? I told him I had two children, one in New York the other at the south. He asked some further questions, and I frankly told him some of the most important events of my life. It was painful for me to do it; but I would not deceive him. If he was desirous of being my friend, I thought he ought to know how far I was worthy of it. "Excuse me, if I have tried your feelings," said he. "I did not question you from idle curiosity. I wanted to understand your situation, in order to know whether I could be of any service to you, or your little girl. Your straight-forward answers do you credit; but don't answer every body so openly. It might give some heartless people a pretext for treating you with contempt." That word _contempt_ burned me like coals of fire. I replied, "God alone knows how I have suffered; and He, I trust, will forgive me. If I am permitted to have my children, I intend to be a good mother, and to live in such a manner that people cannot treat me with contempt." "I respect your sentiments," said he. "Place your trust in God, and be governed by good principles, and you will not fail to find friends." When we reached home, I went to my room, glad to shut out the world for a while. The words he had spoken made an indelible impression upon me. They brought up great shadows from the mournful past. In the midst of my meditations I was startled by a knock at the door. Mrs. Durham entered, her face all beaming with kindness, to say that there was an anti-slavery friend down stairs, who would like to see me. I overcame my dread of encountering strangers, and went with her. Many questions were asked concerning my experiences, and my escape from slavery; but I observed how careful they all were not to say any thing that might wound my feelings. How gratifying this was, can be fully understood only by those who have been accustomed to be treated as if they were not included within the pale of human beings. The anti-slavery friend had come to inquire into my plans, and to offer assistance, if needed. Fanny was comfortably established, for the present, with a friend of Mr. Durham. The Anti-Slavery Society agreed to pay her expenses to New York. The same was offered to me, but I declined to accept it, telling them that my grandmother had given me sufficient to pay my expenses to the end of my journey. We were urged to remain in Philadelphia a few days, until some suitable escort could be found for us. I gladly accepted the proposition, for I had a dread of meeting slaveholders, and some dread also of railroads. I had never entered a railroad car in my life, and it seemed to me quite an important event. That night I sought my pillow with feelings I had never carried to it before. I verily believed myself to be a free woman. I was wakeful for a long time, and I had no sooner fallen asleep, than I was roused by fire-bells. I jumped up, and hurried on my clothes. Where I came from, every body hastened to dress themselves on such occasions. The white people thought a great fire might be used as a good opportunity for insurrection, and that it was best to be in readiness; and the colored people were ordered out to labor in extinguishing the flames. There was but one engine in our town, and colored women and children were often required to drag it to the river's edge and fill it. Mrs. Durham's daughter slept in the same room with me, and seeing that she slept through all the din, I thought it was my duty to wake her. "What's the matter?" said she, rubbing her eyes. "They're screaming fire in the streets, and the bells are ringing," I replied. "What of that?" said she, drowsily. "We are used to it. We never get up, without the fire is very near. What good would it do?" I was quite surprised that it was not necessary for us to go and help fill the engine. I was an ignorant child, just beginning to learn how things went on in great cities. At daylight, I heard women crying fresh fish, berries, radishes, and various other things. All this was new to me. I dressed myself at an early hour, and sat at the window to watch that unknown tide of life. Philadelphia seemed to me a wonderfully great place. At the breakfast table, my idea of going out to drag the engine was laughed over, and I joined in the mirth. I went to see Fanny, and found her so well contented among her new friends that she was in no haste to leave. I was also very happy with my kind hostess. She had had advantages for education, and was vastly my superior. Every day, almost every hour, I was adding to my little stock of knowledge. She took me out to see the city as much as she deemed prudent. One day she took me to an artist's room, and showed me the portraits of some of her children. I had never seen any paintings of colored people before, and they seemed to be beautiful. At the end of five days, one of Mrs. Durham's friends offered to accompany us to New York the following morning. As I held the hand of my good hostess in a parting clasp, I longed to know whether her husband had repeated to her what I had told him. I supposed he had, but she never made any allusion to it. I presume it was the delicate silence of womanly sympathy. When Mr. Durham handed us our tickets, he said, "I am afraid you will have a disagreeable ride; but I could not procure tickets for the first-class cars." Supposing I had not given him money enough, I offered more. "O, no," said he, "they could not be had for any money. They don't allow colored people to go in the first-class cars." This was the first chill to my enthusiasm about the Free States. Colored people were allowed to ride in a filthy box, behind white people, at the south, but there they were not required to pay for the privilege. It made me sad to find how the north aped the customs of slavery. We were stowed away in a large, rough car, with windows on each side, too high for us to look out without standing up. It was crowded with people, apparently of all nations. There were plenty of beds and cradles, containing screaming and kicking babies. Every other man had a cigar or pipe in his mouth, and jugs of whiskey were handed round freely. The fumes of the whiskey and the dense tobacco smoke were sickening to my senses, and my mind was equally nauseated by the coarse jokes and ribald songs around me. It was a very disagreeable ride. Since that time there has been some improvement in these matters. ----------CHAPTER 32--------- When we arrived in New York, I was half crazed by the crowd of coachmen calling out, "Carriage, ma'am?" We bargained with one to take us to Sullivan Street for twelve shillings. A burly Irishman stepped up and said, "I'll tak' ye for sax shillings." The reduction of half the price was an object to us, and we asked if he could take us right away. "Troth an I will, ladies," he replied. I noticed that the hackmen smiled at each other, and I inquired whether his conveyance was decent. "Yes, it's dacent it is, marm. Devil a bit would I be after takin' ladies in a cab that was not dacent." We gave him our checks. He went for the baggage, and soon reappeared, saying, "This way, if you plase, ladies." We followed, and found our trunks on a truck, and we were invited to take our seats on them. We told him that was not what we bargained for, and he must take the trunks off. He swore they should not be touched till we had paid him six shillings. In our situation it was not prudent to attract attention, and I was about to pay him what he required, when a man near by shook his head for me not to do it. After a great ado we got rid of the Irishman, and had our trunks fastened on a hack. We had been recommended to a boarding-house in Sullivan Street, and thither we drove. There Fanny and I separated. The Anti-Slavery Society provided a home for her, and I afterwards heard of her in prosperous circumstances. I sent for an old friend from my part of the country, who had for some time been doing business in New York. He came immediately. I told him I wanted to go to my daughter, and asked him to aid me in procuring an interview. I cautioned him not to let it be known to the family that I had just arrived from the south, because they supposed I had been at the north seven years. He told me there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the same town I did, and I had better go to her house, and have my daughter meet me there. I accepted the proposition thankfully, and he agreed to escort me to Brooklyn. We crossed Fulton ferry, went up Myrtle Avenue, and stopped at the house he designated. I was just about to enter, when two girls passed. My friend called my attention to them. I turned, and recognized in the eldest, Sarah, the daughter of a woman who used to live with my grandmother, but who had left the south years ago. Surprised and rejoiced at this unexpected meeting, I threw my arms round her, and inquired concerning her mother. "You take no notice of the other girl," said my friend. I turned, and there stood my Ellen! I pressed her to my heart, then held her away from me to take a look at her. She had changed a good deal in the two years since I parted from her. Signs of neglect could be discerned by eyes less observing than a mother's. My friend invited us all to go into the house; but Ellen said she had been sent of an errand, which she would do as quickly as possible, and go home and ask Mrs. Hobbs to let her come and see me. It was agreed that I should send for her the next day. Her companion, Sarah, hastened to tell her mother of my arrival. When I entered the house, I found the mistress of it absent, and I waited for her return. Before I saw her, I heard her saying, "Where is Linda Brent? I used to know her father and mother." Soon Sarah came with her mother. So there was quite a company of us, all from my grandmother's neighborhood. These friends gathered round me and questioned me eagerly. They laughed, they cried, and they shouted. They thanked God that I had got away from my persecutors and was safe on Long Island. It was a day of great excitement. How different from the silent days I had passed in my dreary den! The next morning was Sunday. My first waking thoughts were occupied with the note I was to send to Mrs. Hobbs, the lady with whom Ellen lived. That I had recently come into that vicinity was evident; otherwise I should have sooner inquired for my daughter. It would not do to let them know I had just arrived from the south, for that would involve the suspicion of my having been harbored there, and might bring trouble, if not ruin, on several people. I like a straightforward course, and am always reluctant to resort to subterfuges. So far as my ways have been crooked, I charge them all upon slavery. It was that system of violence and wrong which now left me no alternative but to enact a falsehood. I began my note by stating that I had recently arrived from Canada, and was very desirous to have my daughter come to see me. She came and brought a message from Mrs. Hobbs, inviting me to her house, and assuring me that I need not have any fears. The conversation I had with my child did not leave my mind at ease. When I asked if she was well treated, she answered yes; but there was no heartiness in the tone, and it seemed to me that she said it from an unwillingness to have me troubled on her account. Before she left me, she asked very earnestly, "Mother, will you take me to live with you?" It made me sad to think that I could not give her a home till I went to work and earned the means; and that might take me a long time. When she was placed with Mrs. Hobbs, the agreement was that she should be sent to school She had been there two years, and was now nine years old, and she scarcely knew her letters. There was no excuse for this, for there were good public schools in Brooklyn, to which she could have been sent without expense. She staid with me till dark, and I went home with her. I was received in a friendly manner by the family, and all agreed in saying that Ellen was a useful, good girl. Mrs. Hobbs looked me coolly in the face, and said, "I suppose you know that my cousin, Mr. Sands, has _given_ her to my eldest daughter. She will make a nice waiting-maid for her when she grows up." I did not answer a word. How _could_ she, who knew by experience the strength of a mother's love, and who was perfectly aware of the relation Mr. Sands bore to my children,--how _could_ she look me in the face, while she thrust such a dagger into my heart? I was no longer surprised that they had kept her in such a state of ignorance. Mr. Hobbs had formerly been wealthy, but he had failed, and afterwards obtained a subordinate situation in the Custom House. Perhaps they expected to return to the south some day; and Ellen's knowledge was quite sufficient for a slave's condition. I was impatient to go to work and earn money, that I might change the uncertain position of my children. Mr. Sands had not kept his promise to emancipate them. I had also been deceived about Ellen. What security had I with regard to Benjamin? I felt that I had none. I returned to my friend's house in an uneasy state of mind. In order to protect my children, it was necessary that I should own myself. I called myself free, and sometimes felt so; but I knew I was insecure. I sat down that night and wrote a civil letter to Dr. Flint, asking him to state the lowest terms on which he would sell me; and as I belonged by law to his daughter, I wrote to her also, making a similar request. Since my arrival at the north I had not been unmindful of my dear brother William. I had made diligent inquiries for him, and having heard of him in Boston, I went thither. When I arrived there, I found he had gone to New Bedford. I wrote to that place, and was informed he had gone on a whaling voyage, and would not return for some months. I went back to New York to get employment near Ellen. I received an answer from Dr. Flint, which gave me no encouragement. He advised me to return and submit myself to my rightful owners, and then any request I might make would be granted. I lent this letter to a friend, who lost it; otherwise I would present a copy to my readers. ----------CHAPTER 33--------- My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed strangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could, of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully served. One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe, and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions, but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was engaged for a month. The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more cheerful. The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs's salary at the Custom House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed. That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes, occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was any thing improper in a mother's making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel otherwise. Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It _must_ be he--and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other's adventures! I took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den. He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are formed by suffering together.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 35 with the given context.

chapter 34|chapter 35|chapter 36

Linda, as Mary's nurse, goes to Albany with Mr. and Mrs. Bruce aboard a steamboat. While on board, she is insulted by a black waiter who refuses to serve her. Upon returning to New York, Linda goes to Brooklyn to visit Ellen, whom she meets on her way to the grocery store. Ellen warns her not to go to Mrs. Hobbs' house, because Mrs. Hobbs' brother, Mr. Thorpe, is visiting from the South. Linda heeds her warning and tells Ellen that she will see her when she returns from her impending trip to Rockaway with the Bruce family. Linda then recounts her experiences in a hotel in Rockaway, where she is refused the right to sit at the dining table with other, lighter-skinned black nurses, who shun her. At first, she relents and takes her meals in her room, but later, she refuses to accept their behavior and gradually wins their grudging respect.

----------CHAPTER 34--------- My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a reply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind that the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had no idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search of me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred dollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy's death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept the letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:-- Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother, it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect. From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you. Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my sister was always attached to you, and that you were never treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house, and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least, felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away. Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age she needs the consolation of having her children round her. Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church. In her Christian life she taught us how to live--and, O, too high the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have seen us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend and well wisher. This letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on "the stupidity of the African race." I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their cordial invitation--a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with base ingratitude. Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a friend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my journey immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting for a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal power to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money, but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to their "peculiar institution," and he becomes unpopular. There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. "O mother!" he exclaimed, "here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d'you do?" O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go. "Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, 'O Ben, I wish I was going too.' I thought she'd know ever so much; but she don't know so much as I do; for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I 'spose free boys can get along here at the north as well as white boys." I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with the wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to tell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston. Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate family, who were waiting for me with "open arms," were doomed to disappointment. As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews with my darling daughter. But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air, and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is, to be free to _say_ so! ----------CHAPTER 35--------- It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We went to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded for tea, Mrs. Bruce said, "Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come to the table with me." I replied, "I know it is time baby had her supper, but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being insulted." "O no, not if you are with _me_," she said. I saw several white nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the extreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated, than a gruff voice said, "Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here." I looked up, and, to my astonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a colored man. If his office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at least, have done it politely. I replied, "I shall not get up, unless the captain comes and takes me up." No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs. Bruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the other nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly waited on. Next morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was making a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, "Take my arm, Linda, and we'll go in together." The landlord heard her, and said, "Madam, will you allow your nurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?" I knew this was to be attributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did not mind it. At Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with gladness, of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people, but here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round me with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who would recognize me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time. We soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said, were, "O, mother, don't go to Mrs. Hobbs's. Her brother, Mr. Thorne, has come from the south, and may be he'll tell where you are." I accepted the warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and would try to see her when I came back. Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a "Jim Crow car," on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride through the streets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where I found the same manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings, and represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway before dark, and put up at the Pavilion--a large hotel, beautifully situated by the sea-side--a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty or forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the ladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse tinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary and followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young man, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or three times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As there was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon the young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, "Will you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you will have a good supper." This was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I looked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one shade lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my presence were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce ordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered for a few days; but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they soon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The landlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his servants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of other boarders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike. My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with _themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such treatment; that there was no difference in the price of board for colored and white servants, and there was no justification for difference of treatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled under foot by our oppressors. ----------CHAPTER 36--------- After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and see Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed Mrs. Hobbs's southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid seeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen, and insisted on my going up stairs. "My brother wants to see you," said she, "and he is sorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me to say to you that he owes thanks to good old aunt Martha for too many little acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her grandchild." This Mr. Thorne had become poor and reckless long before he left the south, and such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to borrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider an equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to feel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as he was here, and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be gained by trying to avoid him; on the contrary, it might be the means of exciting his ill will. I followed his sister up stairs. He met me in a very friendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I had a good place, where I felt happy. I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good thoughtful child, never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for my safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and troubles; but a mother's observing eye easily perceived that she was not happy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious. When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally, I ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was continually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for rum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they had to call her to pour out the liquor for them. "But for all that," said she, "Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can't help liking him. I feel sorry for him." I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and Benjamin a home, and send them to school. She was always desirous not to add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till years afterwards that Mr. Thorne's intemperance was not the only annoyance she suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild. I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday, I found Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house. "O, mother," said she, "I've been waiting for you this long time. I'm afraid Mr. Thorne has written to tell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell you all about it!" The story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grape-vine arbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which he tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time, and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and carried them to the children, saying, "I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been writing to." "I'm sure I don't know, and don't care," replied the oldest of the children; "and I don't see how it concerns you." "But it does concern me," replied Ellen; "for I'm afraid he's been writing to the south about my mother." They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put the fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her. They were no sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, "I declare, Ellen, I believe you are right." The contents of Mr. Thorne's letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as follows: "I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be taken very easily, if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to swear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my country, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws." He concluded by informing the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children carried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother's room for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw him go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the post office. The natural inference was, that he had sent to Dr. Flint a copy of those fragments. When he returned, his sister accused him of it, and he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the next morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York, before any of the family were astir. It was evident that I had no time to lose; and I hastened back to the city with a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all my plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon Slavery! I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not concealed it merely on account of being a fugitive; that would have made her anxious, but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued her good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the particulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her to know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly, without explaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went home resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face attracted her attention, and, in answer to her kind inquiries, I poured out my full heart to her, before bed time. She listened with true womanly sympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my heart blessed her! Early the next morning, Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted. They said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great if the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of one of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother could arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts were much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine by Southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her so. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs, who felt badly about her brother's treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on condition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise. She came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school satchel on her arm, containing a few articles. It was late in October, and I knew the child must suffer; and not daring to go out in the streets to purchase any thing, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into one for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good by, and when she saw that I had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She said, "Wait for me, Linda," and went out. She soon returned with a nice warm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom of heaven. My brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to Boston by the Stonington route, as there was less Southern travel in that direction. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I formerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat Rhode Island in safety. That boat employed colored hands, but I knew that colored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for the seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night air, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for us. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favor, that she would treat us well. He said to me, "Go and speak to the captain yourself by and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure that he will not let her sleep on deck." With these kind words and a shake of the hand he departed. The boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home where I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to purchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he would. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave me three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner I said, "You have made a mistake; I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot possibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter." She assured me there was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were allowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much travelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain's office, and she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the hand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our tickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was contrary to their custom, but he would see that we had berths below; he would also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars; of that he was not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the boat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the ladies' cabin. He came afterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he had spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much surprised at receiving so much kindness. I don't know whether the pleasing face of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess inferred from Lawyer Hopper's manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded with him in my behalf. When the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and showed us to seats in the first car, nearest the engine. He asked us to take seats next the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on toward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we reached Boston in safety. The day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I was beyond the reach of the bloodhounds; and, for the first time during many years, I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed their reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a swelling heart. Their every motion delighted me. I could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend, that we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to Mrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for that purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age, so instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself till she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed pleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their books.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 38, utilizing the provided context.

Upon returning home to Boston, Linda learns that Ben has left on a whaling voyage to escape the abuse of his fellow apprentices, who have discovered that he is "colored." Heartbroken, Linda chides herself for having left her children alone for so long, but reminds herself that it was for the best. Soon after her return, Linda receives a letter from Mrs. Dodge . In the letter, Emily comments on Linda's trip to England and invites her to come live with her and her new husband in Norfolk, Virginia. Although Linda is furious to discover that Dr. Flint and his family are still keeping track of her, she tells herself that as long as she stays in Boston, she is safe.

----------CHAPTER 37--------- In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again, in this world, should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I had lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr. Bruce wished the child to visit some of her mother's relatives in England, and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left Ellen to remain in the house with my friend and go to school. We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had seen in American hotels; but my situation was indescribably more pleasant. For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. Ensconced in a pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow, for the first time, with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated freedom. As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the wonders of that great city; but I watched the tide of life that flowed through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in our Southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all children--sometimes docile and sometimes wayward. We next went to Steventon, in Berkshire. It was a small town, said to be the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six shillings, and seven shillings, a week, and women for sixpence, and sevenpence, a day, out of which they boarded themselves. Of course they lived in the most primitive manner; it could not be otherwise, where a woman's wages for an entire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat. They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the poorest poor. But when I visited them in their little thatched cottages, I felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America. They labored hard; but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer, through heat and cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble; but they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come, in the dead of night, and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer could come and take from him his wife, or his daughter. They must separate to earn their living; but the parents knew where their children were going, and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor people. Schools were established among them, and benevolent societies were active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law forbidding them to learn to read and write; and if they helped each other in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as was the case with myself and poor, pious, old uncle Fred. I repeat that the most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousand fold better off than the most pampered American slave. I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to paint their condition so rose-colored as the Hon. Miss Murray paints the condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of _my_ experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If she were to lay aside her title, and, instead of visiting among the fashionable, become domesticated, as a poor governess, on some plantation in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her tell quite a different story. My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my having there received strong religious impressions. The contemptuous manner in which the communion had been administered to colored people, in my native place; the church membership of Dr. Flint, and others like him; and the buying and selling of slaves, by professed ministers of the gospel, had given me a prejudice against the Episcopal church. The whole service seemed to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace entered my heart, and I knelt at the communion table, I trust, in true humility of soul. I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated. During all that time, I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice against color. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to return to America. ----------CHAPTER 38--------- We had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance spectres seemed to rise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be afraid of one's native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I hastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and improving at her school; but Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been left at a good place to learn a trade, and for several months every thing worked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favorite with his fellow-apprentices; but one day they accidentally discovered a fact they had never before suspected--that he was colored! This at once transformed him into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans, others American-born Irish; and it was offensive to their dignity to have a "nigger" among them, after they had been told that he _was_ a "nigger." They began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned the same, they resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to stand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support himself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a whaling voyage. When I received these tidings I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached myself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now all I could do was to pray to the heavenly Father to guide and protect him. Not long after my return, I received the following letter from Miss Emily Flint, now Mrs. Dodge:-- In this you will recognize the hand of your friend and mistress. Having heard that you had gone with a family to Europe, I have waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself; but I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Think this over, and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion. Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and mistress. Of course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I felt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions. "Come up into my parlor," said the spider to the fly; "Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy." It was plain that Dr. Flint's family were apprised of my movements, since they knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from them; but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in future. The money I had earned, I was desirous to devote to the education of my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but unjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of property. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that time had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts in food and clothing. My children certainly belonged to me; but though Dr. Flint had incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of money for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and would probably still give his daughter a claim to my children; but I regarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I was bound to respect. The Fugitive Slave Law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had not then stooped under chains to enter her courts of justice, so called. I knew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her love of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honored the old Commonwealth beyond her deserts. ----------CHAPTER 39--------- For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably in Boston. At the end of that time, my brother William offered to send Ellen to a boarding school. It required a great effort for me to consent to part with her, for I had few near ties, and it was her presence that made my two little rooms seem home-like. But my judgment prevailed over my selfish feelings. I made preparations for her departure. During the two years we had lived together I had often resolved to tell her something about her father; but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage. I had a shrinking dread of diminishing my child's love. I knew she must have curiosity on the subject, but she had never asked a question. She was always very careful not to say any thing to remind me of my troubles. Now that she was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned, she might hear my story from some one who did not understand the palliating circumstances; and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject, her sensitive nature might receive a rude shock. When we retired for the night, she said, "Mother, it is very hard to leave you alone. I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to improve myself. But you will write to me often; won't you, mother?" I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer her. But in a calm, solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, "Listen to me, Ellen; I have something to tell you!" I recounted my early sufferings in slavery, and told her how nearly they had crushed me. I began to tell her how they had driven me into a great sin, when she clasped me in her arms, and exclaimed, "O, don't, mother! Please don't tell me any more." I said, "But, my child, I want you to know about your father." "I know all about it, mother," she replied; "I am nothing to my father, and he is nothing to me. All my love is for you. I was with him five months in Washington, and he never cared for me. He never spoke to me as he did to his little Fanny. I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny's nurse told me so, but she said I must never tell any body, and I never did. I used to wish he would take me in his arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or that he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought if he was my own father, he ought to love me. I was a little girl then, and didn't know any better. But now I never think any thing about my father. All my love is for you." She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the affection of my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion of my history. If I had, I should have spoken to her long before; for my pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to some one I could trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had manifested towards her unfortunate mother. The next morning, she and her uncle started on their journey to the village in New York, where she was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully lonely. I was thankful when a message came from a lady, accustomed to employ me, requesting me to come and sew in her family for several weeks. On my return, I found a letter from brother William. He thought of opening an anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, and combining with it the sale of some books and stationery; and he wanted me to unite with him. We tried it, but it was not successful. We found warm anti-slavery friends there, but the feeling was not general enough to support such an establishment. I passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac and Amy Post, practical believers in the Christian doctrine of human brotherhood. They measure a man's worth by his character, not by his complexion. The memory of those beloved and honored friends will remain with me to my latest hour. ----------CHAPTER 40--------- My brother, being disappointed in his project, concluded to go to California; and it was agreed that Benjamin should go with him. Ellen liked her school, and was a great favorite there. They did not know her history, and she did not tell it, because she had no desire to make capital out of their sympathy. But when it was accidentally discovered that her mother was a fugitive slave, every method was used to increase her advantages and diminish her expenses. I was alone again. It was necessary for me to be earning money, and I preferred that it should be among those who knew me. On my return from Rochester, I called at the house of Mr. Bruce, to see Mary, the darling little babe that had thawed my heart, when it was freezing into a cheerless distrust of all my fellow-beings. She was growing a tall girl now, but I loved her always. Mr. Bruce had married again, and it was proposed that I should become nurse to a new infant. I had but one hesitation, and that was feeling of insecurity in New York, now greatly increased by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law. However, I resolved to try the experiment. I was again fortunate in my employer. The new Mrs. Bruce was an American, brought up under aristocratic influences, and still living in the midst of them; but if she had any prejudice against color, I was never made aware of it; and as for the system of slavery, she had a most hearty dislike of it. No sophistry of Southerners could blind her to its enormity. She was a person of excellent principles and a noble heart. To me, from that hour to the present, she has been a true and sympathizing friend. Blessings be with her and hers! About the time that I reentered the Bruce family, an event occurred of disastrous import to the colored people. The slave Hamlin, the first fugitive that came under the new law, was given up by the bloodhounds of the north to the bloodhounds of the south. It was the beginning of a reign of terror to the colored population. The great city rushed on in its whirl of excitement, taking no note of the "short and simple annals of the poor." But while fashionables were listening to the thrilling voice of Jenny Lind in Metropolitan Hall, the thrilling voices of poor hunted colored people went up, in an agony of supplication, to the Lord, from Zion's church. Many families, who had lived in the city for twenty years, fled from it now. Many a poor washerwoman, who, by hard labor, had made herself a comfortable home, was obliged to sacrifice her furniture, bid a hurried farewell to friends, and seek her fortune among strangers in Canada. Many a wife discovered a secret she had never known before--that her husband was a fugitive, and must leave her to insure his own safety. Worse still, many a husband discovered that his wife had fled from slavery years ago, and as "the child follows the condition of its mother," the children of his love were liable to be seized and carried into slavery. Every where, in those humble homes, there was consternation and anguish. But what cared the legislators of the "dominant race" for the blood they were crushing out of trampled hearts? When my brother William spent his last evening with me, before he went to California, we talked nearly all the time of the distress brought on our oppressed people by the passage of this iniquitous law; and never had I seen him manifest such bitterness of spirit, such stern hostility to our oppressors. He was himself free from the operation of the law; for he did not run from any Slaveholding State, being brought into the Free States by his master. But I was subject to it; and so were hundreds of intelligent and industrious people all around us. I seldom ventured into the streets; and when it was necessary to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, or any of the family, I went as much as possible through back streets and by-ways. What a disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants, guiltless of offence, and seeking to perform their duties conscientiously, should be condemned to live in such incessant fear, and have nowhere to turn for protection! This state of things, of course, gave rise to many impromptu vigilance committees. Every colored person, and every friend of their persecuted race, kept their eyes wide open. Every evening I examined the newspapers carefully, to see what Southerners had put up at the hotels. I did this for my own sake, thinking my young mistress and her husband might be among the list; I wished also to give information to others, if necessary; for if many were "running to and fro," I resolved that "knowledge should be increased." This brings up one of my Southern reminiscences, which I will here briefly relate. I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to a wealthy man in our vicinity. His master died, leaving a son and daughter heirs to his large fortune. In the division of the slaves, Luke was included in the son's portion. This young man became a prey to the vices he went to the north, to complete his education, he carried his vices with him. He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs, by excessive dissipation. Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own helplessness. He kept a cowhide beside him, and, for the most trivial occurrence, he would order his attendant to bare his back, and kneel beside the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted. Some days he was not allowed to wear any thing but his shirt, in order to be in readiness to be flogged. A day seldom passed without his receiving more or less blows. If the slightest resistance was offered, the town constable was sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how much more the constable's strong arm was to be dreaded than the comparatively feeble one of his master. The arm of his tyrant grew weaker, and was finally palsied; and then the constable's services were in constant requisition. The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke's care, and was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his irritability and cruelty. As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism; and if Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the constable was immediately sent for. Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated. When I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch. One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man approaching, whose face was familiar to me. As he came nearer, I recognized Luke. I always rejoiced to see or hear of any one who had escaped from the black pit; I was peculiarly glad to see him on Northern soil, though I no longer called it _free_ soil. I well remembered what a desolate feeling it was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him cordially. At first, he did not know me; but when I mentioned my name, he remembered all about me. I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers. He replied, "De risk ain't so bad for me, as 'tis fur you. 'Cause I runned away from de speculator, and you runned away from de massa. Dem speculators vont spen dar money to come here fur a runaway, if dey ain't sartin sure to put dar hans right on him. An I tell you I's tuk good car 'bout dat. I had too hard times down dar, to let 'em ketch dis nigger." He then told me of the advice he had received, and the plans he had laid. I asked if he had money enough to take him to Canada. "'Pend upon it, I hab," he replied. "I tuk car fur dat. I'd bin workin all my days fur dem cussed whites, an got no pay but kicks and cuffs. So I tought dis nigger had a right to money nuff to bring him to de Free States. Massa Henry he lib till ebery body vish him dead; an ven he did die, I knowed de debbil would hab him, an vouldn't vant him to bring his money 'long too. So I tuk some of his bills, and put 'em in de pocket of his ole trousers. An ven he was buried, dis nigger ask fur dem ole trousers, an dey gub 'em to me." With a low, chuckling laugh, he added, "You see I didn't _steal_ it; dey _gub_ it to me. I tell you, I had mighty hard time to keep de speculator from findin it; but he didn't git it." This is a fair specimen of how the moral sense is educated by slavery. When a man has his wages stolen from him, year after year, and the laws sanction and enforce the theft, how can he be expected to have more regard to honesty than has the man who robs him? I have become somewhat enlightened, but I confess that I agree with poor, ignorant, much-abused Luke, in thinking he had a _right_ to that money, as a portion of his unpaid wages. He went to Canada forthwith, and I have not since heard from him. All that winter I lived in a state of anxiety. When I took the children out to breathe the air, I closely observed the countenances of all I met. I dreaded the approach of summer, when snakes and slaveholders make their appearance. I was, in fact, a slave in New York, as subject to slave laws as I had been in a Slave State. Strange incongruity in a State called free! Spring returned, and I received warning from the south that Dr. Flint knew of my return to my old place, and was making preparations to have me caught. I learned afterwards that my dress, and that of Mrs. Bruce's children, had been described to him by some of the Northern tools, which slaveholders employ for their base purposes, and then indulge in sneers at their cupidity and mean servility. I immediately informed Mrs. Bruce of my danger, and she took prompt measures for my safety. My place as nurse could not be supplied immediately, and this generous, sympathizing lady proposed that I should carry her baby away. It was a comfort to me to have the child with me; for the heart is reluctant to be torn away from every object it loves. But how few mothers would have consented to have one of their own babes become a fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on whom the legislators of the country had let loose the bloodhounds! When I spoke of the sacrifice she was making, in depriving herself of her dear baby, she replied, "It is better for you to have baby with you, Linda; for if they get on your track, they will be obliged to bring the child to me; and then, if there is a possibility of saving you, you shall be saved." This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her for harboring a fugitive slave; told her she was violating the laws of her country; and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She replied, "I am very well aware of it. It is imprisonment and one thousand dollars fine. Shame on my country that it _is_ so! I am ready to incur the penalty. I will go to the state's prison, rather than have any poor victim torn from _my_ house, to be carried back to slavery." The noble heart! The brave heart! The tears are in my eyes while I write of her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy with my persecuted people! I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of a senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This honorable gentleman would not have voted for the Fugitive Slave Law, as did the senator in "Uncle Tom's Cabin;" on the contrary, he was strongly opposed to it; but he was enough under its influence to be afraid of having me remain in his house many hours. So I was sent into the country, where I remained a month with the baby. When it was supposed that Dr. Flint's emissaries had lost track of me, and given up the pursuit for the present, I returned to New York.

Jane Eyre.volume 1.chapte

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volume 1, chapter 1|volume 1, chapter 2

Jane resists physically and verbally as the servants Bessie and Miss Abbot lead her to the red-room, named for the color of its drapery and furniture. The room also contains a miniature portrait of Mr. Reed, who has been dead nine years; his actual body lies in a vault under the Gateshead church. Before they lock her up, the servants reprimand Jane for her disobedience and warn her against angering God. As Jane considers their reprimands, she becomes angry at the injustice of her family situation, wondering why she is always mistreated while her cousins are pampered and petted. She catches her ghostly reflection in the mirror and, thinking about her miserable condition and about her dead uncle, recalls how he took the orphaned Jane in and made Mrs. Reed promise to take care of her. Suddenly, a ray of light enters the room, and Jane cries out, believing that the light is the ghost of her uncle. Her scream of terror alerts Bessie, Miss Abbot, and Mrs. Reed, but they accuse her of trickery and refuse to free her. After they leave, Jane faints.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 1--------- There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 2--------- I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather _out_ of myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths. "Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she's like a mad cat." "For shame! for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master." "Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?" "No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness." They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly. "If you don't sit still, you must be tied down," said Bessie. "Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly." Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me. "Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir." In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands. "Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity. "She never did so before," at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail. "But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me. She's an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover." Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said--"You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse." I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in-- "And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them." "What we tell you is for your good," added Bessie, in no harsh voice, "you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure." "Besides," said Miss Abbot, "God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don't repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away." They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them. The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled- up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne. This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week's quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room--the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur. Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion. My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the looking- glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my stool. Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present. All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifference, all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one's favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother "old girl," too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still "her own darling." I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night. My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium. "Unjust!--unjust!" said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression--as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself die. What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question--_why_ I thus suffered; now, at the distance of--I will not say how many years, I see it clearly. I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child--though equally dependent and friendless--Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more complacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery. Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o'clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my own uncle--my mother's brother--that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her; but how could she really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband's death, by any tie? It must have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group. A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not--never doubted--that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls--occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaming mirror--I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child, might quit its abode--whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed--and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I endeavoured to stifle it--I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered. "Miss Eyre, are you ill?" said Bessie. "What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!" exclaimed Abbot. "Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" was my cry. "What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again demanded Bessie. "Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I had now got hold of Bessie's hand, and she did not snatch it from me. "She has screamed out on purpose," declared Abbot, in some disgust. "And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks." "What is all this?" demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. "Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself." "Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma'am," pleaded Bessie. "Let her go," was the only answer. "Loose Bessie's hand, child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then." "O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it--let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if--" "Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:" and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity. Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene.

cliffnotes

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volume 1, chapter 1|volume 1, chapter 2

The nursemaid, Bessie, and Mrs. Reed's lady's-maid, Miss Abbot, physically drag Jane to the red room; she's fighting them the whole way, which, she tells us, is unusual for her, but she's half-crazed. Jane objects to John Reed being called her "master," and Miss Abbot tells Jane that she is "less than a servant" because she doesn't even work or pay for her room and board. We think this is pretty harsh--after all, she's ten, and the Reeds are rich. Bessie and Abbot plunk Jane down on a stool; they threaten to tie her down, but she promises to stay in place. The servants spend a few minutes reminding Jane again that she's just a poor orphan, that she ought to be grateful to her aunt for taking her in, and so on. They even claim that God will strike her down if she keeps having tantrums, and then they leave and lock her in. Jane tells us about the red room, which is a spare bedroom furnished in, you guessed it, red--red curtains, red carpet, red tablecloth, reddish wood furniture--although there are a few white things in it, too. It's cold, quiet, and lonely, and... here's the creepiest bit... it's the room in which her uncle, Mr. Reed, died . Jane gets up to make sure she's locked in--yep, she is. Then she looks in the mirror, and the room looks even weirder in the mirror, especially because her reflection looks sort of like a ghost. Hint: this isn't the last time that Jane herself will seem almost supernatural. Jane thinks about how unfair her situation is--she's bullied by her cousins, her aunt hates her for no reason, and even the servants are snotty to her. She knows that she's the best behaved of the four children, but everyone dislikes her and indulges the others, and this unfairness really bothers her. Her keen ethical sense is awakening! Jane the child, whom we're following in the story, can't understand why she's being mistreated, but Jane the adult, who is telling the story , can. It's not because she's poor, but because she's different than the Reeds--different in temperament. Maybe, she thinks, it's also because Jane is only Mrs. Reed's niece by marriage; she was related to Mr. Reed, but she and Mrs. Reed aren't blood relatives. It's starting to get dark and the wind and rain are still raging outside--Jane's beginning to freak out in this creepy red room. Jane decides that if Mr. Reed were here now, he would be nicer to her than his widow and children are... but then she starts to worry that he might come back from the grave to try to comfort her, and that would be creepy. Jane tries to calm down so that Mr. Reed's ghost doesn't appear to reassure her, but then she sees a weird streak of light. Where is it coming from? It's not the moon. Is it a lantern? Maybe. Is it a ghost? Eeek! Jane screams. Well, actually, she "utter a wild involuntary cry" , but you get the idea. Bessie and Abbot come running and ask what's the matter. Bessie seems sympathetic when Jane tells her that she thought she saw a ghost--she lets Jane hold her hand--but Abbot thinks that Jane is just trying to trick them into letting her out. Next Mrs. Reed comes to see what all the noise was. Uh-oh. She's mad that the servants didn't obey her orders to leave Jane alone and, like Abbot, she thinks that Jane's being manipulative. Mrs. Reed punishes Jane with another hour alone in the red room, and as she leaves Jane faints.

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 1--------- There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 2--------- I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather _out_ of myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths. "Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she's like a mad cat." "For shame! for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master." "Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?" "No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness." They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly. "If you don't sit still, you must be tied down," said Bessie. "Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly." Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me. "Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir." In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands. "Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity. "She never did so before," at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail. "But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me. She's an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover." Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said--"You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse." I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in-- "And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them." "What we tell you is for your good," added Bessie, in no harsh voice, "you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure." "Besides," said Miss Abbot, "God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don't repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away." They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them. The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled- up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne. This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week's quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room--the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur. Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion. My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the looking- glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my stool. Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present. All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifference, all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one's favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother "old girl," too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still "her own darling." I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night. My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium. "Unjust!--unjust!" said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression--as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself die. What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question--_why_ I thus suffered; now, at the distance of--I will not say how many years, I see it clearly. I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child--though equally dependent and friendless--Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more complacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery. Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o'clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my own uncle--my mother's brother--that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her; but how could she really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband's death, by any tie? It must have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group. A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not--never doubted--that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls--occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaming mirror--I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child, might quit its abode--whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed--and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I endeavoured to stifle it--I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered. "Miss Eyre, are you ill?" said Bessie. "What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!" exclaimed Abbot. "Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" was my cry. "What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again demanded Bessie. "Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I had now got hold of Bessie's hand, and she did not snatch it from me. "She has screamed out on purpose," declared Abbot, in some disgust. "And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks." "What is all this?" demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. "Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself." "Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma'am," pleaded Bessie. "Let her go," was the only answer. "Loose Bessie's hand, child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then." "O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it--let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if--" "Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:" and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity. Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene.

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of volume 1, chapter 1, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 1|volume 1, chapter 1

The novel opens on a dreary November afternoon at Gateshead, the home of the wealthy Reed family. A young girl named Jane Eyre sits in the drawing room reading Bewick's History of British Birds. Jane's aunt, Mrs. Reed, has forbidden her niece to play with her cousins Eliza, Georgiana, and the bullying John. John chides Jane for being a lowly orphan who is only permitted to live with the Reeds because of his mother's charity. John then hurls a book at the young girl, pushing her to the end of her patience. Jane finally erupts, and the two cousins fight. Mrs. Reed holds Jane responsible for the scuffle and sends her to the "red-room"--the frightening chamber in which her Uncle Reed died--as punishment

----------CHAPTER 1--------- There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs. ----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 1--------- There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 1 with the given context.

volume 1, chapter 2|chapter 1

It is a cold and dreary winter afternoon, and outdoor activity is impossible. Jane's aunt, Mrs. Reed, has her own children, Eliza, John, and Georgiana, happily gathered around her on a sofa in the drawing room of Gateshead Hall. Jane is excluded from the group. She steals into the adjoining breakfast room and sits in a window with Bewick's History of British Birds; the pictures in the book correspond to her lonely feelings. John Reed interrupts Jane and drags her out of her hiding place. He is a fourteen-year-old overweight hulk, who is home from boarding school. He is pampered by his mother, who takes no notice of his bullying Jane, even when he does it in her presence. On this occasion John strikes Jane and tells her not to take liberties with the books. For her punishment, he makes her stand near the window and knocks her down. Infuriated by John's attack, Jane retaliates as never before and declares aloud what she thinks of John. Mrs. Reed and the servants separate the two children, and Mrs. Reed punishes Jane by locking her up in "the red room."

----------VOLUME 1, CHAPTER 2--------- I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather _out_ of myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths. "Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she's like a mad cat." "For shame! for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master." "Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?" "No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness." They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly. "If you don't sit still, you must be tied down," said Bessie. "Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly." Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me. "Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir." In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands. "Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity. "She never did so before," at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail. "But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me. She's an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover." Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said--"You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse." I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in-- "And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them." "What we tell you is for your good," added Bessie, in no harsh voice, "you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure." "Besides," said Miss Abbot, "God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don't repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away." They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them. The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled- up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne. This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week's quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room--the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur. Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion. My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the looking- glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my stool. Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present. All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifference, all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one's favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother "old girl," too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still "her own darling." I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night. My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium. "Unjust!--unjust!" said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression--as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself die. What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question--_why_ I thus suffered; now, at the distance of--I will not say how many years, I see it clearly. I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child--though equally dependent and friendless--Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more complacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery. Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o'clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my own uncle--my mother's brother--that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her; but how could she really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband's death, by any tie? It must have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group. A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not--never doubted--that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls--occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaming mirror--I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child, might quit its abode--whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed--and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I endeavoured to stifle it--I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered. "Miss Eyre, are you ill?" said Bessie. "What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!" exclaimed Abbot. "Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" was my cry. "What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again demanded Bessie. "Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I had now got hold of Bessie's hand, and she did not snatch it from me. "She has screamed out on purpose," declared Abbot, in some disgust. "And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks." "What is all this?" demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. "Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself." "Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma'am," pleaded Bessie. "Let her go," was the only answer. "Loose Bessie's hand, child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then." "O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it--let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if--" "Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:" and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity. Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene. ----------CHAPTER 1--------- There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

cliffnotes

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chapter 2|chapter 1

Chapter one introduces Jane, the narrator of the story, her aunt Mrs. Reed, and her cousins, Eliza, John and Georgiana Reed. Ten-year old Jane lives at the Reed's Gateshead Hall. It becomes obvious that Jane's place in the household is not a comfortable one, and Mrs. Reed does not think highly of her. Jane tries to remain unnoticed in the drawing room reading on a rainy day, but John Reed, the fourteen-year-old son of Mrs. Reed, soon finds her. Jane lives in terror of John, as he bullies and punishes her without end. John becomes angry that Jane is reading one of their books, and says that she is a dependent there, has no money, and should not "live with gentlemen's children like. John throws the book at Jane, causing her to fall and cut her head against the door. Jane then fights against him, and when Mrs. Reed enters the room she sends Jane to be locked in the red-room

----------CHAPTER 2--------- I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather _out_ of myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a moment's mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths. "Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she's like a mad cat." "For shame! for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress's son! Your young master." "Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?" "No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wickedness." They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly. "If you don't sit still, you must be tied down," said Bessie. "Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly." Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me. "Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir." In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands. "Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity. "She never did so before," at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail. "But it was always in her," was the reply. "I've told Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me. She's an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover." Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said--"You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse." I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in-- "And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them." "What we tell you is for your good," added Bessie, in no harsh voice, "you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure." "Besides," said Miss Abbot, "God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her: I wouldn't have her heart for anything. Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don't repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away." They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them. The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled- up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne. This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered. The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week's quiet dust: and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room--the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur. Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker's men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion. My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the looking- glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie's evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my stool. Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present. All John Reed's violent tyrannies, all his sisters' proud indifference, all his mother's aversion, all the servants' partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one's favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory: he called his mother "old girl," too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still "her own darling." I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night. My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me; and because I had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium. "Unjust!--unjust!" said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression--as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself die. What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question--_why_ I thus suffered; now, at the distance of--I will not say how many years, I see it clearly. I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child--though equally dependent and friendless--Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more complacently; her children would have entertained for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery. Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o'clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my own uncle--my mother's brother--that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house; and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her; but how could she really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband's death, by any tie? It must have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group. A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not--never doubted--that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls--occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaming mirror--I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister's child, might quit its abode--whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed--and rise before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my might I endeavoured to stifle it--I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered. "Miss Eyre, are you ill?" said Bessie. "What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!" exclaimed Abbot. "Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" was my cry. "What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again demanded Bessie. "Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I had now got hold of Bessie's hand, and she did not snatch it from me. "She has screamed out on purpose," declared Abbot, in some disgust. "And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks." "What is all this?" demanded another voice peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. "Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself." "Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma'am," pleaded Bessie. "Let her go," was the only answer. "Loose Bessie's hand, child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then." "O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it--let me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if--" "Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:" and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity. Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, without farther parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene. ----------CHAPTER 1--------- There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group; saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy, little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window- seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- "Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge Pours in among the stormy Hebrides." Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,--that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold." Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking. I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide. The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms. The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: it was an object of terror. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows. Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed's lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast- room door opened. "Boh! Madam Mope!" cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: he found the room apparently empty. "Where the dickens is she!" he continued. "Lizzy! Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into the rain--bad animal!" "It is well I drew the curtain," thought I; and I wished fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the door, and said at once-- "She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack." And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being dragged forth by the said Jack. "What do you want?" I asked, with awkward diffidence. "Say, 'What do you want, Master Reed?'" was the answer. "I want you to come here;" and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and stand before him. John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him home for a month or two, "on account of his delicate health." Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother's heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that John's sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home. John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back. Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair. "That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since," said he, "and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!" Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult. "What were you doing behind the curtain?" he asked. "I was reading." "Show the book." I returned to the window and fetched it thence. "You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama's expense. Now, I'll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows." I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded. "Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer--you are like a slave-driver--you are like the Roman emperors!" I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared aloud. "What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won't I tell mama? but first--" He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don't very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me "Rat! Rat!" and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words-- "Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!" "Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!" Then Mrs. Reed subjoined-- "Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there." Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.

Jane Eyre.volume 3.chapte

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of volume 3, chapter 38 using the context provided.

chapter 38|volume 3, chapter 38

Jane and Rochester marry with no witnesses other than the parson and the church clerk. Jane writes to her cousins with the news. St. John never acknowledges what has happened, but Mary and Diana write back with their good wishes. Jane visits Adele at her school, and finds her unhappy. Remembering her own childhood experience, Jane moves Adele to a more congenial school, and Adele grows up to be a very pleasant and mild-mannered young woman. Jane writes that she is narrating her story after ten years of marriage to Rochester, which she describes as inexpressibly blissful. They live as equals, and she helps him to cope with his blindness. After two years, Rochester begins to regain his vision in one eye, and when their first child--a boy--is born, Rochester is able to see the baby. Jane writes that Diana and Mary have both found husbands and that St. John went to India as he had planned. She notes that in his last letter, St. John claimed to have had a premonition of his own approaching death. She does not believe that she will hear from St. John again, but she does not grieve for him, saying that he has fulfilled his promise and done God's work. She closes her book with a quote from his letter, in which he begs the Lord Jesus to come for him quickly

----------CHAPTER 38--------- Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said-- "Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only-- "Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!" A short time after she pursued--"I seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear. "I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian name)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock. "Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words-- "She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may see that." I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me. "She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine." How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly things. You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her. My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done. I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest--blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character--perfect concord is the result. Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near--that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape before us; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad--because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes. One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?" I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes." "And have you a pale blue dress on?" {And have you a pale blue dress on?: p435.jpg} I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it. He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him--the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy. My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them. As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth--who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful. St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this-- "My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly respond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'" ----------VOLUME 3, CHAPTER 38--------- Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said-- "Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only-- "Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!" A short time after she pursued--"I seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear. "I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian name)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock. "Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words-- "She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may see that." I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me. "She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine." How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly things. You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her. My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done. I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest--blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character--perfect concord is the result. Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near--that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape before us; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad--because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes. One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?" I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes." "And have you a pale blue dress on?" {And have you a pale blue dress on?: p435.jpg} I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it. He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him--the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy. My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them. As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth--who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful. St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this-- "My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly respond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'" ----------CHAPTER 38--------- Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said-- "Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the roast, said only-- "Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!" A short time after she pursued--"I seed you go out with the master, but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear. "I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward" (John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian name)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock. "Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words-- "She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may see that." I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me. "She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine." How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding to my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly things. You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess once more, but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now required by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her. My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done. I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest--blest beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character--perfect concord is the result. Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near--that knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape before us; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad--because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes. One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?" I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes." "And have you a pale blue dress on?" {And have you a pale blue dress on?: p435.jpg} I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it. He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him--the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy. My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them. As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth--who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful. St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this-- "My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly respond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'"

Jude the Obscure.part 1.c

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 5 with the given context.

chapter 5|chapter 9|part 1, chapter 1

During the next few years Jude tries to educate himself by reading Latin and some Greek with the use of a dictionary. This study takes place as he drives the bakery wagon for his aunt's expanding business, paying more attention to his reading than to where he is going or with whom he is supposed to do business. One day when he is sixteen he stops near the Brown House, kneels by the side of the road, and reads aloud a poem he has been reading in honor of the then setting sun and rising moon. This pagan impulse causes Jude to wonder if he as a future minister hasn't spent too much time on secular works. He then takes up the study of the New Testament in Greek and eventually theological works. In order to make possible his future move to Christminster, Jude decides he must have a trade to support himself. He chooses ecclesiastical stonework because of his interest in medieval art and also because of the fact that his cousin Sue's father had been an ecclesiastical metalworker. Apprenticing himself in the nearby town of Alfredston, he begins to learn his trade. At the age of nineteen Jude is living in the town during the week and returning to Marygreen every Saturday evening.

----------CHAPTER 5--------- During the three or four succeeding years a quaint and singular vehicle might have been discerned moving along the lanes and by-roads near Marygreen, driven in a quaint and singular way. In the course of a month or two after the receipt of the books Jude had grown callous to the shabby trick played him by the dead languages. In fact, his disappointment at the nature of those tongues had, after a while, been the means of still further glorifying the erudition of Christminster. To acquire languages, departed or living in spite of such obstinacies as he now knew them inherently to possess, was a herculean performance which gradually led him on to a greater interest in it than in the presupposed patent process. The mountain-weight of material under which the ideas lay in those dusty volumes called the classics piqued him into a dogged, mouselike subtlety of attempt to move it piecemeal. He had endeavoured to make his presence tolerable to his crusty maiden aunt by assisting her to the best of his ability, and the business of the little cottage bakery had grown in consequence. An aged horse with a hanging head had been purchased for eight pounds at a sale, a creaking cart with a whity-brown tilt obtained for a few pounds more, and in this turn-out it became Jude's business thrice a week to carry loaves of bread to the villagers and solitary cotters immediately round Marygreen. The singularity aforesaid lay, after all, less in the conveyance itself than in Jude's manner of conducting it along its route. Its interior was the scene of most of Jude's education by "private study." As soon as the horse had learnt the road and the houses at which he was to pause awhile, the boy, seated in front, would slip the reins over his arm, ingeniously fix open, by means of a strap attached to the tilt, the volume he was reading, spread the dictionary on his knees, and plunge into the simpler passages from Caesar, Virgil, or Horace, as the case might be, in his purblind stumbling way, and with an expenditure of labour that would have made a tender-hearted pedagogue shed tears; yet somehow getting at the meaning of what he read, and divining rather than beholding the spirit of the original, which often to his mind was something else than that which he was taught to look for. The only copies he had been able to lay hands on were old Delphin editions, because they were superseded, and therefore cheap. But, bad for idle schoolboys, it did so happen that they were passably good for him. The hampered and lonely itinerant conscientiously covered up the marginal readings, and used them merely on points of construction, as he would have used a comrade or tutor who should have happened to be passing by. And though Jude may have had little chance of becoming a scholar by these rough and ready means, he was in the way of getting into the groove he wished to follow. While he was busied with these ancient pages, which had already been thumbed by hands possibly in the grave, digging out the thoughts of these minds so remote yet so near, the bony old horse pursued his rounds, and Jude would be aroused from the woes of Dido by the stoppage of his cart and the voice of some old woman crying, "Two to-day, baker, and I return this stale one." He was frequently met in the lanes by pedestrians and others without his seeing them, and by degrees the people of the neighbourhood began to talk about his method of combining work and play (such they considered his reading to be), which, though probably convenient enough to himself, was not altogether a safe proceeding for other travellers along the same roads. There were murmurs. Then a private resident of an adjoining place informed the local policeman that the baker's boy should not be allowed to read while driving, and insisted that it was the constable's duty to catch him in the act, and take him to the police court at Alfredston, and get him fined for dangerous practices on the highway. The policeman thereupon lay in wait for Jude, and one day accosted him and cautioned him. As Jude had to get up at three o'clock in the morning to heat the oven, and mix and set in the bread that he distributed later in the day, he was obliged to go to bed at night immediately after laying the sponge; so that if he could not read his classics on the highways he could hardly study at all. The only thing to be done was, therefore, to keep a sharp eye ahead and around him as well as he could in the circumstances, and slip away his books as soon as anybody loomed in the distance, the policeman in particular. To do that official justice, he did not put himself much in the way of Jude's bread-cart, considering that in such a lonely district the chief danger was to Jude himself, and often on seeing the white tilt over the hedges he would move in another direction. On a day when Fawley was getting quite advanced, being now about sixteen, and had been stumbling through the "Carmen Saeculare," on his way home, he found himself to be passing over the high edge of the plateau by the Brown House. The light had changed, and it was the sense of this which had caused him to look up. The sun was going down, and the full moon was rising simultaneously behind the woods in the opposite quarter. His mind had become so impregnated with the poem that, in a moment of the same impulsive emotion which years before had caused him to kneel on the ladder, he stopped the horse, alighted, and glancing round to see that nobody was in sight, knelt down on the roadside bank with open book. He turned first to the shiny goddess, who seemed to look so softly and critically at his doings, then to the disappearing luminary on the other hand, as he began: "Phoebe silvarumque potens Diana!" The horse stood still till he had finished the hymn, which Jude repeated under the sway of a polytheistic fancy that he would never have thought of humouring in broad daylight. Reaching home, he mused over his curious superstition, innate or acquired, in doing this, and the strange forgetfulness which had led to such a lapse from common sense and custom in one who wished, next to being a scholar, to be a Christian divine. It had all come of reading heathen works exclusively. The more he thought of it the more convinced he was of his inconsistency. He began to wonder whether he could be reading quite the right books for his object in life. Certainly there seemed little harmony between this pagan literature and the mediaeval colleges at Christminster, that ecclesiastical romance in stone. Ultimately he decided that in his sheer love of reading he had taken up a wrong emotion for a Christian young man. He had dabbled in Clarke's Homer, but had never yet worked much at the New Testament in the Greek, though he possessed a copy, obtained by post from a second-hand bookseller. He abandoned the now familiar Ionic for a new dialect, and for a long time onward limited his reading almost entirely to the Gospels and Epistles in Griesbach's text. Moreover, on going into Alfredston one day, he was introduced to patristic literature by finding at the bookseller's some volumes of the Fathers which had been left behind by an insolvent clergyman of the neighbourhood. As another outcome of this change of groove he visited on Sundays all the churches within a walk, and deciphered the Latin inscriptions on fifteenth-century brasses and tombs. On one of these pilgrimages he met with a hunch-backed old woman of great intelligence, who read everything she could lay her hands on, and she told him more yet of the romantic charms of the city of light and lore. Thither he resolved as firmly as ever to go. But how live in that city? At present he had no income at all. He had no trade or calling of any dignity or stability whatever on which he could subsist while carrying out an intellectual labour which might spread over many years. What was most required by citizens? Food, clothing, and shelter. An income from any work in preparing the first would be too meagre; for making the second he felt a distaste; the preparation of the third requisite he inclined to. They built in a city; therefore he would learn to build. He thought of his unknown uncle, his cousin Susanna's father, an ecclesiastical worker in metal, and somehow mediaeval art in any material was a trade for which he had rather a fancy. He could not go far wrong in following his uncle's footsteps, and engaging himself awhile with the carcases that contained the scholar souls. As a preliminary he obtained some small blocks of freestone, metal not being available, and suspending his studies awhile, occupied his spare half-hours in copying the heads and capitals in his parish church. There was a stone-mason of a humble kind in Alfredston, and as soon as he had found a substitute for himself in his aunt's little business, he offered his services to this man for a trifling wage. Here Jude had the opportunity of learning at least the rudiments of freestone-working. Some time later he went to a church-builder in the same place, and under the architect's direction became handy at restoring the dilapidated masonries of several village churches round about. Not forgetting that he was only following up this handicraft as a prop to lean on while he prepared those greater engines which he flattered himself would be better fitted for him, he yet was interested in his pursuit on its own account. He now had lodgings during the week in the little town, whence he returned to Marygreen village every Saturday evening. And thus he reached and passed his nineteenth year. ----------CHAPTER 9--------- It was some two months later in the year, and the pair had met constantly during the interval. Arabella seemed dissatisfied; she was always imagining, and waiting, and wondering. One day she met the itinerant Vilbert. She, like all the cottagers thereabout, knew the quack well, and she began telling him of her experiences. Arabella had been gloomy, but before he left her she had grown brighter. That evening she kept an appointment with Jude, who seemed sad. "I am going away," he said to her. "I think I ought to go. I think it will be better both for you and for me. I wish some things had never begun! I was much to blame, I know. But it is never too late to mend." Arabella began to cry. "How do you know it is not too late?" she said. "That's all very well to say! I haven't told you yet!" and she looked into his face with streaming eyes. "What?" he asked, turning pale. "Not...?" "Yes! And what shall I do if you desert me?" "Oh, Arabella--how can you say that, my dear! You KNOW I wouldn't desert you!" "Well then--" "I have next to no wages as yet, you know; or perhaps I should have thought of this before... But, of course if that's the case, we must marry! What other thing do you think I could dream of doing?" "I thought--I thought, deary, perhaps you would go away all the more for that, and leave me to face it alone!" "You knew better! Of course I never dreamt six months ago, or even three, of marrying. It is a complete smashing up of my plans--I mean my plans before I knew you, my dear. But what are they, after all! Dreams about books, and degrees, and impossible fellowships, and all that. Certainly we'll marry: we must!" That night he went out alone, and walked in the dark self-communing. He knew well, too well, in the secret centre of his brain, that Arabella was not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind. Yet, such being the custom of the rural districts among honourable young men who had drifted so far into intimacy with a woman as he unfortunately had done, he was ready to abide by what he had said, and take the consequences. For his own soothing he kept up a factitious belief in her. His idea of her was the thing of most consequence, not Arabella herself, he sometimes said laconically. The banns were put in and published the very next Sunday. The people of the parish all said what a simple fool young Fawley was. All his reading had only come to this, that he would have to sell his books to buy saucepans. Those who guessed the probable state of affairs, Arabella's parents being among them, declared that it was the sort of conduct they would have expected of such an honest young man as Jude in reparation of the wrong he had done his innocent sweetheart. The parson who married them seemed to think it satisfactory too. And so, standing before the aforesaid officiator, the two swore that at every other time of their lives till death took them, they would assuredly believe, feel, and desire precisely as they had believed, felt, and desired during the few preceding weeks. What was as remarkable as the undertaking itself was the fact that nobody seemed at all surprised at what they swore. Fawley's aunt being a baker she made him a bride-cake, saying bitterly that it was the last thing she could do for him, poor silly fellow; and that it would have been far better if, instead of his living to trouble her, he had gone underground years before with his father and mother. Of this cake Arabella took some slices, wrapped them up in white note-paper, and sent them to her companions in the pork-dressing business, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet "_In remembrance of good advice_." The prospects of the newly married couple were certainly not very brilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stone-mason's apprentice, nineteen years of age, was working for half wages till he should be out of his time. His wife was absolutely useless in a town-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary for them to live. But the urgent need of adding to income in ever so little a degree caused him to take a lonely roadside cottage between the Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profits of a vegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her keep a pig. But it was not the sort of life he had bargained for, and it was a long way to walk to and from Alfredston every day. Arabella, however, felt that all these make-shifts were temporary; she had gained a husband; that was the thing--a husband with a lot of earning power in him for buying her frocks and hats when he should begin to get frightened a bit, and stick to his trade, and throw aside those stupid books for practical undertakings. So to the cottage he took her on the evening of the marriage, giving up his old room at his aunt's--where so much of the hard labour at Greek and Latin had been carried on. A little chill overspread him at her first unrobing. A long tail of hair, which Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back of her head, was deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon the looking-glass which he had bought her. "What--it wasn't your own?" he said, with a sudden distaste for her. "Oh no--it never is nowadays with the better class." "Nonsense! Perhaps not in towns. But in the country it is supposed to be different. Besides, you've enough of your own, surely?" "Yes, enough as country notions go. But in town the men expect more, and when I was barmaid at Aldbrickham--" "Barmaid at Aldbrickham?" "Well, not exactly barmaid--I used to draw the drink at a public-house there--just for a little time; that was all. Some people put me up to getting this, and I bought it just for a fancy. The more you have the better in Aldbrickham, which is a finer town than all your Christminsters. Every lady of position wears false hair--the barber's assistant told me so." Jude thought with a feeling of sickness that though this might be true to some extent, for all that he knew, many unsophisticated girls would and did go to towns and remain there for years without losing their simplicity of life and embellishments. Others, alas, had an instinct towards artificiality in their very blood, and became adepts in counterfeiting at the first glimpse of it. However, perhaps there was no great sin in a woman adding to her hair, and he resolved to think no more of it. A new-made wife can usually manage to excite interest for a few weeks, even though the prospects of the household ways and means are cloudy. There is a certain piquancy about her situation, and her manner to her acquaintance at the sense of it, which carries off the gloom of facts, and renders even the humblest bride independent awhile of the real. Mrs. Jude Fawley was walking in the streets of Alfredston one market-day with this quality in her carriage when she met Anny her former friend, whom she had not seen since the wedding. As usual they laughed before talking; the world seemed funny to them without saying it. "So it turned out a good plan, you see!" remarked the girl to the wife. "I knew it would with such as him. He's a dear good fellow, and you ought to be proud of un." "I am," said Mrs. Fawley quietly. "And when do you expect?" "Ssh! Not at all." "What!" "I was mistaken." "Oh, Arabella, Arabella; you be a deep one! Mistaken! well, that's clever--it's a real stroke of genius! It is a thing I never thought o', wi' all my experience! I never thought beyond bringing about the real thing--not that one could sham it!" "Don't you be too quick to cry sham! 'Twasn't sham. I didn't know." "My word--won't he be in a taking! He'll give it to 'ee o' Saturday nights! Whatever it was, he'll say it was a trick--a double one, by the Lord!" "I'll own to the first, but not to the second... Pooh--he won't care! He'll be glad I was wrong in what I said. He'll shake down, bless 'ee--men always do. What can 'em do otherwise? Married is married." Nevertheless it was with a little uneasiness that Arabella approached the time when in the natural course of things she would have to reveal that the alarm she had raised had been without foundation. The occasion was one evening at bedtime, and they were in their chamber in the lonely cottage by the wayside to which Jude walked home from his work every day. He had worked hard the whole twelve hours, and had retired to rest before his wife. When she came into the room he was between sleeping and waking, and was barely conscious of her undressing before the little looking-glass as he lay. One action of hers, however, brought him to full cognition. Her face being reflected towards him as she sat, he could perceive that she was amusing herself by artificially producing in each cheek the dimple before alluded to, a curious accomplishment of which she was mistress, effecting it by a momentary suction. It seemed to him for the first time that the dimples were far oftener absent from her face during his intercourse with her nowadays than they had been in the earlier weeks of their acquaintance. "Don't do that, Arabella!" he said suddenly. "There is no harm in it, but--I don't like to see you." She turned and laughed. "Lord, I didn't know you were awake!" she said. "How countrified you are! That's nothing." "Where did you learn it?" "Nowhere that I know of. They used to stay without any trouble when I was at the public-house; but now they won't. My face was fatter then." "I don't care about dimples. I don't think they improve a woman--particularly a married woman, and of full-sized figure like you." "Most men think otherwise." "I don't care what most men think, if they do. How do you know?" "I used to be told so when I was serving in the tap-room." "Ah--that public-house experience accounts for your knowing about the adulteration of the ale when we went and had some that Sunday evening. I thought when I married you that you had always lived in your father's house." "You ought to have known better than that, and seen I was a little more finished than I could have been by staying where I was born. There was not much to do at home, and I was eating my head off, so I went away for three months." "You'll soon have plenty to do now, dear, won't you?" "How do you mean?" "Why, of course--little things to make." "Oh." "When will it be? Can't you tell me exactly, instead of in such general terms as you have used?" "Tell you?" "Yes--the date." "There's nothing to tell. I made a mistake." "What?" "It was a mistake." He sat bolt upright in bed and looked at her. "How can that be?" "Women fancy wrong things sometimes." "But--! Why, of course, so unprepared as I was, without a stick of furniture, and hardly a shilling, I shouldn't have hurried on our affair, and brought you to a half-furnished hut before I was ready, if it had not been for the news you gave me, which made it necessary to save you, ready or no... Good God!" "Don't take on, dear. What's done can't be undone." "I have no more to say!" He gave the answer simply, and lay down; and there was silence between them. When Jude awoke the next morning he seemed to see the world with a different eye. As to the point in question he was compelled to accept her word; in the circumstances he could not have acted otherwise while ordinary notions prevailed. But how came they to prevail? There seemed to him, vaguely and dimly, something wrong in a social ritual which made necessary a cancelling of well-formed schemes involving years of thought and labour, of foregoing a man's one opportunity of showing himself superior to the lower animals, and of contributing his units of work to the general progress of his generation, because of a momentary surprise by a new and transitory instinct which had nothing in it of the nature of vice, and could be only at the most called weakness. He was inclined to inquire what he had done, or she lost, for that matter, that he deserved to be caught in a gin which would cripple him, if not her also, for the rest of a lifetime? There was perhaps something fortunate in the fact that the immediate reason of his marriage had proved to be non-existent. But the marriage remained. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 1--------- The schoolmaster was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry. The miller at Cresscombe lent him the small white tilted cart and horse to carry his goods to the city of his destination, about twenty miles off, such a vehicle proving of quite sufficient size for the departing teacher's effects. For the schoolhouse had been partly furnished by the managers, and the only cumbersome article possessed by the master, in addition to the packing-case of books, was a cottage piano that he had bought at an auction during the year in which he thought of learning instrumental music. But the enthusiasm having waned he had never acquired any skill in playing, and the purchased article had been a perpetual trouble to him ever since in moving house. The rector had gone away for the day, being a man who disliked the sight of changes. He did not mean to return till the evening, when the new school-teacher would have arrived and settled in, and everything would be smooth again. The blacksmith, the farm bailiff, and the schoolmaster himself were standing in perplexed attitudes in the parlour before the instrument. The master had remarked that even if he got it into the cart he should not know what to do with it on his arrival at Christminster, the city he was bound for, since he was only going into temporary lodgings just at first. A little boy of eleven, who had been thoughtfully assisting in the packing, joined the group of men, and as they rubbed their chins he spoke up, blushing at the sound of his own voice: "Aunt have got a great fuel-house, and it could be put there, perhaps, till you've found a place to settle in, sir." "A proper good notion," said the blacksmith. It was decided that a deputation should wait on the boy's aunt--an old maiden resident--and ask her if she would house the piano till Mr. Phillotson should send for it. The smith and the bailiff started to see about the practicability of the suggested shelter, and the boy and the schoolmaster were left standing alone. "Sorry I am going, Jude?" asked the latter kindly. Tears rose into the boy's eyes, for he was not among the regular day scholars, who came unromantically close to the schoolmaster's life, but one who had attended the night school only during the present teacher's term of office. The regular scholars, if the truth must be told, stood at the present moment afar off, like certain historic disciples, indisposed to any enthusiastic volunteering of aid. The boy awkwardly opened the book he held in his hand, which Mr. Phillotson had bestowed on him as a parting gift, and admitted that he was sorry. "So am I," said Mr. Phillotson. "Why do you go, sir?" asked the boy. "Ah--that would be a long story. You wouldn't understand my reasons, Jude. You will, perhaps, when you are older." "I think I should now, sir." "Well--don't speak of this everywhere. You know what a university is, and a university degree? It is the necessary hallmark of a man who wants to do anything in teaching. My scheme, or dream, is to be a university graduate, and then to be ordained. By going to live at Christminster, or near it, I shall be at headquarters, so to speak, and if my scheme is practicable at all, I consider that being on the spot will afford me a better chance of carrying it out than I should have elsewhere." The smith and his companion returned. Old Miss Fawley's fuel-house was dry, and eminently practicable; and she seemed willing to give the instrument standing-room there. It was accordingly left in the school till the evening, when more hands would be available for removing it; and the schoolmaster gave a final glance round. The boy Jude assisted in loading some small articles, and at nine o'clock Mr. Phillotson mounted beside his box of books and other _impedimenta_, and bade his friends good-bye. "I shan't forget you, Jude," he said, smiling, as the cart moved off. "Be a good boy, remember; and be kind to animals and birds, and read all you can. And if ever you come to Christminster remember you hunt me out for old acquaintance' sake." The cart creaked across the green, and disappeared round the corner by the rectory-house. The boy returned to the draw-well at the edge of the greensward, where he had left his buckets when he went to help his patron and teacher in the loading. There was a quiver in his lip now and after opening the well-cover to begin lowering the bucket he paused and leant with his forehead and arms against the framework, his face wearing the fixity of a thoughtful child's who has felt the pricks of life somewhat before his time. The well into which he was looking was as ancient as the village itself, and from his present position appeared as a long circular perspective ending in a shining disk of quivering water at a distance of a hundred feet down. There was a lining of green moss near the top, and nearer still the hart's-tongue fern. He said to himself, in the melodramatic tones of a whimsical boy, that the schoolmaster had drawn at that well scores of times on a morning like this, and would never draw there any more. "I've seen him look down into it, when he was tired with his drawing, just as I do now, and when he rested a bit before carrying the buckets home! But he was too clever to bide here any longer--a small sleepy place like this!" A tear rolled from his eye into the depths of the well. The morning was a little foggy, and the boy's breathing unfurled itself as a thicker fog upon the still and heavy air. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden outcry: "Bring on that water, will ye, you idle young harlican!" It came from an old woman who had emerged from her door towards the garden gate of a green-thatched cottage not far off. The boy quickly waved a signal of assent, drew the water with what was a great effort for one of his stature, landed and emptied the big bucket into his own pair of smaller ones, and pausing a moment for breath, started with them across the patch of clammy greensward whereon the well stood--nearly in the centre of the little village, or rather hamlet of Marygreen. It was as old-fashioned as it was small, and it rested in the lap of an undulating upland adjoining the North Wessex downs. Old as it was, however, the well-shaft was probably the only relic of the local history that remained absolutely unchanged. Many of the thatched and dormered dwelling-houses had been pulled down of late years, and many trees felled on the green. Above all, the original church, hump-backed, wood-turreted, and quaintly hipped, had been taken down, and either cracked up into heaps of road-metal in the lane, or utilized as pig-sty walls, garden seats, guard-stones to fences, and rockeries in the flower-beds of the neighbourhood. In place of it a tall new building of modern Gothic design, unfamiliar to English eyes, had been erected on a new piece of ground by a certain obliterator of historic records who had run down from London and back in a day. The site whereon so long had stood the ancient temple to the Christian divinities was not even recorded on the green and level grass-plot that had immemorially been the churchyard, the obliterated graves being commemorated by eighteen-penny cast-iron crosses warranted to last five years.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for part 1, chapter 2 based on the provided context.

part 1, chapter 2|part 1, chapter 3

Jude returns to his aunt's house with the buckets full of water and finds his aunt talking with her friends. She is explaining his origins; that he is an orphan and has been with her for a year. She reveals that his parents' marriage was an unhappy one, and that Jude has a great love for books, like his cousin Sue. Aunt Drusilla considers him quite useless and wonders why the schoolmaster did not take Jude with him to Christminster to make a scholar of him. She also warns Jude never to marry as she believes the Fawleys have bad luck in marriage. Jude goes off to the fields, where he is working for Farmer Troutham, scaring the rooks off the corn with a clacker. Feeling sorry for the birds after some time, he allows them to feed on the corn. But soon he is caught by Troutham, who is outraged. He gives Jude a good beating and dismisses him from his job. As Jude returns home, he weeps in pain and disgrace. His aunt scolds him and again wishes he had gone with Phillotson to Christminster; that way, he would have been off her hands. In a miserable mood, Jude goes off to a high point in the village, hoping to catch a glimpse of Christminster from a distance.

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 2--------- Slender as was Jude Fawley's frame he bore the two brimming house-buckets of water to the cottage without resting. Over the door was a little rectangular piece of blue board, on which was painted in yellow letters, "Drusilla Fawley, Baker." Within the little lead panes of the window--this being one of the few old houses left--were five bottles of sweets, and three buns on a plate of the willow pattern. While emptying the buckets at the back of the house he could hear an animated conversation in progress within-doors between his great-aunt, the Drusilla of the sign-board, and some other villagers. Having seen the school-master depart, they were summing up particulars of the event, and indulging in predictions of his future. "And who's he?" asked one, comparatively a stranger, when the boy entered. "Well ye med ask it, Mrs. Williams. He's my great-nephew--come since you was last this way." The old inhabitant who answered was a tall, gaunt woman, who spoke tragically on the most trivial subject, and gave a phrase of her conversation to each auditor in turn. "He come from Mellstock, down in South Wessex, about a year ago--worse luck for 'n, Belinda" (turning to the right) "where his father was living, and was took wi' the shakings for death, and died in two days, as you know, Caroline" (turning to the left). "It would ha' been a blessing if Goddy-mighty had took thee too, wi' thy mother and father, poor useless boy! But I've got him here to stay with me till I can see what's to be done with un, though I am obliged to let him earn any penny he can. Just now he's a-scaring of birds for Farmer Troutham. It keeps him out of mischty. Why do ye turn away, Jude?" she continued, as the boy, feeling the impact of their glances like slaps upon his face, moved aside. The local washerwoman replied that it was perhaps a very good plan of Miss or Mrs. Fawley's (as they called her indifferently) to have him with her--"to kip 'ee company in your loneliness, fetch water, shet the winder-shetters o' nights, and help in the bit o' baking." Miss Fawley doubted it.... "Why didn't ye get the schoolmaster to take 'ee to Christminster wi' un, and make a scholar of 'ee," she continued, in frowning pleasantry. "I'm sure he couldn't ha' took a better one. The boy is crazy for books, that he is. It runs in our family rather. His cousin Sue is just the same--so I've heard; but I have not seen the child for years, though she was born in this place, within these four walls, as it happened. My niece and her husband, after they were married, didn' get a house of their own for some year or more; and then they only had one till--Well, I won't go into that. Jude, my child, don't you ever marry. 'Tisn't for the Fawleys to take that step any more. She, their only one, was like a child o' my own, Belinda, till the split come! Ah, that a little maid should know such changes!" Jude, finding the general attention again centering on himself, went out to the bakehouse, where he ate the cake provided for his breakfast. The end of his spare time had now arrived, and emerging from the garden by getting over the hedge at the back he pursued a path northward, till he came to a wide and lonely depression in the general level of the upland, which was sown as a corn-field. This vast concave was the scene of his labours for Mr Troutham the farmer, and he descended into the midst of it. The brown surface of the field went right up towards the sky all round, where it was lost by degrees in the mist that shut out the actual verge and accentuated the solitude. The only marks on the uniformity of the scene were a rick of last year's produce standing in the midst of the arable, the rooks that rose at his approach, and the path athwart the fallow by which he had come, trodden now by he hardly knew whom, though once by many of his own dead family. "How ugly it is here!" he murmured. The fresh harrow-lines seemed to stretch like the channellings in a piece of new corduroy, lending a meanly utilitarian air to the expanse, taking away its gradations, and depriving it of all history beyond that of the few recent months, though to every clod and stone there really attached associations enough and to spare--echoes of songs from ancient harvest-days, of spoken words, and of sturdy deeds. Every inch of ground had been the site, first or last, of energy, gaiety, horse-play, bickerings, weariness. Groups of gleaners had squatted in the sun on every square yard. Love-matches that had populated the adjoining hamlet had been made up there between reaping and carrying. Under the hedge which divided the field from a distant plantation girls had given themselves to lovers who would not turn their heads to look at them by the next harvest; and in that ancient cornfield many a man had made love-promises to a woman at whose voice he had trembled by the next seed-time after fulfilling them in the church adjoining. But this neither Jude nor the rooks around him considered. For them it was a lonely place, possessing, in the one view, only the quality of a work-ground, and in the other that of a granary good to feed in. The boy stood under the rick before mentioned, and every few seconds used his clacker or rattle briskly. At each clack the rooks left off pecking, and rose and went away on their leisurely wings, burnished like tassets of mail, afterwards wheeling back and regarding him warily, and descending to feed at a more respectful distance. He sounded the clacker till his arm ached, and at length his heart grew sympathetic with the birds' thwarted desires. They seemed, like himself, to be living in a world which did not want them. Why should he frighten them away? They took upon more and more the aspect of gentle friends and pensioners--the only friends he could claim as being in the least degree interested in him, for his aunt had often told him that she was not. He ceased his rattling, and they alighted anew. "Poor little dears!" said Jude, aloud. "You SHALL have some dinner-- you shall. There is enough for us all. Farmer Troutham can afford to let you have some. Eat, then my dear little birdies, and make a good meal!" They stayed and ate, inky spots on the nut-brown soil, and Jude enjoyed their appetite. A magic thread of fellow-feeling united his own life with theirs. Puny and sorry as those lives were, they much resembled his own. His clacker he had by this time thrown away from him, as being a mean and sordid instrument, offensive both to the birds and to himself as their friend. All at once he became conscious of a smart blow upon his buttocks, followed by a loud clack, which announced to his surprised senses that the clacker had been the instrument of offence used. The birds and Jude started up simultaneously, and the dazed eyes of the latter beheld the farmer in person, the great Troutham himself, his red face glaring down upon Jude's cowering frame, the clacker swinging in his hand. "So it's 'Eat my dear birdies,' is it, young man? 'Eat, dear birdies,' indeed! I'll tickle your breeches, and see if you say, 'Eat, dear birdies,' again in a hurry! And you've been idling at the schoolmaster's too, instead of coming here, ha'n't ye, hey? That's how you earn your sixpence a day for keeping the rooks off my corn!" Whilst saluting Jude's ears with this impassioned rhetoric, Troutham had seized his left hand with his own left, and swinging his slim frame round him at arm's-length, again struck Jude on the hind parts with the flat side of Jude's own rattle, till the field echoed with the blows, which were delivered once or twice at each revolution. "Don't 'ee, sir--please don't 'ee!" cried the whirling child, as helpless under the centrifugal tendency of his person as a hooked fish swinging to land, and beholding the hill, the rick, the plantation, the path, and the rooks going round and round him in an amazing circular race. "I--I sir--only meant that--there was a good crop in the ground--I saw 'em sow it--and the rooks could have a little bit for dinner--and you wouldn't miss it, sir--and Mr. Phillotson said I was to be kind to 'em--oh, oh, oh!" This truthful explanation seemed to exasperate the farmer even more than if Jude had stoutly denied saying anything at all, and he still smacked the whirling urchin, the clacks of the instrument continuing to resound all across the field and as far as the ears of distant workers--who gathered thereupon that Jude was pursuing his business of clacking with great assiduity--and echoing from the brand-new church tower just behind the mist, towards the building of which structure the farmer had largely subscribed, to testify his love for God and man. Presently Troutham grew tired of his punitive task, and depositing the quivering boy on his legs, took a sixpence from his pocket and gave it him in payment for his day's work, telling him to go home and never let him see him in one of those fields again. Jude leaped out of arm's reach, and walked along the trackway weeping--not from the pain, though that was keen enough; not from the perception of the flaw in the terrestrial scheme, by which what was good for God's birds was bad for God's gardener; but with the awful sense that he had wholly disgraced himself before he had been a year in the parish, and hence might be a burden to his great-aunt for life. With this shadow on his mind he did not care to show himself in the village, and went homeward by a roundabout track behind a high hedge and across a pasture. Here he beheld scores of coupled earthworms lying half their length on the surface of the damp ground, as they always did in such weather at that time of the year. It was impossible to advance in regular steps without crushing some of them at each tread. Though Farmer Troutham had just hurt him, he was a boy who could not himself bear to hurt anything. He had never brought home a nest of young birds without lying awake in misery half the night after, and often reinstating them and the nest in their original place the next morning. He could scarcely bear to see trees cut down or lopped, from a fancy that it hurt them; and late pruning, when the sap was up and the tree bled profusely, had been a positive grief to him in his infancy. This weakness of character, as it may be called, suggested that he was the sort of man who was born to ache a good deal before the fall of the curtain upon his unnecessary life should signify that all was well with him again. He carefully picked his way on tiptoe among the earthworms, without killing a single one. On entering the cottage he found his aunt selling a penny loaf to a little girl, and when the customer was gone she said, "Well, how do you come to be back here in the middle of the morning like this?" "I'm turned away." "What?" "Mr. Troutham have turned me away because I let the rooks have a few peckings of corn. And there's my wages--the last I shall ever hae!" He threw the sixpence tragically on the table. "Ah!" said his aunt, suspending her breath. And she opened upon him a lecture on how she would now have him all the spring upon her hands doing nothing. "If you can't skeer birds, what can ye do? There! don't ye look so deedy! Farmer Troutham is not so much better than myself, come to that. But 'tis as Job said, 'Now they that are younger than I have me in derision, whose fathers I would have disdained to have set with the dogs of my flock.' His father was my father's journeyman, anyhow, and I must have been a fool to let 'ee go to work for 'n, which I shouldn't ha' done but to keep 'ee out of mischty." More angry with Jude for demeaning her by coming there than for dereliction of duty, she rated him primarily from that point of view, and only secondarily from a moral one. "Not that you should have let the birds eat what Farmer Troutham planted. Of course you was wrong in that. Jude, Jude, why didstn't go off with that schoolmaster of thine to Christminster or somewhere? But, oh no--poor or'nary child--there never was any sprawl on thy side of the family, and never will be!" "Where is this beautiful city, Aunt--this place where Mr. Phillotson is gone to?" asked the boy, after meditating in silence. "Lord! you ought to know where the city of Christminster is. Near a score of miles from here. It is a place much too good for you ever to have much to do with, poor boy, I'm a-thinking." "And will Mr. Phillotson always be there?" "How can I tell?" "Could I go to see him?" "Lord, no! You didn't grow up hereabout, or you wouldn't ask such as that. We've never had anything to do with folk in Christminster, nor folk in Christminster with we." Jude went out, and, feeling more than ever his existence to be an undemanded one, he lay down upon his back on a heap of litter near the pig-sty. The fog had by this time become more translucent, and the position of the sun could be seen through it. He pulled his straw hat over his face, and peered through the interstices of the plaiting at the white brightness, vaguely reflecting. Growing up brought responsibilities, he found. Events did not rhyme quite as he had thought. Nature's logic was too horrid for him to care for. That mercy towards one set of creatures was cruelty towards another sickened his sense of harmony. As you got older, and felt yourself to be at the centre of your time, and not at a point in its circumference, as you had felt when you were little, you were seized with a sort of shuddering, he perceived. All around you there seemed to be something glaring, garish, rattling, and the noises and glares hit upon the little cell called your life, and shook it, and warped it. If he could only prevent himself growing up! He did not want to be a man. Then, like the natural boy, he forgot his despondency, and sprang up. During the remainder of the morning he helped his aunt, and in the afternoon, when there was nothing more to be done, he went into the village. Here he asked a man whereabouts Christminster lay. "Christminster? Oh, well, out by there yonder; though I've never bin there--not I. I've never had any business at such a place." The man pointed north-eastward, in the very direction where lay that field in which Jude had so disgraced himself. There was something unpleasant about the coincidence for the moment, but the fearsomeness of this fact rather increased his curiosity about the city. The farmer had said he was never to be seen in that field again; yet Christminster lay across it, and the path was a public one. So, stealing out of the hamlet, he descended into the same hollow which had witnessed his punishment in the morning, never swerving an inch from the path, and climbing up the long and tedious ascent on the other side till the track joined the highway by a little clump of trees. Here the ploughed land ended, and all before him was bleak open down. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 3--------- Not a soul was visible on the hedgeless highway, or on either side of it, and the white road seemed to ascend and diminish till it joined the sky. At the very top it was crossed at right angles by a green "ridgeway"--the Ickneild Street and original Roman road through the district. This ancient track ran east and west for many miles, and down almost to within living memory had been used for driving flocks and herds to fairs and markets. But it was now neglected and overgrown. The boy had never before strayed so far north as this from the nestling hamlet in which he had been deposited by the carrier from a railway station southward, one dark evening some few months earlier, and till now he had had no suspicion that such a wide, flat, low-lying country lay so near at hand, under the very verge of his upland world. The whole northern semicircle between east and west, to a distance of forty or fifty miles, spread itself before him; a bluer, moister atmosphere, evidently, than that he breathed up here. Not far from the road stood a weather-beaten old barn of reddish-grey brick and tile. It was known as the Brown House by the people of the locality. He was about to pass it when he perceived a ladder against the eaves; and the reflection that the higher he got, the further he could see, led Jude to stand and regard it. On the slope of the roof two men were repairing the tiling. He turned into the ridgeway and drew towards the barn. When he had wistfully watched the workmen for some time he took courage, and ascended the ladder till he stood beside them. "Well, my lad, and what may you want up here?" "I wanted to know where the city of Christminster is, if you please." "Christminster is out across there, by that clump. You can see it--at least you can on a clear day. Ah, no, you can't now." The other tiler, glad of any kind of diversion from the monotony of his labour, had also turned to look towards the quarter designated. "You can't often see it in weather like this," he said. "The time I've noticed it is when the sun is going down in a blaze of flame, and it looks like--I don't know what." "The heavenly Jerusalem," suggested the serious urchin. "Ay--though I should never ha' thought of it myself.... But I can't see no Christminster to-day." The boy strained his eyes also; yet neither could he see the far-off city. He descended from the barn, and abandoning Christminster with the versatility of his age he walked along the ridge-track, looking for any natural objects of interest that might lie in the banks thereabout. When he repassed the barn to go back to Marygreen he observed that the ladder was still in its place, but that the men had finished their day's work and gone away. It was waning towards evening; there was still a faint mist, but it had cleared a little except in the damper tracts of subjacent country and along the river-courses. He thought again of Christminster, and wished, since he had come two or three miles from his aunt's house on purpose, that he could have seen for once this attractive city of which he had been told. But even if he waited here it was hardly likely that the air would clear before night. Yet he was loth to leave the spot, for the northern expanse became lost to view on retreating towards the village only a few hundred yards. He ascended the ladder to have one more look at the point the men had designated, and perched himself on the highest rung, overlying the tiles. He might not be able to come so far as this for many days. Perhaps if he prayed, the wish to see Christminster might be forwarded. People said that, if you prayed, things sometimes came to you, even though they sometimes did not. He had read in a tract that a man who had begun to build a church, and had no money to finish it, knelt down and prayed, and the money came in by the next post. Another man tried the same experiment, and the money did not come; but he found afterwards that the breeches he knelt in were made by a wicked Jew. This was not discouraging, and turning on the ladder Jude knelt on the third rung, where, resting against those above it, he prayed that the mist might rise. He then seated himself again, and waited. In the course of ten or fifteen minutes the thinning mist dissolved altogether from the northern horizon, as it had already done elsewhere, and about a quarter of an hour before the time of sunset the westward clouds parted, the sun's position being partially uncovered, and the beams streaming out in visible lines between two bars of slaty cloud. The boy immediately looked back in the old direction. Some way within the limits of the stretch of landscape, points of light like the topaz gleamed. The air increased in transparency with the lapse of minutes, till the topaz points showed themselves to be the vanes, windows, wet roof slates, and other shining spots upon the spires, domes, freestone-work, and varied outlines that were faintly revealed. It was Christminster, unquestionably; either directly seen, or miraged in the peculiar atmosphere. The spectator gazed on and on till the windows and vanes lost their shine, going out almost suddenly like extinguished candles. The vague city became veiled in mist. Turning to the west, he saw that the sun had disappeared. The foreground of the scene had grown funereally dark, and near objects put on the hues and shapes of chimaeras. He anxiously descended the ladder, and started homewards at a run, trying not to think of giants, Herne the Hunter, Apollyon lying in wait for Christian, or of the captain with the bleeding hole in his forehead and the corpses round him that remutinied every night on board the bewitched ship. He knew that he had grown out of belief in these horrors, yet he was glad when he saw the church tower and the lights in the cottage windows, even though this was not the home of his birth, and his great-aunt did not care much about him. Inside and round about that old woman's "shop" window, with its twenty-four little panes set in lead-work, the glass of some of them oxidized with age, so that you could hardly see the poor penny articles exhibited within, and forming part of a stock which a strong man could have carried, Jude had his outer being for some long tideless time. But his dreams were as gigantic as his surroundings were small. Through the solid barrier of cold cretaceous upland to the northward he was always beholding a gorgeous city--the fancied place he had likened to the new Jerusalem, though there was perhaps more of the painter's imagination and less of the diamond merchant's in his dreams thereof than in those of the Apocalyptic writer. And the city acquired a tangibility, a permanence, a hold on his life, mainly from the one nucleus of fact that the man for whose knowledge and purposes he had so much reverence was actually living there; not only so, but living among the more thoughtful and mentally shining ones therein. In sad wet seasons, though he knew it must rain at Christminster too, he could hardly believe that it rained so drearily there. Whenever he could get away from the confines of the hamlet for an hour or two, which was not often, he would steal off to the Brown House on the hill and strain his eyes persistently; sometimes to be rewarded by the sight of a dome or spire, at other times by a little smoke, which in his estimate had some of the mysticism of incense. Then the day came when it suddenly occurred to him that if he ascended to the point of view after dark, or possibly went a mile or two further, he would see the night lights of the city. It would be necessary to come back alone, but even that consideration did not deter him, for he could throw a little manliness into his mood, no doubt. The project was duly executed. It was not late when he arrived at the place of outlook, only just after dusk, but a black north-east sky, accompanied by a wind from the same quarter, made the occasion dark enough. He was rewarded; but what he saw was not the lamps in rows, as he had half expected. No individual light was visible, only a halo or glow-fog over-arching the place against the black heavens behind it, making the light and the city seem distant but a mile or so. He set himself to wonder on the exact point in the glow where the schoolmaster might be--he who never communicated with anybody at Marygreen now; who was as if dead to them here. In the glow he seemed to see Phillotson promenading at ease, like one of the forms in Nebuchadnezzar's furnace. He had heard that breezes travelled at the rate of ten miles an hour, and the fact now came into his mind. He parted his lips as he faced the north-east, and drew in the wind as if it were a sweet liquor. "You," he said, addressing the breeze caressingly "were in Christminster city between one and two hours ago, floating along the streets, pulling round the weather-cocks, touching Mr. Phillotson's face, being breathed by him; and now you are here, breathed by me--you, the very same." Suddenly there came along this wind something towards him--a message from the place--from some soul residing there, it seemed. Surely it was the sound of bells, the voice of the city, faint and musical, calling to him, "We are happy here!" He had become entirely lost to his bodily situation during this mental leap, and only got back to it by a rough recalling. A few yards below the brow of the hill on which he paused a team of horses made its appearance, having reached the place by dint of half an hour's serpentine progress from the bottom of the immense declivity. They had a load of coals behind them--a fuel that could only be got into the upland by this particular route. They were accompanied by a carter, a second man, and a boy, who now kicked a large stone behind one of the wheels, and allowed the panting animals to have a long rest, while those in charge took a flagon off the load and indulged in a drink round. They were elderly men, and had genial voices. Jude addressed them, inquiring if they had come from Christminster. "Heaven forbid, with this load!" said they. "The place I mean is that one yonder." He was getting so romantically attached to Christminster that, like a young lover alluding to his mistress, he felt bashful at mentioning its name again. He pointed to the light in the sky--hardly perceptible to their older eyes. "Yes. There do seem a spot a bit brighter in the nor'-east than elsewhere, though I shouldn't ha' noticed it myself, and no doubt it med be Christminster." Here a little book of tales which Jude had tucked up under his arm, having brought them to read on his way hither before it grew dark, slipped and fell into the road. The carter eyed him while he picked it up and straightened the leaves. "Ah, young man," he observed, "you'd have to get your head screwed on t'other way before you could read what they read there." "Why?" asked the boy. "Oh, they never look at anything that folks like we can understand," the carter continued, by way of passing the time. "On'y foreign tongues used in the days of the Tower of Babel, when no two families spoke alike. They read that sort of thing as fast as a night-hawk will whir. 'Tis all learning there--nothing but learning, except religion. And that's learning too, for I never could understand it. Yes, 'tis a serious-minded place. Not but there's wenches in the streets o' nights... You know, I suppose, that they raise pa'sons there like radishes in a bed? And though it do take--how many years, Bob?--five years to turn a lirruping hobble-de-hoy chap into a solemn preaching man with no corrupt passions, they'll do it, if it can be done, and polish un off like the workmen they be, and turn un out wi' a long face, and a long black coat and waistcoat, and a religious collar and hat, same as they used to wear in the Scriptures, so that his own mother wouldn't know un sometimes.... There, 'tis their business, like anybody else's." "But how should you know" "Now don't you interrupt, my boy. Never interrupt your senyers. Move the fore hoss aside, Bobby; here's som'at coming... You must mind that I be a-talking of the college life. 'Em lives on a lofty level; there's no gainsaying it, though I myself med not think much of 'em. As we be here in our bodies on this high ground, so be they in their minds--noble-minded men enough, no doubt--some on 'em--able to earn hundreds by thinking out loud. And some on 'em be strong young fellows that can earn a'most as much in silver cups. As for music, there's beautiful music everywhere in Christminster. You med be religious, or you med not, but you can't help striking in your homely note with the rest. And there's a street in the place--the main street--that ha'n't another like it in the world. I should think I did know a little about Christminster!" By this time the horses had recovered breath and bent to their collars again. Jude, throwing a last adoring look at the distant halo, turned and walked beside his remarkably well-informed friend, who had no objection to telling him as they moved on more yet of the city--its towers and halls and churches. The waggon turned into a cross-road, whereupon Jude thanked the carter warmly for his information, and said he only wished he could talk half as well about Christminster as he. "Well, 'tis oonly what has come in my way," said the carter unboastfully. "I've never been there, no more than you; but I've picked up the knowledge here and there, and you be welcome to it. A-getting about the world as I do, and mixing with all classes of society, one can't help hearing of things. A friend o' mine, that used to clane the boots at the Crozier Hotel in Christminster when he was in his prime, why, I knowed un as well as my own brother in his later years." Jude continued his walk homeward alone, pondering so deeply that he forgot to feel timid. He suddenly grew older. It had been the yearning of his heart to find something to anchor on, to cling to--for some place which he could call admirable. Should he find that place in this city if he could get there? Would it be a spot in which, without fear of farmers, or hindrance, or ridicule, he could watch and wait, and set himself to some mighty undertaking like the men of old of whom he had heard? As the halo had been to his eyes when gazing at it a quarter of an hour earlier, so was the spot mentally to him as he pursued his dark way. "It is a city of light," he said to himself. "The tree of knowledge grows there," he added a few steps further on. "It is a place that teachers of men spring from and go to." "It is what you may call a castle, manned by scholarship and religion." After this figure he was silent a long while, till he added: "It would just suit me."

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for part 1, chapter 4 based on the provided context.

part 1, chapter 4|part 1, chapter 5

While walking home Jude meets a quack doctor, Physician Vilbert. Jude questions him about Christminster and offers to get orders for Vilbert's pills and potions if Vilbert agrees to bring him his old Greek and Latin grammar texts. Jude works hard for two weeks and keeps his part of the bargain, but Vilbert lets him down. Intuitively Jude realizes the man is a fraud and is bitterly disappointed. In the meantime, Phillotson sends for his piano, which he left behind with Aunt Drusilla, and Jude secretly encloses a letter asking him to send his old grammar texts. But when they do arrive, Jude finds in dismay that instead of a general rule or formula for translating one language into another, each Latin or Greek word has to be committed to memory individually. Disillusioned by the enormity of the task, he falls into a fit of depression.

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 4--------- Walking somewhat slowly by reason of his concentration, the boy--an ancient man in some phases of thought, much younger than his years in others--was overtaken by a light-footed pedestrian, whom, notwithstanding the gloom, he could perceive to be wearing an extraordinarily tall hat, a swallow-tailed coat, and a watch-chain that danced madly and threw around scintillations of sky-light as its owner swung along upon a pair of thin legs and noiseless boots. Jude, beginning to feel lonely, endeavoured to keep up with him. "Well, my man! I'm in a hurry, so you'll have to walk pretty fast if you keep alongside of me. Do you know who I am?" "Yes, I think. Physician Vilbert?" "Ah--I'm known everywhere, I see! That comes of being a public benefactor." Vilbert was an itinerant quack-doctor, well known to the rustic population, and absolutely unknown to anybody else, as he, indeed, took care to be, to avoid inconvenient investigations. Cottagers formed his only patients, and his Wessex-wide repute was among them alone. His position was humbler and his field more obscure than those of the quacks with capital and an organized system of advertising. He was, in fact, a survival. The distances he traversed on foot were enormous, and extended nearly the whole length and breadth of Wessex. Jude had one day seen him selling a pot of coloured lard to an old woman as a certain cure for a bad leg, the woman arranging to pay a guinea, in instalments of a shilling a fortnight, for the precious salve, which, according to the physician, could only be obtained from a particular animal which grazed on Mount Sinai, and was to be captured only at great risk to life and limb. Jude, though he already had his doubts about this gentleman's medicines, felt him to be unquestionably a travelled personage, and one who might be a trustworthy source of information on matters not strictly professional. "I s'pose you've been to Christminster, Physician?" "I have--many times," replied the long thin man. "That's one of my centres." "It's a wonderful city for scholarship and religion?" "You'd say so, my boy, if you'd seen it. Why, the very sons of the old women who do the washing of the colleges can talk in Latin--not good Latin, that I admit, as a critic: dog-Latin--cat-Latin, as we used to call it in my undergraduate days." "And Greek?" "Well--that's more for the men who are in training for bishops, that they may be able to read the New Testament in the original." "I want to learn Latin and Greek myself." "A lofty desire. You must get a grammar of each tongue." "I mean to go to Christminster some day." "Whenever you do, you say that Physician Vilbert is the only proprietor of those celebrated pills that infallibly cure all disorders of the alimentary system, as well as asthma and shortness of breath. Two and threepence a box--specially licensed by the government stamp." "Can you get me the grammars if I promise to say it hereabout?" "I'll sell you mine with pleasure--those I used as a student." "Oh, thank you, sir!" said Jude gratefully, but in gasps, for the amazing speed of the physician's walk kept him in a dog-trot which was giving him a stitch in the side. "I think you'd better drop behind, my young man. Now I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll get you the grammars, and give you a first lesson, if you'll remember, at every house in the village, to recommend Physician Vilbert's golden ointment, life-drops, and female pills." "Where will you be with the grammars?" "I shall be passing here this day fortnight at precisely this hour of five-and-twenty minutes past seven. My movements are as truly timed as those of the planets in their courses." "Here I'll be to meet you," said Jude. "With orders for my medicines?" "Yes, Physician." Jude then dropped behind, waited a few minutes to recover breath, and went home with a consciousness of having struck a blow for Christminster. Through the intervening fortnight he ran about and smiled outwardly at his inward thoughts, as if they were people meeting and nodding to him--smiled with that singularly beautiful irradiation which is seen to spread on young faces at the inception of some glorious idea, as if a supernatural lamp were held inside their transparent natures, giving rise to the flattering fancy that heaven lies about them then. He honestly performed his promise to the man of many cures, in whom he now sincerely believed, walking miles hither and thither among the surrounding hamlets as the Physician's agent in advance. On the evening appointed he stood motionless on the plateau, at the place where he had parted from Vilbert, and there awaited his approach. The road-physician was fairly up to time; but, to the surprise of Jude on striking into his pace, which the pedestrian did not diminish by a single unit of force, the latter seemed hardly to recognize his young companion, though with the lapse of the fortnight the evenings had grown light. Jude thought it might perhaps be owing to his wearing another hat, and he saluted the physician with dignity. "Well, my boy?" said the latter abstractedly. "I've come," said Jude. "You? who are you? Oh yes--to be sure! Got any orders, lad?" "Yes." And Jude told him the names and addresses of the cottagers who were willing to test the virtues of the world-renowned pills and salve. The quack mentally registered these with great care. "And the Latin and Greek grammars?" Jude's voice trembled with anxiety. "What about them?" "You were to bring me yours, that you used before you took your degree." "Ah, yes, yes! Forgot all about it--all! So many lives depending on my attention, you see, my man, that I can't give so much thought as I would like to other things." Jude controlled himself sufficiently long to make sure of the truth; and he repeated, in a voice of dry misery, "You haven't brought 'em!" "No. But you must get me some more orders from sick people, and I'll bring the grammars next time." Jude dropped behind. He was an unsophisticated boy, but the gift of sudden insight which is sometimes vouchsafed to children showed him all at once what shoddy humanity the quack was made of. There was to be no intellectual light from this source. The leaves dropped from his imaginary crown of laurel; he turned to a gate, leant against it, and cried bitterly. The disappointment was followed by an interval of blankness. He might, perhaps, have obtained grammars from Alfredston, but to do that required money, and a knowledge of what books to order; and though physically comfortable, he was in such absolute dependence as to be without a farthing of his own. At this date Mr. Phillotson sent for his pianoforte, and it gave Jude a lead. Why should he not write to the schoolmaster, and ask him to be so kind as to get him the grammars in Christminster? He might slip a letter inside the case of the instrument, and it would be sure to reach the desired eyes. Why not ask him to send any old second-hand copies, which would have the charm of being mellowed by the university atmosphere? To tell his aunt of his intention would be to defeat it. It was necessary to act alone. After a further consideration of a few days he did act, and on the day of the piano's departure, which happened to be his next birthday, clandestinely placed the letter inside the packing-case, directed to his much-admired friend, being afraid to reveal the operation to his aunt Drusilla, lest she should discover his motive, and compel him to abandon his scheme. The piano was despatched, and Jude waited days and weeks, calling every morning at the cottage post office before his great-aunt was stirring. At last a packet did indeed arrive at the village, and he saw from the ends of it that it contained two thin books. He took it away into a lonely place, and sat down on a felled elm to open it. Ever since his first ecstasy or vision of Christminster and its possibilities, Jude had meditated much and curiously on the probable sort of process that was involved in turning the expressions of one language into those of another. He concluded that a grammar of the required tongue would contain, primarily, a rule, prescription, or clue of the nature of a secret cipher, which, once known, would enable him, by merely applying it, to change at will all words of his own speech into those of the foreign one. His childish idea was, in fact, a pushing to the extremity of mathematical precision what is everywhere known as Grimm's Law--an aggrandizement of rough rules to ideal completeness. Thus he assumed that the words of the required language were always to be found somewhere latent in the words of the given language by those who had the art to uncover them, such art being furnished by the books aforesaid. When, therefore, having noted that the packet bore the postmark of Christminster, he cut the string, opened the volumes, and turned to the Latin grammar, which chanced to come uppermost, he could scarcely believe his eyes. The book was an old one--thirty years old, soiled, scribbled wantonly over with a strange name in every variety of enmity to the letterpress, and marked at random with dates twenty years earlier than his own day. But this was not the cause of Jude's amazement. He learnt for the first time that there was no law of transmutation, as in his innocence he had supposed (there was, in some degree, but the grammarian did not recognize it), but that every word in both Latin and Greek was to be individually committed to memory at the cost of years of plodding. Jude flung down the books, lay backward along the broad trunk of the elm, and was an utterly miserable boy for the space of a quarter of an hour. As he had often done before, he pulled his hat over his face and watched the sun peering insidiously at him through the interstices of the straw. This was Latin and Greek, then, was it this grand delusion! The charm he had supposed in store for him was really a labour like that of Israel in Egypt. What brains they must have in Christminster and the great schools, he presently thought, to learn words one by one up to tens of thousands! There were no brains in his head equal to this business; and as the little sun-rays continued to stream in through his hat at him, he wished he had never seen a book, that he might never see another, that he had never been born. Somebody might have come along that way who would have asked him his trouble, and might have cheered him by saying that his notions were further advanced than those of his grammarian. But nobody did come, because nobody does; and under the crushing recognition of his gigantic error Jude continued to wish himself out of the world. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 5--------- During the three or four succeeding years a quaint and singular vehicle might have been discerned moving along the lanes and by-roads near Marygreen, driven in a quaint and singular way. In the course of a month or two after the receipt of the books Jude had grown callous to the shabby trick played him by the dead languages. In fact, his disappointment at the nature of those tongues had, after a while, been the means of still further glorifying the erudition of Christminster. To acquire languages, departed or living in spite of such obstinacies as he now knew them inherently to possess, was a herculean performance which gradually led him on to a greater interest in it than in the presupposed patent process. The mountain-weight of material under which the ideas lay in those dusty volumes called the classics piqued him into a dogged, mouselike subtlety of attempt to move it piecemeal. He had endeavoured to make his presence tolerable to his crusty maiden aunt by assisting her to the best of his ability, and the business of the little cottage bakery had grown in consequence. An aged horse with a hanging head had been purchased for eight pounds at a sale, a creaking cart with a whity-brown tilt obtained for a few pounds more, and in this turn-out it became Jude's business thrice a week to carry loaves of bread to the villagers and solitary cotters immediately round Marygreen. The singularity aforesaid lay, after all, less in the conveyance itself than in Jude's manner of conducting it along its route. Its interior was the scene of most of Jude's education by "private study." As soon as the horse had learnt the road and the houses at which he was to pause awhile, the boy, seated in front, would slip the reins over his arm, ingeniously fix open, by means of a strap attached to the tilt, the volume he was reading, spread the dictionary on his knees, and plunge into the simpler passages from Caesar, Virgil, or Horace, as the case might be, in his purblind stumbling way, and with an expenditure of labour that would have made a tender-hearted pedagogue shed tears; yet somehow getting at the meaning of what he read, and divining rather than beholding the spirit of the original, which often to his mind was something else than that which he was taught to look for. The only copies he had been able to lay hands on were old Delphin editions, because they were superseded, and therefore cheap. But, bad for idle schoolboys, it did so happen that they were passably good for him. The hampered and lonely itinerant conscientiously covered up the marginal readings, and used them merely on points of construction, as he would have used a comrade or tutor who should have happened to be passing by. And though Jude may have had little chance of becoming a scholar by these rough and ready means, he was in the way of getting into the groove he wished to follow. While he was busied with these ancient pages, which had already been thumbed by hands possibly in the grave, digging out the thoughts of these minds so remote yet so near, the bony old horse pursued his rounds, and Jude would be aroused from the woes of Dido by the stoppage of his cart and the voice of some old woman crying, "Two to-day, baker, and I return this stale one." He was frequently met in the lanes by pedestrians and others without his seeing them, and by degrees the people of the neighbourhood began to talk about his method of combining work and play (such they considered his reading to be), which, though probably convenient enough to himself, was not altogether a safe proceeding for other travellers along the same roads. There were murmurs. Then a private resident of an adjoining place informed the local policeman that the baker's boy should not be allowed to read while driving, and insisted that it was the constable's duty to catch him in the act, and take him to the police court at Alfredston, and get him fined for dangerous practices on the highway. The policeman thereupon lay in wait for Jude, and one day accosted him and cautioned him. As Jude had to get up at three o'clock in the morning to heat the oven, and mix and set in the bread that he distributed later in the day, he was obliged to go to bed at night immediately after laying the sponge; so that if he could not read his classics on the highways he could hardly study at all. The only thing to be done was, therefore, to keep a sharp eye ahead and around him as well as he could in the circumstances, and slip away his books as soon as anybody loomed in the distance, the policeman in particular. To do that official justice, he did not put himself much in the way of Jude's bread-cart, considering that in such a lonely district the chief danger was to Jude himself, and often on seeing the white tilt over the hedges he would move in another direction. On a day when Fawley was getting quite advanced, being now about sixteen, and had been stumbling through the "Carmen Saeculare," on his way home, he found himself to be passing over the high edge of the plateau by the Brown House. The light had changed, and it was the sense of this which had caused him to look up. The sun was going down, and the full moon was rising simultaneously behind the woods in the opposite quarter. His mind had become so impregnated with the poem that, in a moment of the same impulsive emotion which years before had caused him to kneel on the ladder, he stopped the horse, alighted, and glancing round to see that nobody was in sight, knelt down on the roadside bank with open book. He turned first to the shiny goddess, who seemed to look so softly and critically at his doings, then to the disappearing luminary on the other hand, as he began: "Phoebe silvarumque potens Diana!" The horse stood still till he had finished the hymn, which Jude repeated under the sway of a polytheistic fancy that he would never have thought of humouring in broad daylight. Reaching home, he mused over his curious superstition, innate or acquired, in doing this, and the strange forgetfulness which had led to such a lapse from common sense and custom in one who wished, next to being a scholar, to be a Christian divine. It had all come of reading heathen works exclusively. The more he thought of it the more convinced he was of his inconsistency. He began to wonder whether he could be reading quite the right books for his object in life. Certainly there seemed little harmony between this pagan literature and the mediaeval colleges at Christminster, that ecclesiastical romance in stone. Ultimately he decided that in his sheer love of reading he had taken up a wrong emotion for a Christian young man. He had dabbled in Clarke's Homer, but had never yet worked much at the New Testament in the Greek, though he possessed a copy, obtained by post from a second-hand bookseller. He abandoned the now familiar Ionic for a new dialect, and for a long time onward limited his reading almost entirely to the Gospels and Epistles in Griesbach's text. Moreover, on going into Alfredston one day, he was introduced to patristic literature by finding at the bookseller's some volumes of the Fathers which had been left behind by an insolvent clergyman of the neighbourhood. As another outcome of this change of groove he visited on Sundays all the churches within a walk, and deciphered the Latin inscriptions on fifteenth-century brasses and tombs. On one of these pilgrimages he met with a hunch-backed old woman of great intelligence, who read everything she could lay her hands on, and she told him more yet of the romantic charms of the city of light and lore. Thither he resolved as firmly as ever to go. But how live in that city? At present he had no income at all. He had no trade or calling of any dignity or stability whatever on which he could subsist while carrying out an intellectual labour which might spread over many years. What was most required by citizens? Food, clothing, and shelter. An income from any work in preparing the first would be too meagre; for making the second he felt a distaste; the preparation of the third requisite he inclined to. They built in a city; therefore he would learn to build. He thought of his unknown uncle, his cousin Susanna's father, an ecclesiastical worker in metal, and somehow mediaeval art in any material was a trade for which he had rather a fancy. He could not go far wrong in following his uncle's footsteps, and engaging himself awhile with the carcases that contained the scholar souls. As a preliminary he obtained some small blocks of freestone, metal not being available, and suspending his studies awhile, occupied his spare half-hours in copying the heads and capitals in his parish church. There was a stone-mason of a humble kind in Alfredston, and as soon as he had found a substitute for himself in his aunt's little business, he offered his services to this man for a trifling wage. Here Jude had the opportunity of learning at least the rudiments of freestone-working. Some time later he went to a church-builder in the same place, and under the architect's direction became handy at restoring the dilapidated masonries of several village churches round about. Not forgetting that he was only following up this handicraft as a prop to lean on while he prepared those greater engines which he flattered himself would be better fitted for him, he yet was interested in his pursuit on its own account. He now had lodgings during the week in the little town, whence he returned to Marygreen village every Saturday evening. And thus he reached and passed his nineteenth year.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for part 1, chapter 6 with the given context.

part 1, chapter 6|part 1, chapter 8

One Saturday afternoon Jude is returning from Alfredston to Marygreen. He mentally takes stock of and is rather pleased at his progress: his fluency in Latin and Greek, his familiarity with Euclid and his knowledge of Roman and English history. He indulges in a pleasant daydream of becoming a D. D. and eventually rising to the rank of bishop or archdeacon. He suddenly feels something cold hit him on the ear, and then he notices a nearby pig farm. One of the girls working there has thrown a pig part at him to get his attention, and he enters into conversation with her. She is Arabella Donn and her father raises pigs for a living. Jude is attracted to her, and she manages to extract a promise from him to meet with her the next day. Jude is half-surprised at himself, but the impulse of sexual attraction is something new to Jude and it overwhelms him. Christminster no longer occupies the center of his thoughts.

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 6--------- At this memorable date of his life he was, one Saturday, returning from Alfredston to Marygreen about three o'clock in the afternoon. It was fine, warm, and soft summer weather, and he walked with his tools at his back, his little chisels clinking faintly against the larger ones in his basket. It being the end of the week he had left work early, and had come out of the town by a round-about route which he did not usually frequent, having promised to call at a flour-mill near Cresscombe to execute a commission for his aunt. He was in an enthusiastic mood. He seemed to see his way to living comfortably in Christminster in the course of a year or two, and knocking at the doors of one of those strongholds of learning of which he had dreamed so much. He might, of course, have gone there now, in some capacity or other, but he preferred to enter the city with a little more assurance as to means than he could be said to feel at present. A warm self-content suffused him when he considered what he had already done. Now and then as he went along he turned to face the peeps of country on either side of him. But he hardly saw them; the act was an automatic repetition of what he had been accustomed to do when less occupied; and the one matter which really engaged him was the mental estimate of his progress thus far. "I have acquired quite an average student's power to read the common ancient classics, Latin in particular." This was true, Jude possessing a facility in that language which enabled him with great ease to himself to beguile his lonely walks by imaginary conversations therein. "I have read two books of the _Iliad_, besides being pretty familiar with passages such as the speech of Phoenix in the ninth book, the fight of Hector and Ajax in the fourteenth, the appearance of Achilles unarmed and his heavenly armour in the eighteenth, and the funeral games in the twenty-third. I have also done some Hesiod, a little scrap of Thucydides, and a lot of the Greek Testament... I wish there was only one dialect all the same. "I have done some mathematics, including the first six and the eleventh and twelfth books of Euclid; and algebra as far as simple equations. "I know something of the Fathers, and something of Roman and English history. "These things are only a beginning. But I shall not make much farther advance here, from the difficulty of getting books. Hence I must next concentrate all my energies on settling in Christminster. Once there I shall so advance, with the assistance I shall there get, that my present knowledge will appear to me but as childish ignorance. I must save money, and I will; and one of those colleges shall open its doors to me--shall welcome whom now it would spurn, if I wait twenty years for the welcome. "I'll be D.D. before I have done!" And then he continued to dream, and thought he might become even a bishop by leading a pure, energetic, wise, Christian life. And what an example he would set! If his income were L5000 a year, he would give away L4500 in one form and another, and live sumptuously (for him) on the remainder. Well, on second thoughts, a bishop was absurd. He would draw the line at an archdeacon. Perhaps a man could be as good and as learned and as useful in the capacity of archdeacon as in that of bishop. Yet he thought of the bishop again. "Meanwhile I will read, as soon as I am settled in Christminster, the books I have not been able to get hold of here: Livy, Tacitus, Herodotus, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes--" "Ha, ha, ha! Hoity-toity!" The sounds were expressed in light voices on the other side of the hedge, but he did not notice them. His thoughts went on: "--Euripides, Plato, Aristotle, Lucretius, Epictetus, Seneca, Antoninus. Then I must master other things: the Fathers thoroughly; Bede and ecclesiastical history generally; a smattering of Hebrew--I only know the letters as yet--" "Hoity-toity!" "--but I can work hard. I have staying power in abundance, thank God! and it is that which tells.... Yes, Christminster shall be my Alma Mater; and I'll be her beloved son, in whom she shall be well pleased." In his deep concentration on these transactions of the future Jude's walk had slackened, and he was now standing quite still, looking at the ground as though the future were thrown thereon by a magic lantern. On a sudden something smacked him sharply in the ear, and he became aware that a soft cold substance had been flung at him, and had fallen at his feet. A glance told him what it was--a piece of flesh, the characteristic part of a barrow-pig, which the countrymen used for greasing their boots, as it was useless for any other purpose. Pigs were rather plentiful hereabout, being bred and fattened in large numbers in certain parts of North Wessex. On the other side of the hedge was a stream, whence, as he now for the first time realized, had come the slight sounds of voices and laughter that had mingled with his dreams. He mounted the bank and looked over the fence. On the further side of the stream stood a small homestead, having a garden and pig-sties attached; in front of it, beside the brook, three young women were kneeling, with buckets and platters beside them containing heaps of pigs' chitterlings, which they were washing in the running water. One or two pairs of eyes slyly glanced up, and perceiving that his attention had at last been attracted, and that he was watching them, they braced themselves for inspection by putting their mouths demurely into shape and recommencing their rinsing operations with assiduity. "Thank you!" said Jude severely. "I DIDN'T throw it, I tell you!" asserted one girl to her neighbour, as if unconscious of the young man's presence. "Nor I," the second answered. "Oh, Anny, how can you!" said the third. "If I had thrown anything at all, it shouldn't have been THAT!" "Pooh! I don't care for him!" And they laughed and continued their work, without looking up, still ostentatiously accusing each other. Jude grew sarcastic as he wiped his face, and caught their remarks. "YOU didn't do it--oh no!" he said to the up-stream one of the three. She whom he addressed was a fine dark-eyed girl, not exactly handsome, but capable of passing as such at a little distance, despite some coarseness of skin and fibre. She had a round and prominent bosom, full lips, perfect teeth, and the rich complexion of a Cochin hen's egg. She was a complete and substantial female animal--no more, no less; and Jude was almost certain that to her was attributable the enterprise of attracting his attention from dreams of the humaner letters to what was simmering in the minds around him. "That you'll never be told," said she deedily. "Whoever did it was wasteful of other people's property." "Oh, that's nothing." "But you want to speak to me, I suppose?" "Oh yes; if you like to." "Shall I clamber across, or will you come to the plank above here?" Perhaps she foresaw an opportunity; for somehow or other the eyes of the brown girl rested in his own when he had said the words, and there was a momentary flash of intelligence, a dumb announcement of affinity _in posse_ between herself and him, which, so far as Jude Fawley was concerned, had no sort of premeditation in it. She saw that he had singled her out from the three, as a woman is singled out in such cases, for no reasoned purpose of further acquaintance, but in commonplace obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters, unconsciously received by unfortunate men when the last intention of their lives is to be occupied with the feminine. Springing to her feet, she said: "Bring back what is lying there." Jude was now aware that no message on any matter connected with her father's business had prompted her signal to him. He set down his basket of tools, picked up the scrap of offal, beat a pathway for himself with his stick, and got over the hedge. They walked in parallel lines, one on each bank of the stream, towards the small plank bridge. As the girl drew nearer to it, she gave without Jude perceiving it, an adroit little suck to the interior of each of her cheeks in succession, by which curious and original manoeuvre she brought as by magic upon its smooth and rotund surface a perfect dimple, which she was able to retain there as long as she continued to smile. This production of dimples at will was a not unknown operation, which many attempted, but only a few succeeded in accomplishing. They met in the middle of the plank, and Jude, tossing back her missile, seemed to expect her to explain why she had audaciously stopped him by this novel artillery instead of by hailing him. But she, slyly looking in another direction, swayed herself backwards and forwards on her hand as it clutched the rail of the bridge; till, moved by amatory curiosity, she turned her eyes critically upon him. "You don't think _I_ would shy things at you?" "Oh no." "We are doing this for my father, who naturally doesn't want anything thrown away. He makes that into dubbin." She nodded towards the fragment on the grass. "What made either of the others throw it, I wonder?" Jude asked, politely accepting her assertion, though he had very large doubts as to its truth. "Impudence. Don't tell folk it was I, mind!" "How can I? I don't know your name." "Ah, no. Shall I tell it to you?" "Do!" "Arabella Donn. I'm living here." "I must have known it if I had often come this way. But I mostly go straight along the high-road." "My father is a pig-breeder, and these girls are helping me wash the innerds for black-puddings and such like." They talked a little more and a little more, as they stood regarding each other and leaning against the hand-rail of the bridge. The unvoiced call of woman to man, which was uttered very distinctly by Arabella's personality, held Jude to the spot against his intention--almost against his will, and in a way new to his experience. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that till this moment Jude had never looked at a woman to consider her as such, but had vaguely regarded the sex as beings outside his life and purposes. He gazed from her eyes to her mouth, thence to her bosom, and to her full round naked arms, wet, mottled with the chill of the water, and firm as marble. "What a nice-looking girl you are!" he murmured, though the words had not been necessary to express his sense of her magnetism. "Ah, you should see me Sundays!" she said piquantly. "I don't suppose I could?" he answered "That's for you to think on. There's nobody after me just now, though there med be in a week or two." She had spoken this without a smile, and the dimples disappeared. Jude felt himself drifting strangely, but could not help it. "Will you let me?" "I don't mind." By this time she had managed to get back one dimple by turning her face aside for a moment and repeating the odd little sucking operation before mentioned, Jude being still unconscious of more than a general impression of her appearance. "Next Sunday?" he hazarded. "To-morrow, that is?" "Yes." "Shall I call?" "Yes." She brightened with a little glow of triumph, swept him almost tenderly with her eyes in turning, and retracing her steps down the brookside grass rejoined her companions. Jude Fawley shouldered his tool-basket and resumed his lonely way, filled with an ardour at which he mentally stood at gaze. He had just inhaled a single breath from a new atmosphere, which had evidently been hanging round him everywhere he went, for he knew not how long, but had somehow been divided from his actual breathing as by a sheet of glass. The intentions as to reading, working, and learning, which he had so precisely formulated only a few minutes earlier, were suffering a curious collapse into a corner, he knew not how. "Well, it's only a bit of fun," he said to himself, faintly conscious that to common sense there was something lacking, and still more obviously something redundant in the nature of this girl who had drawn him to her which made it necessary that he should assert mere sportiveness on his part as his reason in seeking her--something in her quite antipathetic to that side of him which had been occupied with literary study and the magnificent Christminster dream. It had been no vestal who chose THAT missile for opening her attack on him. He saw this with his intellectual eye, just for a short fleeting while, as by the light of a falling lamp one might momentarily see an inscription on a wall before being enshrouded in darkness. And then this passing discriminative power was withdrawn, and Jude was lost to all conditions of things in the advent of a fresh and wild pleasure, that of having found a new channel for emotional interest hitherto unsuspected, though it had lain close beside him. He was to meet this enkindling one of the other sex on the following Sunday. Meanwhile the girl had joined her companions, and she silently resumed her flicking and sousing of the chitterlings in the pellucid stream. "Catched un, my dear?" laconically asked the girl called Anny. "I don't know. I wish I had thrown something else than that!" regretfully murmured Arabella. "Lord! he's nobody, though you med think so. He used to drive old Drusilla Fawley's bread-cart out at Marygreen, till he 'prenticed himself at Alfredston. Since then he's been very stuck up, and always reading. He wants to be a scholar, they say." "Oh, I don't care what he is, or anything about 'n. Don't you think it, my child!" "Oh, don't ye! You needn't try to deceive us! What did you stay talking to him for, if you didn't want un? Whether you do or whether you don't, he's as simple as a child. I could see it as you courted on the bridge, when he looked at 'ee as if he had never seen a woman before in his born days. Well, he's to be had by any woman who can get him to care for her a bit, if she likes to set herself to catch him the right way." ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 8--------- One week's end Jude was as usual walking out to his aunt's at Marygreen from his lodging in Alfredston, a walk which now had large attractions for him quite other than his desire to see his aged and morose relative. He diverged to the right before ascending the hill with the single purpose of gaining, on his way, a glimpse of Arabella that should not come into the reckoning of regular appointments. Before quite reaching the homestead his alert eye perceived the top of her head moving quickly hither and thither over the garden hedge. Entering the gate he found that three young unfattened pigs had escaped from their sty by leaping clean over the top, and that she was endeavouring unassisted to drive them in through the door which she had set open. The lines of her countenance changed from the rigidity of business to the softness of love when she saw Jude, and she bent her eyes languishingly upon him. The animals took advantage of the pause by doubling and bolting out of the way. "They were only put in this morning!" she cried, stimulated to pursue in spite of her lover's presence. "They were drove from Spaddleholt Farm only yesterday, where Father bought 'em at a stiff price enough. They are wanting to get home again, the stupid toads! Will you shut the garden gate, dear, and help me to get 'em in. There are no men folk at home, only Mother, and they'll be lost if we don't mind." He set himself to assist, and dodged this way and that over the potato rows and the cabbages. Every now and then they ran together, when he caught her for a moment and kissed her. The first pig was got back promptly; the second with some difficulty; the third a long-legged creature, was more obstinate and agile. He plunged through a hole in the garden hedge, and into the lane. "He'll be lost if I don't follow 'n!" said she. "Come along with me!" She rushed in full pursuit out of the garden, Jude alongside her, barely contriving to keep the fugitive in sight. Occasionally they would shout to some boy to stop the animal, but he always wriggled past and ran on as before. "Let me take your hand, darling," said Jude. "You are getting out of breath." She gave him her now hot hand with apparent willingness, and they trotted along together. "This comes of driving 'em home," she remarked. "They always know the way back if you do that. They ought to have been carted over." By this time the pig had reached an unfastened gate admitting to the open down, across which he sped with all the agility his little legs afforded. As soon as the pursuers had entered and ascended to the top of the high ground it became apparent that they would have to run all the way to the farmer's if they wished to get at him. From this summit he could be seen as a minute speck, following an unerring line towards his old home. "It is no good!" cried Arabella. "He'll be there long before we get there. It don't matter now we know he's not lost or stolen on the way. They'll see it is ours, and send un back. Oh dear, how hot I be!" Without relinquishing her hold of Jude's hand she swerved aside and flung herself down on the sod under a stunted thorn, precipitately pulling Jude on to his knees at the same time. "Oh, I ask pardon--I nearly threw you down, didn't I! But I am so tired!" She lay supine, and straight as an arrow, on the sloping sod of this hill-top, gazing up into the blue miles of sky, and still retaining her warm hold of Jude's hand. He reclined on his elbow near her. "We've run all this way for nothing," she went on, her form heaving and falling in quick pants, her face flushed, her full red lips parted, and a fine dew of perspiration on her skin. "Well--why don't you speak, deary?" "I'm blown too. It was all up hill." They were in absolute solitude--the most apparent of all solitudes, that of empty surrounding space. Nobody could be nearer than a mile to them without their seeing him. They were, in fact, on one of the summits of the county, and the distant landscape around Christminster could be discerned from where they lay. But Jude did not think of that then. "Oh, I can see such a pretty thing up this tree," said Arabella. "A sort of a--caterpillar, of the most loveliest green and yellow you ever came across!" "Where?" said Jude, sitting up. "You can't see him there--you must come here," said she. He bent nearer and put his head in front of hers. "No--I can't see it," he said. "Why, on the limb there where it branches off--close to the moving leaf--there!" She gently pulled him down beside her. "I don't see it," he repeated, the back of his head against her cheek. "But I can, perhaps, standing up." He stood accordingly, placing himself in the direct line of her gaze. "How stupid you are!" she said crossly, turning away her face. "I don't care to see it, dear: why should I?" he replied looking down upon her. "Get up, Abby." "Why?" "I want you to let me kiss you. I've been waiting to ever so long!" She rolled round her face, remained a moment looking deedily aslant at him; then with a slight curl of the lip sprang to her feet, and exclaiming abruptly "I must mizzle!" walked off quickly homeward. Jude followed and rejoined her. "Just one!" he coaxed. "Shan't!" she said. He, surprised: "What's the matter?" She kept her two lips resentfully together, and Jude followed her like a pet lamb till she slackened her pace and walked beside him, talking calmly on indifferent subjects, and always checking him if he tried to take her hand or clasp her waist. Thus they descended to the precincts of her father's homestead, and Arabella went in, nodding good-bye to him with a supercilious, affronted air. "I expect I took too much liberty with her, somehow," Jude said to himself, as he withdrew with a sigh and went on to Marygreen. On Sunday morning the interior of Arabella's home was, as usual, the scene of a grand weekly cooking, the preparation of the special Sunday dinner. Her father was shaving before a little glass hung on the mullion of the window, and her mother and Arabella herself were shelling beans hard by. A neighbour passed on her way home from morning service at the nearest church, and seeing Donn engaged at the window with the razor, nodded and came in. She at once spoke playfully to Arabella: "I zeed 'ee running with 'un--hee-hee! I hope 'tis coming to something?" Arabella merely threw a look of consciousness into her face without raising her eyes. "He's for Christminster, I hear, as soon as he can get there." "Have you heard that lately--quite lately?" asked Arabella with a jealous, tigerish indrawing of breath. "Oh no! But it has been known a long time that it is his plan. He's on'y waiting here for an opening. Ah well: he must walk about with somebody, I s'pose. Young men don't mean much now-a-days. 'Tis a sip here and a sip there with 'em. 'Twas different in my time." When the gossip had departed Arabella said suddenly to her mother: "I want you and Father to go and inquire how the Edlins be, this evening after tea. Or no--there's evening service at Fensworth--you can walk to that." "Oh? What's up to-night, then?" "Nothing. Only I want the house to myself. He's shy; and I can't get un to come in when you are here. I shall let him slip through my fingers if I don't mind, much as I care for 'n!" "If it is fine we med as well go, since you wish." In the afternoon Arabella met and walked with Jude, who had now for weeks ceased to look into a book of Greek, Latin, or any other tongue. They wandered up the slopes till they reached the green track along the ridge, which they followed to the circular British earth-bank adjoining, Jude thinking of the great age of the trackway, and of the drovers who had frequented it, probably before the Romans knew the country. Up from the level lands below them floated the chime of church bells. Presently they were reduced to one note, which quickened, and stopped. "Now we'll go back," said Arabella, who had attended to the sounds. Jude assented. So long as he was near her he minded little where he was. When they arrived at her house he said lingeringly: "I won't come in. Why are you in such a hurry to go in to-night? It is not near dark." "Wait a moment," said she. She tried the handle of the door and found it locked. "Ah--they are gone to church," she added. And searching behind the scraper she found the key and unlocked the door. "Now, you'll come in a moment?" she asked lightly. "We shall be all alone." "Certainly," said Jude with alacrity, the case being unexpectedly altered. Indoors they went. Did he want any tea? No, it was too late: he would rather sit and talk to her. She took off her jacket and hat, and they sat down--naturally enough close together. "Don't touch me, please," she said softly. "I am part egg-shell. Or perhaps I had better put it in a safe place." She began unfastening the collar of her gown. "What is it?" said her lover. "An egg--a cochin's egg. I am hatching a very rare sort. I carry it about everywhere with me, and it will get hatched in less than three weeks." "Where do you carry it?" "Just here." She put her hand into her bosom and drew out the egg, which was wrapped in wool, outside it being a piece of pig's bladder, in case of accidents. Having exhibited it to him she put it back, "Now mind you don't come near me. I don't want to get it broke, and have to begin another." "Why do you do such a strange thing?" "It's an old custom. I suppose it is natural for a woman to want to bring live things into the world." "It is very awkward for me just now," he said, laughing. "It serves you right. There--that's all you can have of me" She had turned round her chair, and, reaching over the back of it, presented her cheek to him gingerly. "That's very shabby of you!" "You should have catched me a minute ago when I had put the egg down! There!" she said defiantly, "I am without it now!" She had quickly withdrawn the egg a second time; but before he could quite reach her she had put it back as quickly, laughing with the excitement of her strategy. Then there was a little struggle, Jude making a plunge for it and capturing it triumphantly. Her face flushed; and becoming suddenly conscious he flushed also. They looked at each other, panting; till he rose and said: "One kiss, now I can do it without damage to property; and I'll go!" But she had jumped up too. "You must find me first!" she cried. Her lover followed her as she withdrew. It was now dark inside the room, and the window being small he could not discover for a long time what had become of her, till a laugh revealed her to have rushed up the stairs, whither Jude rushed at her heels.

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of part 1, chapter 10 using the context provided.

part 1, chapter 9|part 1, chapter 10

Jude and Arabella have been fattening a pig all autumn, and it is now time for the killing. When Challow, the professional pig killer, is late, Jude is forced to kill the pig himself although he finds the job distasteful. Ignoring Arabella's instructions to let it bleed slowly, he kill the animal quickly and mercifully. The butcher arrives just as the pig is killed. That evening, returning home, Jude overhears Arabella's friends discussing how Arabella had tricked Jude with the pretended pregnancy and how they put her up to it. When Jude confronts Arabella, she is defiant and claims it is a woman's right to get her man by any means. Jude disagrees with her, arguing that to trap a man into such a marriage can have serious consequences, especially when it is unsuitable to both of them.

----------PART 1, CHAPTER 9--------- It was some two months later in the year, and the pair had met constantly during the interval. Arabella seemed dissatisfied; she was always imagining, and waiting, and wondering. One day she met the itinerant Vilbert. She, like all the cottagers thereabout, knew the quack well, and she began telling him of her experiences. Arabella had been gloomy, but before he left her she had grown brighter. That evening she kept an appointment with Jude, who seemed sad. "I am going away," he said to her. "I think I ought to go. I think it will be better both for you and for me. I wish some things had never begun! I was much to blame, I know. But it is never too late to mend." Arabella began to cry. "How do you know it is not too late?" she said. "That's all very well to say! I haven't told you yet!" and she looked into his face with streaming eyes. "What?" he asked, turning pale. "Not...?" "Yes! And what shall I do if you desert me?" "Oh, Arabella--how can you say that, my dear! You KNOW I wouldn't desert you!" "Well then--" "I have next to no wages as yet, you know; or perhaps I should have thought of this before... But, of course if that's the case, we must marry! What other thing do you think I could dream of doing?" "I thought--I thought, deary, perhaps you would go away all the more for that, and leave me to face it alone!" "You knew better! Of course I never dreamt six months ago, or even three, of marrying. It is a complete smashing up of my plans--I mean my plans before I knew you, my dear. But what are they, after all! Dreams about books, and degrees, and impossible fellowships, and all that. Certainly we'll marry: we must!" That night he went out alone, and walked in the dark self-communing. He knew well, too well, in the secret centre of his brain, that Arabella was not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind. Yet, such being the custom of the rural districts among honourable young men who had drifted so far into intimacy with a woman as he unfortunately had done, he was ready to abide by what he had said, and take the consequences. For his own soothing he kept up a factitious belief in her. His idea of her was the thing of most consequence, not Arabella herself, he sometimes said laconically. The banns were put in and published the very next Sunday. The people of the parish all said what a simple fool young Fawley was. All his reading had only come to this, that he would have to sell his books to buy saucepans. Those who guessed the probable state of affairs, Arabella's parents being among them, declared that it was the sort of conduct they would have expected of such an honest young man as Jude in reparation of the wrong he had done his innocent sweetheart. The parson who married them seemed to think it satisfactory too. And so, standing before the aforesaid officiator, the two swore that at every other time of their lives till death took them, they would assuredly believe, feel, and desire precisely as they had believed, felt, and desired during the few preceding weeks. What was as remarkable as the undertaking itself was the fact that nobody seemed at all surprised at what they swore. Fawley's aunt being a baker she made him a bride-cake, saying bitterly that it was the last thing she could do for him, poor silly fellow; and that it would have been far better if, instead of his living to trouble her, he had gone underground years before with his father and mother. Of this cake Arabella took some slices, wrapped them up in white note-paper, and sent them to her companions in the pork-dressing business, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet "_In remembrance of good advice_." The prospects of the newly married couple were certainly not very brilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stone-mason's apprentice, nineteen years of age, was working for half wages till he should be out of his time. His wife was absolutely useless in a town-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary for them to live. But the urgent need of adding to income in ever so little a degree caused him to take a lonely roadside cottage between the Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profits of a vegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her keep a pig. But it was not the sort of life he had bargained for, and it was a long way to walk to and from Alfredston every day. Arabella, however, felt that all these make-shifts were temporary; she had gained a husband; that was the thing--a husband with a lot of earning power in him for buying her frocks and hats when he should begin to get frightened a bit, and stick to his trade, and throw aside those stupid books for practical undertakings. So to the cottage he took her on the evening of the marriage, giving up his old room at his aunt's--where so much of the hard labour at Greek and Latin had been carried on. A little chill overspread him at her first unrobing. A long tail of hair, which Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back of her head, was deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon the looking-glass which he had bought her. "What--it wasn't your own?" he said, with a sudden distaste for her. "Oh no--it never is nowadays with the better class." "Nonsense! Perhaps not in towns. But in the country it is supposed to be different. Besides, you've enough of your own, surely?" "Yes, enough as country notions go. But in town the men expect more, and when I was barmaid at Aldbrickham--" "Barmaid at Aldbrickham?" "Well, not exactly barmaid--I used to draw the drink at a public-house there--just for a little time; that was all. Some people put me up to getting this, and I bought it just for a fancy. The more you have the better in Aldbrickham, which is a finer town than all your Christminsters. Every lady of position wears false hair--the barber's assistant told me so." Jude thought with a feeling of sickness that though this might be true to some extent, for all that he knew, many unsophisticated girls would and did go to towns and remain there for years without losing their simplicity of life and embellishments. Others, alas, had an instinct towards artificiality in their very blood, and became adepts in counterfeiting at the first glimpse of it. However, perhaps there was no great sin in a woman adding to her hair, and he resolved to think no more of it. A new-made wife can usually manage to excite interest for a few weeks, even though the prospects of the household ways and means are cloudy. There is a certain piquancy about her situation, and her manner to her acquaintance at the sense of it, which carries off the gloom of facts, and renders even the humblest bride independent awhile of the real. Mrs. Jude Fawley was walking in the streets of Alfredston one market-day with this quality in her carriage when she met Anny her former friend, whom she had not seen since the wedding. As usual they laughed before talking; the world seemed funny to them without saying it. "So it turned out a good plan, you see!" remarked the girl to the wife. "I knew it would with such as him. He's a dear good fellow, and you ought to be proud of un." "I am," said Mrs. Fawley quietly. "And when do you expect?" "Ssh! Not at all." "What!" "I was mistaken." "Oh, Arabella, Arabella; you be a deep one! Mistaken! well, that's clever--it's a real stroke of genius! It is a thing I never thought o', wi' all my experience! I never thought beyond bringing about the real thing--not that one could sham it!" "Don't you be too quick to cry sham! 'Twasn't sham. I didn't know." "My word--won't he be in a taking! He'll give it to 'ee o' Saturday nights! Whatever it was, he'll say it was a trick--a double one, by the Lord!" "I'll own to the first, but not to the second... Pooh--he won't care! He'll be glad I was wrong in what I said. He'll shake down, bless 'ee--men always do. What can 'em do otherwise? Married is married." Nevertheless it was with a little uneasiness that Arabella approached the time when in the natural course of things she would have to reveal that the alarm she had raised had been without foundation. The occasion was one evening at bedtime, and they were in their chamber in the lonely cottage by the wayside to which Jude walked home from his work every day. He had worked hard the whole twelve hours, and had retired to rest before his wife. When she came into the room he was between sleeping and waking, and was barely conscious of her undressing before the little looking-glass as he lay. One action of hers, however, brought him to full cognition. Her face being reflected towards him as she sat, he could perceive that she was amusing herself by artificially producing in each cheek the dimple before alluded to, a curious accomplishment of which she was mistress, effecting it by a momentary suction. It seemed to him for the first time that the dimples were far oftener absent from her face during his intercourse with her nowadays than they had been in the earlier weeks of their acquaintance. "Don't do that, Arabella!" he said suddenly. "There is no harm in it, but--I don't like to see you." She turned and laughed. "Lord, I didn't know you were awake!" she said. "How countrified you are! That's nothing." "Where did you learn it?" "Nowhere that I know of. They used to stay without any trouble when I was at the public-house; but now they won't. My face was fatter then." "I don't care about dimples. I don't think they improve a woman--particularly a married woman, and of full-sized figure like you." "Most men think otherwise." "I don't care what most men think, if they do. How do you know?" "I used to be told so when I was serving in the tap-room." "Ah--that public-house experience accounts for your knowing about the adulteration of the ale when we went and had some that Sunday evening. I thought when I married you that you had always lived in your father's house." "You ought to have known better than that, and seen I was a little more finished than I could have been by staying where I was born. There was not much to do at home, and I was eating my head off, so I went away for three months." "You'll soon have plenty to do now, dear, won't you?" "How do you mean?" "Why, of course--little things to make." "Oh." "When will it be? Can't you tell me exactly, instead of in such general terms as you have used?" "Tell you?" "Yes--the date." "There's nothing to tell. I made a mistake." "What?" "It was a mistake." He sat bolt upright in bed and looked at her. "How can that be?" "Women fancy wrong things sometimes." "But--! Why, of course, so unprepared as I was, without a stick of furniture, and hardly a shilling, I shouldn't have hurried on our affair, and brought you to a half-furnished hut before I was ready, if it had not been for the news you gave me, which made it necessary to save you, ready or no... Good God!" "Don't take on, dear. What's done can't be undone." "I have no more to say!" He gave the answer simply, and lay down; and there was silence between them. When Jude awoke the next morning he seemed to see the world with a different eye. As to the point in question he was compelled to accept her word; in the circumstances he could not have acted otherwise while ordinary notions prevailed. But how came they to prevail? There seemed to him, vaguely and dimly, something wrong in a social ritual which made necessary a cancelling of well-formed schemes involving years of thought and labour, of foregoing a man's one opportunity of showing himself superior to the lower animals, and of contributing his units of work to the general progress of his generation, because of a momentary surprise by a new and transitory instinct which had nothing in it of the nature of vice, and could be only at the most called weakness. He was inclined to inquire what he had done, or she lost, for that matter, that he deserved to be caught in a gin which would cripple him, if not her also, for the rest of a lifetime? There was perhaps something fortunate in the fact that the immediate reason of his marriage had proved to be non-existent. But the marriage remained. ----------PART 1, CHAPTER 10--------- The time arrived for killing the pig which Jude and his wife had fattened in their sty during the autumn months, and the butchering was timed to take place as soon as it was light in the morning, so that Jude might get to Alfredston without losing more than a quarter of a day. The night had seemed strangely silent. Jude looked out of the window long before dawn, and perceived that the ground was covered with snow--snow rather deep for the season, it seemed, a few flakes still falling. "I'm afraid the pig-killer won't be able to come," he said to Arabella. "Oh, he'll come. You must get up and make the water hot, if you want Challow to scald him. Though I like singeing best." "I'll get up," said Jude. "I like the way of my own county." He went downstairs, lit the fire under the copper, and began feeding it with bean-stalks, all the time without a candle, the blaze flinging a cheerful shine into the room; though for him the sense of cheerfulness was lessened by thoughts on the reason of that blaze--to heat water to scald the bristles from the body of an animal that as yet lived, and whose voice could be continually heard from a corner of the garden. At half-past six, the time of appointment with the butcher, the water boiled, and Jude's wife came downstairs. "Is Challow come?" she asked. "No." They waited, and it grew lighter, with the dreary light of a snowy dawn. She went out, gazed along the road, and returning said, "He's not coming. Drunk last night, I expect. The snow is not enough to hinder him, surely!" "Then we must put it off. It is only the water boiled for nothing. The snow may be deep in the valley." "Can't be put off. There's no more victuals for the pig. He ate the last mixing o' barleymeal yesterday morning." "Yesterday morning? What has he lived on since?" "Nothing." "What--he has been starving?" "Yes. We always do it the last day or two, to save bother with the innerds. What ignorance, not to know that!" "That accounts for his crying so. Poor creature!" "Well--you must do the sticking--there's no help for it. I'll show you how. Or I'll do it myself--I think I could. Though as it is such a big pig I had rather Challow had done it. However, his basket o' knives and things have been already sent on here, and we can use 'em." "Of course you shan't do it," said Jude. "I'll do it, since it must be done." He went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow for the space of a couple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, with the knives and ropes at hand. A robin peered down at the preparations from the nearest tree, and, not liking the sinister look of the scene, flew away, though hungry. By this time Arabella had joined her husband, and Jude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed the affrighted animal, who, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose to repeated cries of rage. Arabella opened the sty-door, and together they hoisted the victim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Jude held him Arabella bound him down, looping the cord over his legs to keep him from struggling. The animal's note changed its quality. It was not now rage, but the cry of despair; long-drawn, slow and hopeless. "Upon my soul I would sooner have gone without the pig than have had this to do!" said Jude. "A creature I have fed with my own hands." "Don't be such a tender-hearted fool! There's the sticking-knife-- the one with the point. Now whatever you do, don't stick un too deep." "I'll stick him effectually, so as to make short work of it. That's the chief thing." "You must not!" she cried. "The meat must be well bled, and to do that he must die slow. We shall lose a shilling a score if the meat is red and bloody! Just touch the vein, that's all. I was brought up to it, and I know. Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long. He ought to be eight or ten minutes dying, at least." "He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, however the meat may look," said Jude determinedly. Scraping the bristles from the pig's upturned throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat; then plunged in the knife with all his might. "'Od damn it all!" she cried, "that ever I should say it! You've over-stuck un! And I telling you all the time--" "Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little pity on the creature!" "Hold up the pail to catch the blood, and don't talk!" However unworkmanlike the deed, it had been mercifully done. The blood flowed out in a torrent instead of in the trickling stream she had desired. The dying animal's cry assumed its third and final tone, the shriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves on Arabella with the eloquently keen reproach of a creature recognizing at last the treachery of those who had seemed his only friends. "Make un stop that!" said Arabella. "Such a noise will bring somebody or other up here, and I don't want people to know we are doing it ourselves." Picking up the knife from the ground whereon Jude had flung it, she slipped it into the gash, and slit the windpipe. The pig was instantly silent, his dying breath coming through the hole. "That's better," she said. "It is a hateful business!" said he. "Pigs must be killed." The animal heaved in a final convulsion, and, despite the rope, kicked out with all his last strength. A tablespoonful of black clot came forth, the trickling of red blood having ceased for some seconds. "That's it; now he'll go," said she. "Artful creatures--they always keep back a drop like that as long as they can!" The last plunge had come so unexpectedly as to make Jude stagger, and in recovering himself he kicked over the vessel in which the blood had been caught. "There!" she cried, thoroughly in a passion. "Now I can't make any blackpot. There's a waste, all through you!" Jude put the pail upright, but only about a third of the whole steaming liquid was left in it, the main part being splashed over the snow, and forming a dismal, sordid, ugly spectacle--to those who saw it as other than an ordinary obtaining of meat. The lips and nostrils of the animal turned livid, then white, and the muscles of his limbs relaxed. "Thank God!" Jude said. "He's dead." "What's God got to do with such a messy job as a pig-killing, I should like to know!" she said scornfully. "Poor folks must live." "I know, I know," said he. "I don't scold you." Suddenly they became aware of a voice at hand. "Well done, young married volk! I couldn't have carried it out much better myself, cuss me if I could!" The voice, which was husky, came from the garden-gate, and looking up from the scene of slaughter they saw the burly form of Mr. Challow leaning over the gate, critically surveying their performance. "'Tis well for 'ee to stand there and glane!" said Arabella. "Owing to your being late the meat is blooded and half spoiled! 'Twon't fetch so much by a shilling a score!" Challow expressed his contrition. "You should have waited a bit" he said, shaking his head, "and not have done this--in the delicate state, too, that you be in at present, ma'am. 'Tis risking yourself too much." "You needn't be concerned about that," said Arabella, laughing. Jude too laughed, but there was a strong flavour of bitterness in his amusement. Challow made up for his neglect of the killing by zeal in the scalding and scraping. Jude felt dissatisfied with himself as a man at what he had done, though aware of his lack of common sense, and that the deed would have amounted to the same thing if carried out by deputy. The white snow, stained with the blood of his fellow-mortal, wore an illogical look to him as a lover of justice, not to say a Christian; but he could not see how the matter was to be mended. No doubt he was, as his wife had called him, a tender-hearted fool. He did not like the road to Alfredston now. It stared him cynically in the face. The wayside objects reminded him so much of his courtship of his wife that, to keep them out of his eyes, he read whenever he could as he walked to and from his work. Yet he sometimes felt that by caring for books he was not escaping common-place nor gaining rare ideas, every working-man being of that taste now. When passing near the spot by the stream on which he had first made her acquaintance he one day heard voices just as he had done at that earlier time. One of the girls who had been Arabella's companions was talking to a friend in a shed, himself being the subject of discourse, possibly because they had seen him in the distance. They were quite unaware that the shed-walls were so thin that he could hear their words as he passed. "Howsomever, 'twas I put her up to it! 'Nothing venture nothing have,' I said. If I hadn't she'd no more have been his mis'ess than I." "'Tis my belief she knew there was nothing the matter when she told him she was..." What had Arabella been put up to by this woman, so that he should make her his "mis'ess," otherwise wife? The suggestion was horridly unpleasant, and it rankled in his mind so much that instead of entering his own cottage when he reached it he flung his basket inside the garden-gate and passed on, determined to go and see his old aunt and get some supper there. This made his arrival home rather late. Arabella however, was busy melting down lard from fat of the deceased pig, for she had been out on a jaunt all day, and so delayed her work. Dreading lest what he had heard should lead him to say something regrettable to her he spoke little. But Arabella was very talkative, and said among other things that she wanted some money. Seeing the book sticking out of his pocket she added that he ought to earn more. "An apprentice's wages are not meant to be enough to keep a wife on, as a rule, my dear." "Then you shouldn't have had one." "Come, Arabella! That's too bad, when you know how it came about." "I'll declare afore Heaven that I thought what I told you was true. Doctor Vilbert thought so. It was a good job for you that it wasn't so!" "I don't mean that," he said hastily. "I mean before that time. I know it was not your fault; but those women friends of yours gave you bad advice. If they hadn't, or you hadn't taken it, we should at this moment have been free from a bond which, not to mince matters, galls both of us devilishly. It may be very sad, but it is true." "Who's been telling you about my friends? What advice? I insist upon you telling me." "Pooh--I'd rather not." "But you shall--you ought to. It is mean of 'ee not to!" "Very well." And he hinted gently what had been revealed to him. "But I don't wish to dwell upon it. Let us say no more about it." Her defensive manner collapsed. "That was nothing," she said, laughing coldly. "Every woman has a right to do such as that. The risk is hers." "I quite deny it, Bella. She might if no lifelong penalty attached to it for the man, or, in his default, for herself; if the weakness of the moment could end with the moment, or even with the year. But when effects stretch so far she should not go and do that which entraps a man if he is honest, or herself if he is otherwise." "What ought I to have done?" "Given me time... Why do you fuss yourself about melting down that pig's fat to-night? Please put it away!" "Then I must do it to-morrow morning. It won't keep." "Very well--do."

Jude the Obscure.part 2.c

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 5 with the given context.

chapter 1|chapter 5

Phillotson's interest in Sue quickly becomes more than that of a master in a new teacher. Though he is impressed by her ability as a teacher, he is also attracted to her as a person. On the occasion of their taking the pupils to Christminster to see a model of Jerusalem, Sue questions the authenticity of the reproduction and remarks, to Phillotson's surprise, that Jerusalem was certainly not first-rate by comparison with other ancient cities. They encounter Jude at the exhibition, and when Phillotson mentions Sue's criticizing the model Jude says he understands what she means. A few days later a school inspector visits the school to observe Sue at work, and she is so upset that Phillotson has to look after her, assuring her with more than professional interest that she is the best teacher he's ever had. When Jude comes to visit them at Lumsdon, at their request, he observes their coming out of the vicarage together and Sue's not objecting to Phillotson's putting his arm around her waist. Jude returns to the city without calling on them, appalled at what he has been responsible for.

----------CHAPTER 1--------- The next noteworthy move in Jude's life was that in which he appeared gliding steadily onward through a dusky landscape of some three years' later leafage than had graced his courtship of Arabella, and the disruption of his coarse conjugal life with her. He was walking towards Christminster City, at a point a mile or two to the south-west of it. He had at last found himself clear of Marygreen and Alfredston: he was out of his apprenticeship, and with his tools at his back seemed to be in the way of making a new start--the start to which, barring the interruption involved in his intimacy and married experience with Arabella, he had been looking forward for about ten years. Jude would now have been described as a young man with a forcible, meditative, and earnest rather than handsome cast of countenance. He was of dark complexion, with dark harmonizing eyes, and he wore a closely trimmed black beard of more advanced growth than is usual at his age; this, with his great mass of black curly hair, was some trouble to him in combing and washing out the stone-dust that settled on it in the pursuit of his trade. His capabilities in the latter, having been acquired in the country, were of an all-round sort, including monumental stone-cutting, gothic free-stone work for the restoration of churches, and carving of a general kind. In London he would probably have become specialized and have made himself a "moulding mason," a "foliage sculptor"--perhaps a "statuary." He had that afternoon driven in a cart from Alfredston to the village nearest the city in this direction, and was now walking the remaining four miles rather from choice than from necessity, having always fancied himself arriving thus. The ultimate impulse to come had had a curious origin--one more nearly related to the emotional side of him than to the intellectual, as is often the case with young men. One day while in lodgings at Alfredston he had gone to Marygreen to see his old aunt, and had observed between the brass candlesticks on her mantlepiece the photograph of a pretty girlish face, in a broad hat with radiating folds under the brim like the rays of a halo. He had asked who she was. His grand-aunt had gruffly replied that she was his cousin Sue Bridehead, of the inimical branch of the family; and on further questioning the old woman had replied that the girl lived in Christminster, though she did not know where, or what she was doing. His aunt would not give him the photograph. But it haunted him; and ultimately formed a quickening ingredient in his latent intent of following his friend the school master thither. He now paused at the top of a crooked and gentle declivity, and obtained his first near view of the city. Grey-stoned and dun-roofed, it stood within hail of the Wessex border, and almost with the tip of one small toe within it, at the northernmost point of the crinkled line along which the leisurely Thames strokes the fields of that ancient kingdom. The buildings now lay quiet in the sunset, a vane here and there on their many spires and domes giving sparkle to a picture of sober secondary and tertiary hues. Reaching the bottom he moved along the level way between pollard willows growing indistinct in the twilight, and soon confronted the outmost lamps of the town--some of those lamps which had sent into the sky the gleam and glory that caught his strained gaze in his days of dreaming, so many years ago. They winked their yellow eyes at him dubiously, and as if, though they had been awaiting him all these years in disappointment at his tarrying, they did not much want him now. He was a species of Dick Whittington whose spirit was touched to finer issues than a mere material gain. He went along the outlying streets with the cautious tread of an explorer. He saw nothing of the real city in the suburbs on this side. His first want being a lodging he scrutinized carefully such localities as seemed to offer on inexpensive terms the modest type of accommodation he demanded; and after inquiry took a room in a suburb nicknamed "Beersheba," though he did not know this at the time. Here he installed himself, and having had some tea sallied forth. It was a windy, whispering, moonless night. To guide himself he opened under a lamp a map he had brought. The breeze ruffled and fluttered it, but he could see enough to decide on the direction he should take to reach the heart of the place. After many turnings he came up to the first ancient mediaeval pile that he had encountered. It was a college, as he could see by the gateway. He entered it, walked round, and penetrated to dark corners which no lamplight reached. Close to this college was another; and a little further on another; and then he began to be encircled as it were with the breath and sentiment of the venerable city. When he passed objects out of harmony with its general expression he allowed his eyes to slip over them as if he did not see them. A bell began clanging, and he listened till a hundred-and-one strokes had sounded. He must have made a mistake, he thought: it was meant for a hundred. When the gates were shut, and he could no longer get into the quadrangles, he rambled under the walls and doorways, feeling with his fingers the contours of their mouldings and carving. The minutes passed, fewer and fewer people were visible, and still he serpentined among the shadows, for had he not imagined these scenes through ten bygone years, and what mattered a night's rest for once? High against the black sky the flash of a lamp would show crocketed pinnacles and indented battlements. Down obscure alleys, apparently never trodden now by the foot of man, and whose very existence seemed to be forgotten, there would jut into the path porticoes, oriels, doorways of enriched and florid middle-age design, their extinct air being accentuated by the rottenness of the stones. It seemed impossible that modern thought could house itself in such decrepit and superseded chambers. Knowing not a human being here, Jude began to be impressed with the isolation of his own personality, as with a self-spectre, the sensation being that of one who walked but could not make himself seen or heard. He drew his breath pensively, and, seeming thus almost his own ghost, gave his thoughts to the other ghostly presences with which the nooks were haunted. During the interval of preparation for this venture, since his wife and furniture's uncompromising disappearance into space, he had read and learnt almost all that could be read and learnt by one in his position, of the worthies who had spent their youth within these reverend walls, and whose souls had haunted them in their maturer age. Some of them, by the accidents of his reading, loomed out in his fancy disproportionately large by comparison with the rest. The brushings of the wind against the angles, buttresses, and door-jambs were as the passing of these only other inhabitants, the tappings of each ivy leaf on its neighbour were as the mutterings of their mournful souls, the shadows as their thin shapes in nervous movement, making him comrades in his solitude. In the gloom it was as if he ran against them without feeling their bodily frames. The streets were now deserted, but on account of these things he could not go in. There were poets abroad, of early date and of late, from the friend and eulogist of Shakespeare down to him who has recently passed into silence, and that musical one of the tribe who is still among us. Speculative philosophers drew along, not always with wrinkled foreheads and hoary hair as in framed portraits, but pink-faced, slim, and active as in youth; modern divines sheeted in their surplices, among whom the most real to Jude Fawley were the founders of the religious school called Tractarian; the well-known three, the enthusiast, the poet, and the formularist, the echoes of whose teachings had influenced him even in his obscure home. A start of aversion appeared in his fancy to move them at sight of those other sons of the place, the form in the full-bottomed wig, statesman, rake, reasoner, and sceptic; the smoothly shaven historian so ironically civil to Christianity; with others of the same incredulous temper, who knew each quad as well as the faithful, and took equal freedom in haunting its cloisters. He regarded the statesmen in their various types, men of firmer movement and less dreamy air; the scholar, the speaker, the plodder; the man whose mind grew with his growth in years, and the man whose mind contracted with the same. The scientists and philologists followed on in his mind-sight in an odd impossible combination, men of meditative faces, strained foreheads, and weak-eyed as bats with constant research; then official characters--such men as governor-generals and lord-lieutenants, in whom he took little interest; chief-justices and lord chancellors, silent thin-lipped figures of whom he knew barely the names. A keener regard attached to the prelates, by reason of his own former hopes. Of them he had an ample band--some men of heart, others rather men of head; he who apologized for the Church in Latin; the saintly author of the Evening Hymn; and near them the great itinerant preacher, hymn-writer, and zealot, shadowed like Jude by his matrimonial difficulties. Jude found himself speaking out loud, holding conversations with them as it were, like an actor in a melodrama who apostrophizes the audience on the other side of the footlights; till he suddenly ceased with a start at his absurdity. Perhaps those incoherent words of the wanderer were heard within the walls by some student or thinker over his lamp; and he may have raised his head, and wondered what voice it was, and what it betokened. Jude now perceived that, so far as solid flesh went, he had the whole aged city to himself with the exception of a belated townsman here and there, and that he seemed to be catching a cold. A voice reached him out of the shade; a real and local voice: "You've been a-settin' a long time on that plinth-stone, young man. What med you be up to?" It came from a policeman who had been observing Jude without the latter observing him. Jude went home and to bed, after reading up a little about these men and their several messages to the world from a book or two that he had brought with him concerning the sons of the university. As he drew towards sleep various memorable words of theirs that he had just been conning seemed spoken by them in muttering utterances; some audible, some unintelligible to him. One of the spectres (who afterwards mourned Christminster as "the home of lost causes," though Jude did not remember this) was now apostrophizing her thus: "Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of our century, so serene! ... Her ineffable charm keeps ever calling us to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection." Another voice was that of the Corn Law convert, whose phantom he had just seen in the quadrangle with a great bell. Jude thought his soul might have been shaping the historic words of his master-speech: "Sir, I may be wrong, but my impression is that my duty towards a country threatened with famine requires that that which has been the ordinary remedy under all similar circumstances should be resorted to now, namely, that there should be free access to the food of man from whatever quarter it may come... Deprive me of office to-morrow, you can never deprive me of the consciousness that I have exercised the powers committed to me from no corrupt or interested motives, from no desire to gratify ambition, for no personal gain." Then the sly author of the immortal Chapter on Christianity: "How shall we excuse the supine inattention of the Pagan and philosophic world, to those evidences [miracles] which were presented by Omnipotence? ... The sages of Greece and Rome turned aside from the awful spectacle, and appeared unconscious of any alterations in the moral or physical government of the world." Then the shade of the poet, the last of the optimists: How the world is made for each of us! * * * * * And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general plan. Then one of the three enthusiasts he had seen just now, the author of the _Apologia_: "My argument was ... that absolute certitude as to the truths of natural theology was the result of an assemblage of concurring and converging probabilities ... that probabilities which did not reach to logical certainty might create a mental certitude." The second of them, no polemic, murmured quieter things: Why should we faint, and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has will'd, we die? He likewise heard some phrases spoken by the phantom with the short face, the genial Spectator: "When I look upon the tombs of the great, every motion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow." And lastly a gentle-voiced prelate spoke, during whose meek, familiar rhyme, endeared to him from earliest childhood, Jude fell asleep: Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die ... He did not wake till morning. The ghostly past seemed to have gone, and everything spoke of to-day. He started up in bed, thinking he had overslept himself and then said: "By Jove--I had quite forgotten my sweet-faced cousin, and that she's here all the time! ... and my old schoolmaster, too." His words about his schoolmaster had, perhaps, less zest in them than his words concerning his cousin. ----------CHAPTER 5--------- The schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school, both being modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old house in which his teacher Sue had a lodging. The arrangement had been concluded very quickly. A pupil-teacher who was to have been transferred to Mr. Phillotson's school had failed him, and Sue had been taken as stop-gap. All such provisional arrangements as these could only last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose approval was necessary to make them permanent. Having taught for some two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation of late, Miss Bridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought there would be no difficulty in retaining her services, which he already wished to do, though she had only been with him three or four weeks. He had found her quite as bright as Jude had described her; and what master-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who saves him half his labour? It was a little over half-past eight o'clock in the morning and he was waiting to see her cross the road to the school, when he would follow. At twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed on her head; and he watched her as a curiosity. A new emanation, which had nothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to surround her this morning. He went to the school also, and Sue remained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day under his eye. She certainly was an excellent teacher. It was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening, and some article in the Code made it necessary that a respectable, elderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and the taught were of different sexes. Richard Phillotson thought of the absurdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough to be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat down with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose house Sue lodged, occupied herself with sewing. The regulation was, indeed, not easy to evade, for there was no other sitting-room in the dwelling. Sometimes as she figured--it was arithmetic that they were working at--she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile at him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive all that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong. Phillotson was not really thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel way which somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor. Perhaps she knew that he was thinking of her thus. For a few weeks their work had gone on with a monotony which in itself was a delight to him. Then it happened that the children were to be taken to Christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the shape of a model of Jerusalem, to which schools were admitted at a penny a head in the interests of education. They marched along the road two and two, she beside her class with her simple cotton sunshade, her little thumb cocked up against its stem; and Phillotson behind in his long dangling coat, handling his walking-stick genteelly, in the musing mood which had come over him since her arrival. The afternoon was one of sun and dust, and when they entered the exhibition room few people were present but themselves. The model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment, and the proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy written on his features, walked round it with a pointer in his hand, showing the young people the various quarters and places known to them by name from reading their Bibles; Mount Moriah, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, the City of Zion, the walls and the gates, outside one of which there was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little white cross. The spot, he said, was Calvary. "I think," said Sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a little in the background, "that this model, elaborate as it is, is a very imaginary production. How does anybody know that Jerusalem was like this in the time of Christ? I am sure this man doesn't." "It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits to the city as it now exists." "I fancy we have had enough of Jerusalem," she said, "considering we are not descended from the Jews. There was nothing first-rate about the place, or people, after all--as there was about Athens, Rome, Alexandria, and other old cities." "But my dear girl, consider what it is to us!" She was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived behind the group of children clustered round the model a young man in a white flannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent inspection of the Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost hidden from view by the Mount of Olives. "Look at your cousin Jude," continued the schoolmaster. "He doesn't think we have had enough of Jerusalem!" "Ah--I didn't see him!" she cried in her quick, light voice. "Jude--how seriously you are going into it!" Jude started up from his reverie, and saw her. "Oh--Sue!" he said, with a glad flush of embarrassment. "These are your school-children, of course! I saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and thought you might come; but I got so deeply interested that I didn't remember where I was. How it carries one back, doesn't it! I could examine it for hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately; for I am in the middle of a job out here." "Your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it unmercifully," said Phillotson, with good-humoured satire. "She is quite sceptical as to its correctness." "No, Mr. Phillotson, I am not--altogether! I hate to be what is called a clever girl--there are too many of that sort now!" answered Sue sensitively. "I only meant--I don't know what I meant--except that it was what you don't understand!" "_I_ know your meaning," said Jude ardently (although he did not). "And I think you are quite right." "That's a good Jude--I know YOU believe in me!" She impulsively seized his hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster turned away to Jude, her voice revealing a tremor which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle. She had not the least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at this momentary revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was building up thereby in the futures of both. The model wore too much of an educational aspect for the children not to tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon they were all marched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work. He watched the juvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the street towards the country beside Phillotson and Sue, and a sad, dissatisfied sense of being out of the scheme of the latters' lives had possession of him. Phillotson had invited him to walk out and see them on Friday evening, when there would be no lessons to give to Sue, and Jude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the opportunity. Meanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next day, on looking on the blackboard in Sue's class, Phillotson was surprised to find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a perspective view of Jerusalem, with every building shown in its place. "I thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at it?" he said. "I hardly did," said she, "but I remembered that much of it." "It is more than I had remembered myself." Her Majesty's school-inspector was at that time paying "surprise-visits" in this neighbourhood to test the teaching unawares; and two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons, the latch of the door was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman, the king of terrors--to pupil-teachers. To Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the story, he had been played that trick too many times to be unprepared. But Sue's class was at the further end of the room, and her back was towards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind her and watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware of his presence. She turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment had come. The effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a cry of fright. Phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude quite beyond his control, was at her side just in time to prevent her falling from faintness. She soon recovered herself, and laughed; but when the inspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was so white that Phillotson took her into his room, and gave her some brandy to bring her round. She found him holding her hand. "You ought to have told me," she gasped petulantly, "that one of the inspector's surprise-visits was imminent! Oh, what shall I do! Now he'll write and tell the managers that I am no good, and I shall be disgraced for ever!" "He won't do that, my dear little girl. You are the best teacher ever I had!" He looked so gently at her that she was moved, and regretted that she had upbraided him. When she was better she went home. Jude in the meantime had been waiting impatiently for Friday. On both Wednesday and Thursday he had been so much under the influence of his desire to see her that he walked after dark some distance along the road in the direction of the village, and, on returning to his room to read, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind on the page. On Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he thought Sue would like to see him, and made a hasty tea, he set out, notwithstanding that the evening was wet. The trees overhead deepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him, impressing him with forebodings--illogical forebodings; for though he knew that he loved her he also knew that he could not be more to her than he was. On turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that greeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella coming out of the vicarage gate. He was too far back for them to notice him, but he knew in a moment that they were Sue and Phillotson. The latter was holding the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently been paying a visit to the vicar--probably on some business connected with the school work. And as they walked along the wet and deserted lane Jude saw Phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist; whereupon she gently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it remain, looking quickly round her with an air of misgiving. She did not look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who sank into the hedge like one struck with a blight. There he remained hidden till they had reached Sue's cottage and she had passed in, Phillotson going on to the school hard by. "Oh, he's too old for her--too old!" cried Jude in all the terrible sickness of hopeless, handicapped love. He could not interfere. Was he not Arabella's? He was unable to go on further, and retraced his steps towards Christminster. Every tread of his feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account stand in the schoolmaster's way with Sue. Phillotson was perhaps twenty years her senior, but many a happy marriage had been made in such conditions of age. The ironical clinch to his sorrow was given by the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the schoolmaster had been brought about entirely by himself.

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for part 2, chapter 1 with the given context.

part 2, chapter 1|part 2, chapter 3

Jude is seen three years later on his way to Christminster after completing his apprenticeship as a stone mason. Before leaving Marygreen, he saw a portrait of his pretty cousin, Sue Bridehead, who his aunt tells him is now in Christminster. Jude is at least partly inspired to pursue his goal in the city by Sue. He enters Christminster on foot in the evening and gets lodgings in a cheap suburb, Beersheba. He begins to explore the city at night. He has read and thought so much about Christminster that he imagines the ghosts of all the great scholars who have studied there are talking to him. When he falls asleep that night, he dreams of them. And when he awakens, he remembers he has yet to meet his old teacher.

----------PART 2, CHAPTER 1--------- The next noteworthy move in Jude's life was that in which he appeared gliding steadily onward through a dusky landscape of some three years' later leafage than had graced his courtship of Arabella, and the disruption of his coarse conjugal life with her. He was walking towards Christminster City, at a point a mile or two to the south-west of it. He had at last found himself clear of Marygreen and Alfredston: he was out of his apprenticeship, and with his tools at his back seemed to be in the way of making a new start--the start to which, barring the interruption involved in his intimacy and married experience with Arabella, he had been looking forward for about ten years. Jude would now have been described as a young man with a forcible, meditative, and earnest rather than handsome cast of countenance. He was of dark complexion, with dark harmonizing eyes, and he wore a closely trimmed black beard of more advanced growth than is usual at his age; this, with his great mass of black curly hair, was some trouble to him in combing and washing out the stone-dust that settled on it in the pursuit of his trade. His capabilities in the latter, having been acquired in the country, were of an all-round sort, including monumental stone-cutting, gothic free-stone work for the restoration of churches, and carving of a general kind. In London he would probably have become specialized and have made himself a "moulding mason," a "foliage sculptor"--perhaps a "statuary." He had that afternoon driven in a cart from Alfredston to the village nearest the city in this direction, and was now walking the remaining four miles rather from choice than from necessity, having always fancied himself arriving thus. The ultimate impulse to come had had a curious origin--one more nearly related to the emotional side of him than to the intellectual, as is often the case with young men. One day while in lodgings at Alfredston he had gone to Marygreen to see his old aunt, and had observed between the brass candlesticks on her mantlepiece the photograph of a pretty girlish face, in a broad hat with radiating folds under the brim like the rays of a halo. He had asked who she was. His grand-aunt had gruffly replied that she was his cousin Sue Bridehead, of the inimical branch of the family; and on further questioning the old woman had replied that the girl lived in Christminster, though she did not know where, or what she was doing. His aunt would not give him the photograph. But it haunted him; and ultimately formed a quickening ingredient in his latent intent of following his friend the school master thither. He now paused at the top of a crooked and gentle declivity, and obtained his first near view of the city. Grey-stoned and dun-roofed, it stood within hail of the Wessex border, and almost with the tip of one small toe within it, at the northernmost point of the crinkled line along which the leisurely Thames strokes the fields of that ancient kingdom. The buildings now lay quiet in the sunset, a vane here and there on their many spires and domes giving sparkle to a picture of sober secondary and tertiary hues. Reaching the bottom he moved along the level way between pollard willows growing indistinct in the twilight, and soon confronted the outmost lamps of the town--some of those lamps which had sent into the sky the gleam and glory that caught his strained gaze in his days of dreaming, so many years ago. They winked their yellow eyes at him dubiously, and as if, though they had been awaiting him all these years in disappointment at his tarrying, they did not much want him now. He was a species of Dick Whittington whose spirit was touched to finer issues than a mere material gain. He went along the outlying streets with the cautious tread of an explorer. He saw nothing of the real city in the suburbs on this side. His first want being a lodging he scrutinized carefully such localities as seemed to offer on inexpensive terms the modest type of accommodation he demanded; and after inquiry took a room in a suburb nicknamed "Beersheba," though he did not know this at the time. Here he installed himself, and having had some tea sallied forth. It was a windy, whispering, moonless night. To guide himself he opened under a lamp a map he had brought. The breeze ruffled and fluttered it, but he could see enough to decide on the direction he should take to reach the heart of the place. After many turnings he came up to the first ancient mediaeval pile that he had encountered. It was a college, as he could see by the gateway. He entered it, walked round, and penetrated to dark corners which no lamplight reached. Close to this college was another; and a little further on another; and then he began to be encircled as it were with the breath and sentiment of the venerable city. When he passed objects out of harmony with its general expression he allowed his eyes to slip over them as if he did not see them. A bell began clanging, and he listened till a hundred-and-one strokes had sounded. He must have made a mistake, he thought: it was meant for a hundred. When the gates were shut, and he could no longer get into the quadrangles, he rambled under the walls and doorways, feeling with his fingers the contours of their mouldings and carving. The minutes passed, fewer and fewer people were visible, and still he serpentined among the shadows, for had he not imagined these scenes through ten bygone years, and what mattered a night's rest for once? High against the black sky the flash of a lamp would show crocketed pinnacles and indented battlements. Down obscure alleys, apparently never trodden now by the foot of man, and whose very existence seemed to be forgotten, there would jut into the path porticoes, oriels, doorways of enriched and florid middle-age design, their extinct air being accentuated by the rottenness of the stones. It seemed impossible that modern thought could house itself in such decrepit and superseded chambers. Knowing not a human being here, Jude began to be impressed with the isolation of his own personality, as with a self-spectre, the sensation being that of one who walked but could not make himself seen or heard. He drew his breath pensively, and, seeming thus almost his own ghost, gave his thoughts to the other ghostly presences with which the nooks were haunted. During the interval of preparation for this venture, since his wife and furniture's uncompromising disappearance into space, he had read and learnt almost all that could be read and learnt by one in his position, of the worthies who had spent their youth within these reverend walls, and whose souls had haunted them in their maturer age. Some of them, by the accidents of his reading, loomed out in his fancy disproportionately large by comparison with the rest. The brushings of the wind against the angles, buttresses, and door-jambs were as the passing of these only other inhabitants, the tappings of each ivy leaf on its neighbour were as the mutterings of their mournful souls, the shadows as their thin shapes in nervous movement, making him comrades in his solitude. In the gloom it was as if he ran against them without feeling their bodily frames. The streets were now deserted, but on account of these things he could not go in. There were poets abroad, of early date and of late, from the friend and eulogist of Shakespeare down to him who has recently passed into silence, and that musical one of the tribe who is still among us. Speculative philosophers drew along, not always with wrinkled foreheads and hoary hair as in framed portraits, but pink-faced, slim, and active as in youth; modern divines sheeted in their surplices, among whom the most real to Jude Fawley were the founders of the religious school called Tractarian; the well-known three, the enthusiast, the poet, and the formularist, the echoes of whose teachings had influenced him even in his obscure home. A start of aversion appeared in his fancy to move them at sight of those other sons of the place, the form in the full-bottomed wig, statesman, rake, reasoner, and sceptic; the smoothly shaven historian so ironically civil to Christianity; with others of the same incredulous temper, who knew each quad as well as the faithful, and took equal freedom in haunting its cloisters. He regarded the statesmen in their various types, men of firmer movement and less dreamy air; the scholar, the speaker, the plodder; the man whose mind grew with his growth in years, and the man whose mind contracted with the same. The scientists and philologists followed on in his mind-sight in an odd impossible combination, men of meditative faces, strained foreheads, and weak-eyed as bats with constant research; then official characters--such men as governor-generals and lord-lieutenants, in whom he took little interest; chief-justices and lord chancellors, silent thin-lipped figures of whom he knew barely the names. A keener regard attached to the prelates, by reason of his own former hopes. Of them he had an ample band--some men of heart, others rather men of head; he who apologized for the Church in Latin; the saintly author of the Evening Hymn; and near them the great itinerant preacher, hymn-writer, and zealot, shadowed like Jude by his matrimonial difficulties. Jude found himself speaking out loud, holding conversations with them as it were, like an actor in a melodrama who apostrophizes the audience on the other side of the footlights; till he suddenly ceased with a start at his absurdity. Perhaps those incoherent words of the wanderer were heard within the walls by some student or thinker over his lamp; and he may have raised his head, and wondered what voice it was, and what it betokened. Jude now perceived that, so far as solid flesh went, he had the whole aged city to himself with the exception of a belated townsman here and there, and that he seemed to be catching a cold. A voice reached him out of the shade; a real and local voice: "You've been a-settin' a long time on that plinth-stone, young man. What med you be up to?" It came from a policeman who had been observing Jude without the latter observing him. Jude went home and to bed, after reading up a little about these men and their several messages to the world from a book or two that he had brought with him concerning the sons of the university. As he drew towards sleep various memorable words of theirs that he had just been conning seemed spoken by them in muttering utterances; some audible, some unintelligible to him. One of the spectres (who afterwards mourned Christminster as "the home of lost causes," though Jude did not remember this) was now apostrophizing her thus: "Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce intellectual life of our century, so serene! ... Her ineffable charm keeps ever calling us to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to perfection." Another voice was that of the Corn Law convert, whose phantom he had just seen in the quadrangle with a great bell. Jude thought his soul might have been shaping the historic words of his master-speech: "Sir, I may be wrong, but my impression is that my duty towards a country threatened with famine requires that that which has been the ordinary remedy under all similar circumstances should be resorted to now, namely, that there should be free access to the food of man from whatever quarter it may come... Deprive me of office to-morrow, you can never deprive me of the consciousness that I have exercised the powers committed to me from no corrupt or interested motives, from no desire to gratify ambition, for no personal gain." Then the sly author of the immortal Chapter on Christianity: "How shall we excuse the supine inattention of the Pagan and philosophic world, to those evidences [miracles] which were presented by Omnipotence? ... The sages of Greece and Rome turned aside from the awful spectacle, and appeared unconscious of any alterations in the moral or physical government of the world." Then the shade of the poet, the last of the optimists: How the world is made for each of us! * * * * * And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general plan. Then one of the three enthusiasts he had seen just now, the author of the _Apologia_: "My argument was ... that absolute certitude as to the truths of natural theology was the result of an assemblage of concurring and converging probabilities ... that probabilities which did not reach to logical certainty might create a mental certitude." The second of them, no polemic, murmured quieter things: Why should we faint, and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has will'd, we die? He likewise heard some phrases spoken by the phantom with the short face, the genial Spectator: "When I look upon the tombs of the great, every motion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow." And lastly a gentle-voiced prelate spoke, during whose meek, familiar rhyme, endeared to him from earliest childhood, Jude fell asleep: Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die ... He did not wake till morning. The ghostly past seemed to have gone, and everything spoke of to-day. He started up in bed, thinking he had overslept himself and then said: "By Jove--I had quite forgotten my sweet-faced cousin, and that she's here all the time! ... and my old schoolmaster, too." His words about his schoolmaster had, perhaps, less zest in them than his words concerning his cousin. ----------PART 2, CHAPTER 3--------- But under the various deterrent influences Jude's instinct was to approach her timidly, and the next Sunday he went to the morning service in the Cathedral church of Cardinal College to gain a further view of her, for he had found that she frequently attended there. She did not come, and he awaited her in the afternoon, which was finer. He knew that if she came at all she would approach the building along the eastern side of the great green quadrangle from which it was accessible, and he stood in a corner while the bell was going. A few minutes before the hour for service she appeared as one of the figures walking along under the college walls, and at sight of her he advanced up the side opposite, and followed her into the building, more than ever glad that he had not as yet revealed himself. To see her, and to be himself unseen and unknown, was enough for him at present. He lingered awhile in the vestibule, and the service was some way advanced when he was put into a seat. It was a louring, mournful, still afternoon, when a religion of some sort seems a necessity to ordinary practical men, and not only a luxury of the emotional and leisured classes. In the dim light and the baffling glare of the clerestory windows he could discern the opposite worshippers indistinctly only, but he saw that Sue was among them. He had not long discovered the exact seat that she occupied when the chanting of the 119th Psalm in which the choir was engaged reached its second part, _In quo corriget_, the organ changing to a pathetic Gregorian tune as the singers gave forth: Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? It was the very question that was engaging Jude's attention at this moment. What a wicked worthless fellow he had been to give vent as he had done to an animal passion for a woman, and allow it to lead to such disastrous consequences; then to think of putting an end to himself; then to go recklessly and get drunk. The great waves of pedal music tumbled round the choir, and, nursed on the supernatural as he had been, it is not wonderful that he could hardly believe that the psalm was not specially set by some regardful Providence for this moment of his first entry into the solemn building. And yet it was the ordinary psalm for the twenty-fourth evening of the month. The girl for whom he was beginning to nourish an extraordinary tenderness was at this time ensphered by the same harmonies as those which floated into his ears; and the thought was a delight to him. She was probably a frequenter of this place, and, steeped body and soul in church sentiment as she must be by occupation and habit, had, no doubt, much in common with him. To an impressionable and lonely young man the consciousness of having at last found anchorage for his thoughts, which promised to supply both social and spiritual possibilities, was like the dew of Hermon, and he remained throughout the service in a sustaining atmosphere of ecstasy. Though he was loth to suspect it, some people might have said to him that the atmosphere blew as distinctly from Cyprus as from Galilee. Jude waited till she had left her seat and passed under the screen before he himself moved. She did not look towards him, and by the time he reached the door she was half-way down the broad path. Being dressed up in his Sunday suit he was inclined to follow her and reveal himself. But he was not quite ready; and, alas, ought he to do so with the kind of feeling that was awakening in him? For though it had seemed to have an ecclesiastical basis during the service, and he had persuaded himself that such was the case, he could not altogether be blind to the real nature of the magnetism. She was such a stranger that the kinship was affectation, and he said, "It can't be! I, a man with a wife, must not know her!" Still Sue WAS his own kin, and the fact of his having a wife, even though she was not in evidence in this hemisphere, might be a help in one sense. It would put all thought of a tender wish on his part out of Sue's mind, and make her intercourse with him free and fearless. It was with some heartache that he saw how little he cared for the freedom and fearlessness that would result in her from such knowledge. Some little time before the date of this service in the cathedral the pretty, liquid-eyed, light-footed young woman, Sue Bridehead, had an afternoon's holiday, and leaving the ecclesiastical establishment in which she not only assisted but lodged, took a walk into the country with a book in her hand. It was one of those cloudless days which sometimes occur in Wessex and elsewhere between days of cold and wet, as if intercalated by caprice of the weather-god. She went along for a mile or two until she came to much higher ground than that of the city she had left behind her. The road passed between green fields, and coming to a stile Sue paused there, to finish the page she was reading, and then looked back at the towers and domes and pinnacles new and old. On the other side of the stile, in the footpath, she beheld a foreigner with black hair and a sallow face, sitting on the grass beside a large square board whereon were fixed, as closely as they could stand, a number of plaster statuettes, some of them bronzed, which he was re-arranging before proceeding with them on his way. They were in the main reduced copies of ancient marbles, and comprised divinities of a very different character from those the girl was accustomed to see portrayed, among them being a Venus of standard pattern, a Diana, and, of the other sex, Apollo, Bacchus, and Mars. Though the figures were many yards away from her the south-west sun brought them out so brilliantly against the green herbage that she could discern their contours with luminous distinctness; and being almost in a line between herself and the church towers of the city they awoke in her an oddly foreign and contrasting set of ideas by comparison. The man rose, and, seeing her, politely took off his cap, and cried, "I-i-i-mages!" in an accent that agreed with his appearance. In a moment he dexterously lifted upon his knee the great board with its assembled notabilities divine and human, and raised it to the top of his head, bringing them on to her and resting the board on the stile. First he offered her his smaller wares--the busts of kings and queens, then a minstrel, then a winged Cupid. She shook her head. "How much are these two?" she said, touching with her finger the Venus and the Apollo--the largest figures on the tray. He said she should have them for ten shillings. "I cannot afford that," said Sue. She offered considerably less, and to her surprise the image-man drew them from their wire stay and handed them over the stile. She clasped them as treasures. When they were paid for, and the man had gone, she began to be concerned as to what she should do with them. They seemed so very large now that they were in her possession, and so very naked. Being of a nervous temperament she trembled at her enterprise. When she handled them the white pipeclay came off on her gloves and jacket. After carrying them along a little way openly an idea came to her, and, pulling some huge burdock leaves, parsley, and other rank growths from the hedge, she wrapped up her burden as well as she could in these, so that what she carried appeared to be an enormous armful of green stuff gathered by a zealous lover of nature. "Well, anything is better than those everlasting church fallals!" she said. But she was still in a trembling state, and seemed almost to wish she had not bought the figures. Occasionally peeping inside the leaves to see that Venus's arm was not broken, she entered with her heathen load into the most Christian city in the country by an obscure street running parallel to the main one, and round a corner to the side door of the establishment to which she was attached. Her purchases were taken straight up to her own chamber, and she at once attempted to lock them in a box that was her very own property; but finding them too cumbersome she wrapped them in large sheets of brown paper, and stood them on the floor in a corner. The mistress of the house, Miss Fontover, was an elderly lady in spectacles, dressed almost like an abbess; a dab at Ritual, as become one of her business, and a worshipper at the ceremonial church of St. Silas, in the suburb of Beersheba before-mentioned, which Jude also had begun to attend. She was the daughter of a clergyman in reduced circumstances, and at his death, which had occurred several years before this date, she boldly avoided penury by taking over a little shop of church requisites and developing it to its present creditable proportions. She wore a cross and beads round her neck as her only ornament, and knew the Christian Year by heart. She now came to call Sue to tea, and, finding that the girl did not respond for a moment, entered the room just as the other was hastily putting a string round each parcel. "Something you have been buying, Miss Bridehead?" she asked, regarding the enwrapped objects. "Yes--just something to ornament my room," said Sue. "Well, I should have thought I had put enough here already," said Miss Fontover, looking round at the Gothic-framed prints of saints, the Church-text scrolls, and other articles which, having become too stale to sell, had been used to furnish this obscure chamber. "What is it? How bulky!" She tore a little hole, about as big as a wafer, in the brown paper, and tried to peep in. "Why, statuary? Two figures? Where did you get them?" "Oh--I bought them of a travelling man who sells casts--" "Two saints?" "Yes." "What ones?" "St. Peter and St.--St. Mary Magdalen." "Well--now come down to tea, and go and finish that organ-text, if there's light enough afterwards." These little obstacles to the indulgence of what had been the merest passing fancy created in Sue a great zest for unpacking her objects and looking at them; and at bedtime, when she was sure of being undisturbed, she unrobed the divinities in comfort. Placing the pair of figures on the chest of drawers, a candle on each side of them, she withdrew to the bed, flung herself down thereon, and began reading a book she had taken from her box, which Miss Fontover knew nothing of. It was a volume of Gibbon, and she read the chapter dealing with the reign of Julian the Apostate. Occasionally she looked up at the statuettes, which appeared strange and out of place, there happening to be a Calvary print hanging between them, and, as if the scene suggested the action, she at length jumped up and withdrew another book from her box--a volume of verse--and turned to the familiar poem-- Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean: The world has grown grey from thy breath! which she read to the end. Presently she put out the candles, undressed, and finally extinguished her own light. She was of an age which usually sleeps soundly, yet to-night she kept waking up, and every time she opened her eyes there was enough diffused light from the street to show her the white plaster figures, standing on the chest of drawers in odd contrast to their environment of text and martyr, and the Gothic-framed Crucifix-picture that was only discernible now as a Latin cross, the figure thereon being obscured by the shades. On one of these occasions the church clocks struck some small hour. It fell upon the ears of another person who sat bending over his books at a not very distant spot in the same city. Being Saturday night the morrow was one on which Jude had not set his alarm-clock to call him at his usually early time, and hence he had stayed up, as was his custom, two or three hours later than he could afford to do on any other day of the week. Just then he was earnestly reading from his Griesbach's text. At the very time that Sue was tossing and staring at her figures, the policeman and belated citizens passing along under his window might have heard, if they had stood still, strange syllables mumbled with fervour within--words that had for Jude an indescribable enchantment: inexplicable sounds something like these:-- "_All hemin heis Theos ho Pater, ex hou ta panta, kai hemeis eis auton:_" Till the sounds rolled with reverent loudness, as a book was heard to close:-- "_Kai heis Kurios Iesous Christos, di hou ta panta kai hemeis di autou!_"

cliffnotes

Craft a concise overview of part 2, chapter 6 using the context provided.

part 2, chapter 5|part 2, chapter 6

On Sunday Jude goes to Marygreen to visit Aunt Drusilla, who is now bed-ridden. He cannot help talking about Sue and Aunt Drusilla immediately warns him to stay away from his cousin. His aunt's nurse recounts tales about Sue as a child: her skill at recitation, her cleverness and her unconventional ways. Sue comes across as a fiercely independent child. Jude, on his way back to Christminster, meets some villagers who inquire as to whether he has succeeded in entering the university. They imply that such places are only for those with money. Jude is spurred to make inquiries at Christminster and writes to several masters of colleges for advice. He waits several days but on receiving no response becomes dejected. In the meantime he hears that Phillotson is moving to a bigger school in mid-Wessex, and Jude wonders what implications this transfer will have. Jude starts making indirect inquiries about entering the university and realizes that an open scholarship is the only solution. But he would need a good deal of coaching for that to be possible. He would not be able to compete with those who have had the benefit of trained teachers all their lives. Buying" his way into the university is impossible; it would take him fifteen years. The task seems hopeless and he realizes how impractical his illusions have been. He has been stumbling in the dark with his private study. Finally, one night he gets a note from one of the heads of a college. He advises Jude to stick to his own trade. Although he knows this is sensible advice, Jude is unable to accept it. In utter despair he goes out and starts drinking. He wanders about, enters a music-hall concert and realizes that there are two Christminsters: the population of students and teachers inhabiting the prestigious colleges which forbid him entry and the other Christminster, made of ordinary, common folk and workers. In a fit of rebellion he scrawls a few lines from Job on the walls of the college to which he was denied entry.

----------PART 2, CHAPTER 5--------- The schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school, both being modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old house in which his teacher Sue had a lodging. The arrangement had been concluded very quickly. A pupil-teacher who was to have been transferred to Mr. Phillotson's school had failed him, and Sue had been taken as stop-gap. All such provisional arrangements as these could only last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose approval was necessary to make them permanent. Having taught for some two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation of late, Miss Bridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought there would be no difficulty in retaining her services, which he already wished to do, though she had only been with him three or four weeks. He had found her quite as bright as Jude had described her; and what master-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who saves him half his labour? It was a little over half-past eight o'clock in the morning and he was waiting to see her cross the road to the school, when he would follow. At twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed on her head; and he watched her as a curiosity. A new emanation, which had nothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to surround her this morning. He went to the school also, and Sue remained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day under his eye. She certainly was an excellent teacher. It was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening, and some article in the Code made it necessary that a respectable, elderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and the taught were of different sexes. Richard Phillotson thought of the absurdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough to be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat down with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose house Sue lodged, occupied herself with sewing. The regulation was, indeed, not easy to evade, for there was no other sitting-room in the dwelling. Sometimes as she figured--it was arithmetic that they were working at--she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile at him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive all that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong. Phillotson was not really thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel way which somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor. Perhaps she knew that he was thinking of her thus. For a few weeks their work had gone on with a monotony which in itself was a delight to him. Then it happened that the children were to be taken to Christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the shape of a model of Jerusalem, to which schools were admitted at a penny a head in the interests of education. They marched along the road two and two, she beside her class with her simple cotton sunshade, her little thumb cocked up against its stem; and Phillotson behind in his long dangling coat, handling his walking-stick genteelly, in the musing mood which had come over him since her arrival. The afternoon was one of sun and dust, and when they entered the exhibition room few people were present but themselves. The model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment, and the proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy written on his features, walked round it with a pointer in his hand, showing the young people the various quarters and places known to them by name from reading their Bibles; Mount Moriah, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, the City of Zion, the walls and the gates, outside one of which there was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little white cross. The spot, he said, was Calvary. "I think," said Sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a little in the background, "that this model, elaborate as it is, is a very imaginary production. How does anybody know that Jerusalem was like this in the time of Christ? I am sure this man doesn't." "It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits to the city as it now exists." "I fancy we have had enough of Jerusalem," she said, "considering we are not descended from the Jews. There was nothing first-rate about the place, or people, after all--as there was about Athens, Rome, Alexandria, and other old cities." "But my dear girl, consider what it is to us!" She was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived behind the group of children clustered round the model a young man in a white flannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent inspection of the Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost hidden from view by the Mount of Olives. "Look at your cousin Jude," continued the schoolmaster. "He doesn't think we have had enough of Jerusalem!" "Ah--I didn't see him!" she cried in her quick, light voice. "Jude--how seriously you are going into it!" Jude started up from his reverie, and saw her. "Oh--Sue!" he said, with a glad flush of embarrassment. "These are your school-children, of course! I saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and thought you might come; but I got so deeply interested that I didn't remember where I was. How it carries one back, doesn't it! I could examine it for hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately; for I am in the middle of a job out here." "Your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it unmercifully," said Phillotson, with good-humoured satire. "She is quite sceptical as to its correctness." "No, Mr. Phillotson, I am not--altogether! I hate to be what is called a clever girl--there are too many of that sort now!" answered Sue sensitively. "I only meant--I don't know what I meant--except that it was what you don't understand!" "_I_ know your meaning," said Jude ardently (although he did not). "And I think you are quite right." "That's a good Jude--I know YOU believe in me!" She impulsively seized his hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster turned away to Jude, her voice revealing a tremor which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle. She had not the least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at this momentary revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was building up thereby in the futures of both. The model wore too much of an educational aspect for the children not to tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon they were all marched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work. He watched the juvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the street towards the country beside Phillotson and Sue, and a sad, dissatisfied sense of being out of the scheme of the latters' lives had possession of him. Phillotson had invited him to walk out and see them on Friday evening, when there would be no lessons to give to Sue, and Jude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the opportunity. Meanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next day, on looking on the blackboard in Sue's class, Phillotson was surprised to find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a perspective view of Jerusalem, with every building shown in its place. "I thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at it?" he said. "I hardly did," said she, "but I remembered that much of it." "It is more than I had remembered myself." Her Majesty's school-inspector was at that time paying "surprise-visits" in this neighbourhood to test the teaching unawares; and two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons, the latch of the door was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman, the king of terrors--to pupil-teachers. To Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the story, he had been played that trick too many times to be unprepared. But Sue's class was at the further end of the room, and her back was towards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind her and watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware of his presence. She turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment had come. The effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a cry of fright. Phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude quite beyond his control, was at her side just in time to prevent her falling from faintness. She soon recovered herself, and laughed; but when the inspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was so white that Phillotson took her into his room, and gave her some brandy to bring her round. She found him holding her hand. "You ought to have told me," she gasped petulantly, "that one of the inspector's surprise-visits was imminent! Oh, what shall I do! Now he'll write and tell the managers that I am no good, and I shall be disgraced for ever!" "He won't do that, my dear little girl. You are the best teacher ever I had!" He looked so gently at her that she was moved, and regretted that she had upbraided him. When she was better she went home. Jude in the meantime had been waiting impatiently for Friday. On both Wednesday and Thursday he had been so much under the influence of his desire to see her that he walked after dark some distance along the road in the direction of the village, and, on returning to his room to read, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind on the page. On Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he thought Sue would like to see him, and made a hasty tea, he set out, notwithstanding that the evening was wet. The trees overhead deepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him, impressing him with forebodings--illogical forebodings; for though he knew that he loved her he also knew that he could not be more to her than he was. On turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that greeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella coming out of the vicarage gate. He was too far back for them to notice him, but he knew in a moment that they were Sue and Phillotson. The latter was holding the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently been paying a visit to the vicar--probably on some business connected with the school work. And as they walked along the wet and deserted lane Jude saw Phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist; whereupon she gently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it remain, looking quickly round her with an air of misgiving. She did not look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who sank into the hedge like one struck with a blight. There he remained hidden till they had reached Sue's cottage and she had passed in, Phillotson going on to the school hard by. "Oh, he's too old for her--too old!" cried Jude in all the terrible sickness of hopeless, handicapped love. He could not interfere. Was he not Arabella's? He was unable to go on further, and retraced his steps towards Christminster. Every tread of his feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account stand in the schoolmaster's way with Sue. Phillotson was perhaps twenty years her senior, but many a happy marriage had been made in such conditions of age. The ironical clinch to his sorrow was given by the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the schoolmaster had been brought about entirely by himself. ----------PART 2, CHAPTER 6--------- The schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school, both being modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old house in which his teacher Sue had a lodging. The arrangement had been concluded very quickly. A pupil-teacher who was to have been transferred to Mr. Phillotson's school had failed him, and Sue had been taken as stop-gap. All such provisional arrangements as these could only last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose approval was necessary to make them permanent. Having taught for some two years in London, though she had abandoned that vocation of late, Miss Bridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought there would be no difficulty in retaining her services, which he already wished to do, though she had only been with him three or four weeks. He had found her quite as bright as Jude had described her; and what master-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who saves him half his labour? It was a little over half-past eight o'clock in the morning and he was waiting to see her cross the road to the school, when he would follow. At twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed on her head; and he watched her as a curiosity. A new emanation, which had nothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to surround her this morning. He went to the school also, and Sue remained governing her class at the other end of the room, all day under his eye. She certainly was an excellent teacher. It was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening, and some article in the Code made it necessary that a respectable, elderly woman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and the taught were of different sexes. Richard Phillotson thought of the absurdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough to be the girl's father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat down with her in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose house Sue lodged, occupied herself with sewing. The regulation was, indeed, not easy to evade, for there was no other sitting-room in the dwelling. Sometimes as she figured--it was arithmetic that they were working at--she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile at him, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive all that was passing in her brain, as right or wrong. Phillotson was not really thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel way which somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor. Perhaps she knew that he was thinking of her thus. For a few weeks their work had gone on with a monotony which in itself was a delight to him. Then it happened that the children were to be taken to Christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the shape of a model of Jerusalem, to which schools were admitted at a penny a head in the interests of education. They marched along the road two and two, she beside her class with her simple cotton sunshade, her little thumb cocked up against its stem; and Phillotson behind in his long dangling coat, handling his walking-stick genteelly, in the musing mood which had come over him since her arrival. The afternoon was one of sun and dust, and when they entered the exhibition room few people were present but themselves. The model of the ancient city stood in the middle of the apartment, and the proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy written on his features, walked round it with a pointer in his hand, showing the young people the various quarters and places known to them by name from reading their Bibles; Mount Moriah, the Valley of Jehoshaphat, the City of Zion, the walls and the gates, outside one of which there was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little white cross. The spot, he said, was Calvary. "I think," said Sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a little in the background, "that this model, elaborate as it is, is a very imaginary production. How does anybody know that Jerusalem was like this in the time of Christ? I am sure this man doesn't." "It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits to the city as it now exists." "I fancy we have had enough of Jerusalem," she said, "considering we are not descended from the Jews. There was nothing first-rate about the place, or people, after all--as there was about Athens, Rome, Alexandria, and other old cities." "But my dear girl, consider what it is to us!" She was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived behind the group of children clustered round the model a young man in a white flannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent inspection of the Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost hidden from view by the Mount of Olives. "Look at your cousin Jude," continued the schoolmaster. "He doesn't think we have had enough of Jerusalem!" "Ah--I didn't see him!" she cried in her quick, light voice. "Jude--how seriously you are going into it!" Jude started up from his reverie, and saw her. "Oh--Sue!" he said, with a glad flush of embarrassment. "These are your school-children, of course! I saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and thought you might come; but I got so deeply interested that I didn't remember where I was. How it carries one back, doesn't it! I could examine it for hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately; for I am in the middle of a job out here." "Your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it unmercifully," said Phillotson, with good-humoured satire. "She is quite sceptical as to its correctness." "No, Mr. Phillotson, I am not--altogether! I hate to be what is called a clever girl--there are too many of that sort now!" answered Sue sensitively. "I only meant--I don't know what I meant--except that it was what you don't understand!" "_I_ know your meaning," said Jude ardently (although he did not). "And I think you are quite right." "That's a good Jude--I know YOU believe in me!" She impulsively seized his hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster turned away to Jude, her voice revealing a tremor which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle. She had not the least conception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at this momentary revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was building up thereby in the futures of both. The model wore too much of an educational aspect for the children not to tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon they were all marched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work. He watched the juvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the street towards the country beside Phillotson and Sue, and a sad, dissatisfied sense of being out of the scheme of the latters' lives had possession of him. Phillotson had invited him to walk out and see them on Friday evening, when there would be no lessons to give to Sue, and Jude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the opportunity. Meanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next day, on looking on the blackboard in Sue's class, Phillotson was surprised to find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a perspective view of Jerusalem, with every building shown in its place. "I thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at it?" he said. "I hardly did," said she, "but I remembered that much of it." "It is more than I had remembered myself." Her Majesty's school-inspector was at that time paying "surprise-visits" in this neighbourhood to test the teaching unawares; and two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons, the latch of the door was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman, the king of terrors--to pupil-teachers. To Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the story, he had been played that trick too many times to be unprepared. But Sue's class was at the further end of the room, and her back was towards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind her and watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware of his presence. She turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment had come. The effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a cry of fright. Phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude quite beyond his control, was at her side just in time to prevent her falling from faintness. She soon recovered herself, and laughed; but when the inspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was so white that Phillotson took her into his room, and gave her some brandy to bring her round. She found him holding her hand. "You ought to have told me," she gasped petulantly, "that one of the inspector's surprise-visits was imminent! Oh, what shall I do! Now he'll write and tell the managers that I am no good, and I shall be disgraced for ever!" "He won't do that, my dear little girl. You are the best teacher ever I had!" He looked so gently at her that she was moved, and regretted that she had upbraided him. When she was better she went home. Jude in the meantime had been waiting impatiently for Friday. On both Wednesday and Thursday he had been so much under the influence of his desire to see her that he walked after dark some distance along the road in the direction of the village, and, on returning to his room to read, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind on the page. On Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he thought Sue would like to see him, and made a hasty tea, he set out, notwithstanding that the evening was wet. The trees overhead deepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him, impressing him with forebodings--illogical forebodings; for though he knew that he loved her he also knew that he could not be more to her than he was. On turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that greeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella coming out of the vicarage gate. He was too far back for them to notice him, but he knew in a moment that they were Sue and Phillotson. The latter was holding the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently been paying a visit to the vicar--probably on some business connected with the school work. And as they walked along the wet and deserted lane Jude saw Phillotson place his arm round the girl's waist; whereupon she gently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it remain, looking quickly round her with an air of misgiving. She did not look absolutely behind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who sank into the hedge like one struck with a blight. There he remained hidden till they had reached Sue's cottage and she had passed in, Phillotson going on to the school hard by. "Oh, he's too old for her--too old!" cried Jude in all the terrible sickness of hopeless, handicapped love. He could not interfere. Was he not Arabella's? He was unable to go on further, and retraced his steps towards Christminster. Every tread of his feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account stand in the schoolmaster's way with Sue. Phillotson was perhaps twenty years her senior, but many a happy marriage had been made in such conditions of age. The ironical clinch to his sorrow was given by the thought that the intimacy between his cousin and the schoolmaster had been brought about entirely by himself.

Jude the Obscure.part 3.c

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of part 3, chapter 2, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 10|part 3, chapter 2|part 3, chapter 3

Some weeks later Jude and Sue go by train from Melchester for an afternoon's outing to Wardour Castle. While wandering through the picture galleries, Jude is fascinated by the religious paintings of del Sarto, Guido Reni, Dolci and others. Sue is more interested in Lely and Reynolds. They decide to walk over the hills to another station to catch the train back, but they walk further than planned and stop at a shepherd's cottage to rest. They are told they have missed the train and they are offered accommodation for the night. When told they are not married, the shepherd arranges separate bedrooms for them. The next morning they return to Melchester. Sue is worried at having stayed away overnight without permission. She gives Jude a very recent photograph of herself. The college porter receives her with a questioning look.

----------CHAPTER 10--------- Jude returned to Melchester, which had the questionable recommendation of being only a dozen and a half miles from his Sue's now permanent residence. At first he felt that this nearness was a distinct reason for not going southward at all; but Christminster was too sad a place to bear, while the proximity of Shaston to Melchester might afford him the glory of worsting the Enemy in a close engagement, such as was deliberately sought by the priests and virgins of the early Church, who, disdaining an ignominious flight from temptation, became even chamber-partners with impunity. Jude did not pause to remember that, in the laconic words of the historian, "insulted Nature sometimes vindicated her rights" in such circumstances. He now returned with feverish desperation to his study for the priesthood--in the recognition that the single-mindedness of his aims, and his fidelity to the cause, had been more than questionable of late. His passion for Sue troubled his soul; yet his lawful abandonment to the society of Arabella for twelve hours seemed instinctively a worse thing--even though she had not told him of her Sydney husband till afterwards. He had, he verily believed, overcome all tendency to fly to liquor--which, indeed, he had never done from taste, but merely as an escape from intolerable misery of mind. Yet he perceived with despondency that, taken all round, he was a man of too many passions to make a good clergyman; the utmost he could hope for was that in a life of constant internal warfare between flesh and spirit the former might not always be victorious. As a hobby, auxiliary to his readings in Divinity, he developed his slight skill in church-music and thorough-bass, till he could join in part-singing from notation with some accuracy. A mile or two from Melchester there was a restored village church, to which Jude had originally gone to fix the new columns and capitals. By this means he had become acquainted with the organist, and the ultimate result was that he joined the choir as a bass voice. He walked out to this parish twice every Sunday, and sometimes in the week. One evening about Easter the choir met for practice, and a new hymn which Jude had heard of as being by a Wessex composer was to be tried and prepared for the following week. It turned out to be a strangely emotional composition. As they all sang it over and over again its harmonies grew upon Jude, and moved him exceedingly. When they had finished he went round to the organist to make inquiries. The score was in manuscript, the name of the composer being at the head, together with the title of the hymn: "The Foot of the Cross." "Yes," said the organist. "He is a local man. He is a professional musician at Kennetbridge--between here and Christminster. The vicar knows him. He was brought up and educated in Christminster traditions, which accounts for the quality of the piece. I think he plays in the large church there, and has a surpliced choir. He comes to Melchester sometimes, and once tried to get the cathedral organ when the post was vacant. The hymn is getting about everywhere this Easter." As he walked humming the air on his way home, Jude fell to musing on its composer, and the reasons why he composed it. What a man of sympathies he must be! Perplexed and harassed as he himself was about Sue and Arabella, and troubled as was his conscience by the complication of his position, how he would like to know that man! "He of all men would understand my difficulties," said the impulsive Jude. If there were any person in the world to choose as a confidant, this composer would be the one, for he must have suffered, and throbbed, and yearned. In brief, ill as he could afford the time and money for the journey, Fawley resolved, like the child that he was, to go to Kennetbridge the very next Sunday. He duly started, early in the morning, for it was only by a series of crooked railways that he could get to the town. About mid-day he reached it, and crossing the bridge into the quaint old borough he inquired for the house of the composer. They told him it was a red brick building some little way further on. Also that the gentleman himself had just passed along the street not five minutes before. "Which way?" asked Jude with alacrity. "Straight along homeward from church." Jude hastened on, and soon had the pleasure of observing a man in a black coat and a black slouched felt hat no considerable distance ahead. Stretching out his legs yet more widely, he stalked after. "A hungry soul in pursuit of a full soul!" he said. "I must speak to that man!" He could not, however, overtake the musician before he had entered his own house, and then arose the question if this were an expedient time to call. Whether or not he decided to do so there and then, now that he had got here, the distance home being too great for him to wait till late in the afternoon. This man of soul would understand scant ceremony, and might be quite a perfect adviser in a case in which an earthly and illegitimate passion had cunningly obtained entrance into his heart through the opening afforded for religion. Jude accordingly rang the bell, and was admitted. The musician came to him in a moment, and being respectably dressed, good-looking, and frank in manner, Jude obtained a favourable reception. He was nevertheless conscious that there would be a certain awkwardness in explaining his errand. "I have been singing in the choir of a little church near Melchester," he said. "And we have this week practised 'The Foot of the Cross,' which I understand, sir, that you composed?" "I did--a year or so ago." "I--like it. I think it supremely beautiful!" "Ah well--other people have said so too. Yes, there's money in it, if I could only see about getting it published. I have other compositions to go with it, too; I wish I could bring them out; for I haven't made a five-pound note out of any of them yet. These publishing people--they want the copyright of an obscure composer's work, such as mine is, for almost less than I should have to pay a person for making a fair manuscript copy of the score. The one you speak of I have lent to various friends about here and Melchester, and so it has got to be sung a little. But music is a poor staff to lean on--I am giving it up entirely. You must go into trade if you want to make money nowadays. The wine business is what I am thinking of. This is my forthcoming list--it is not issued yet--but you can take one." He handed Jude an advertisement list of several pages in booklet shape, ornamentally margined with a red line, in which were set forth the various clarets, champagnes, ports, sherries, and other wines with which he purposed to initiate his new venture. It took Jude more than by surprise that the man with the soul was thus and thus; and he felt that he could not open up his confidences. They talked a little longer, but constrainedly, for when the musician found that Jude was a poor man his manner changed from what it had been while Jude's appearance and address deceived him as to his position and pursuits. Jude stammered out something about his feelings in wishing to congratulate the author on such an exalted composition, and took an embarrassed leave. All the way home by the slow Sunday train, sitting in the fireless waiting-rooms on this cold spring day, he was depressed enough at his simplicity in taking such a journey. But no sooner did he reach his Melchester lodging than he found awaiting him a letter which had arrived that morning a few minutes after he had left the house. It was a contrite little note from Sue, in which she said, with sweet humility, that she felt she had been horrid in telling him he was not to come to see her, that she despised herself for having been so conventional; and that he was to be sure to come by the eleven-forty-five train that very Sunday, and have dinner with them at half-past one. Jude almost tore his hair at having missed this letter till it was too late to act upon its contents; but he had chastened himself considerably of late, and at last his chimerical expedition to Kennetbridge really did seem to have been another special intervention of Providence to keep him away from temptation. But a growing impatience of faith, which he had noticed in himself more than once of late, made him pass over in ridicule the idea that God sent people on fools' errands. He longed to see her; he was angry at having missed her: and he wrote instantly, telling her what had happened, and saying he had not enough patience to wait till the following Sunday, but would come any day in the week that she liked to name. Since he wrote a little over-ardently, Sue, as her manner was, delayed her reply till Thursday before Good Friday, when she said he might come that afternoon if he wished, this being the earliest day on which she could welcome him, for she was now assistant-teacher in her husband's school. Jude therefore got leave from the cathedral works at the trifling expense of a stoppage of pay, and went. ----------PART 3, CHAPTER 2--------- "To-morrow is our grand day, you know. Where shall we go?" "I have leave from three till nine. Wherever we can get to and come back from in that time. Not ruins, Jude--I don't care for them." "Well--Wardour Castle. And then we can do Fonthill if we like--all in the same afternoon." "Wardour is Gothic ruins--and I hate Gothic!" "No. Quite otherwise. It is a classic building--Corinthian, I think; with a lot of pictures." "Ah--that will do. I like the sound of Corinthian. We'll go." Their conversation had run thus some few weeks later, and next morning they prepared to start. Every detail of the outing was a facet reflecting a sparkle to Jude, and he did not venture to meditate on the life of inconsistency he was leading. His Sue's conduct was one lovely conundrum to him; he could say no more. There duly came the charm of calling at the college door for her; her emergence in a nunlike simplicity of costume that was rather enforced than desired; the traipsing along to the station, the porters' "B'your leave!," the screaming of the trains--everything formed the basis of a beautiful crystallization. Nobody stared at Sue, because she was so plainly dressed, which comforted Jude in the thought that only himself knew the charms those habiliments subdued. A matter of ten pounds spent in a drapery-shop, which had no connection with her real life or her real self, would have set all Melchester staring. The guard of the train thought they were lovers, and put them into a compartment all by themselves. "That's a good intention wasted!" said she. Jude did not respond. He thought the remark unnecessarily cruel, and partly untrue. They reached the park and castle and wandered through the picture-galleries, Jude stopping by preference in front of the devotional pictures by Del Sarto, Guido Reni, Spagnoletto, Sassoferrato, Carlo Dolci, and others. Sue paused patiently beside him, and stole critical looks into his face as, regarding the Virgins, Holy Families, and Saints, it grew reverent and abstracted. When she had thoroughly estimated him at this, she would move on and wait for him before a Lely or Reynolds. It was evident that her cousin deeply interested her, as one might be interested in a man puzzling out his way along a labyrinth from which one had one's self escaped. When they came out a long time still remained to them and Jude proposed that as soon as they had had something to eat they should walk across the high country to the north of their present position, and intercept the train of another railway leading back to Melchester, at a station about seven miles off. Sue, who was inclined for any adventure that would intensify the sense of her day's freedom, readily agreed; and away they went, leaving the adjoining station behind them. It was indeed open country, wide and high. They talked and bounded on, Jude cutting from a little covert a long walking-stick for Sue as tall as herself, with a great crook, which made her look like a shepherdess. About half-way on their journey they crossed a main road running due east and west--the old road from London to Land's End. They paused, and looked up and down it for a moment, and remarked upon the desolation which had come over this once lively thoroughfare, while the wind dipped to earth and scooped straws and hay-stems from the ground. They crossed the road and passed on, but during the next half-mile Sue seemed to grow tired, and Jude began to be distressed for her. They had walked a good distance altogether, and if they could not reach the other station it would be rather awkward. For a long time there was no cottage visible on the wide expanse of down and turnip-land; but presently they came to a sheepfold, and next to the shepherd, pitching hurdles. He told them that the only house near was his mother's and his, pointing to a little dip ahead from which a faint blue smoke arose, and recommended them to go on and rest there. This they did, and entered the house, admitted by an old woman without a single tooth, to whom they were as civil as strangers can be when their only chance of rest and shelter lies in the favour of the householder. "A nice little cottage," said Jude. "Oh, I don't know about the niceness. I shall have to thatch it soon, and where the thatch is to come from I can't tell, for straw do get that dear, that 'twill soon be cheaper to cover your house wi' chainey plates than thatch." They sat resting, and the shepherd came in. "Don't 'ee mind I," he said with a deprecating wave of the hand; "bide here as long as ye will. But mid you be thinking o' getting back to Melchester to-night by train? Because you'll never do it in this world, since you don't know the lie of the country. I don't mind going with ye some o' the ways, but even then the train mid be gone." They started up. "You can bide here, you know, over the night--can't 'em, Mother? The place is welcome to ye. 'Tis hard lying, rather, but volk may do worse." He turned to Jude and asked privately: "Be you a married couple?" "Hsh--no!" said Jude. "Oh--I meant nothing ba'dy--not I! Well then, she can go into Mother's room, and you and I can lie in the outer chimmer after they've gone through. I can call ye soon enough to catch the first train back. You've lost this one now." On consideration they decided to close with this offer, and drew up and shared with the shepherd and his mother the boiled bacon and greens for supper. "I rather like this," said Sue, while their entertainers were clearing away the dishes. "Outside all laws except gravitation and germination." "You only think you like it; you don't: you are quite a product of civilization," said Jude, a recollection of her engagement reviving his soreness a little. "Indeed I am not, Jude. I like reading and all that, but I crave to get back to the life of my infancy and its freedom." "Do you remember it so well? You seem to me to have nothing unconventional at all about you." "Oh, haven't I! You don't know what's inside me." "What?" "The Ishmaelite." "An urban miss is what you are." She looked severe disagreement, and turned away. The shepherd aroused them the next morning, as he had said. It was bright and clear, and the four miles to the train were accomplished pleasantly. When they had reached Melchester, and walked to the Close, and the gables of the old building in which she was again to be immured rose before Sue's eyes, she looked a little scared. "I expect I shall catch it!" she murmured. They rang the great bell and waited. "Oh, I bought something for you, which I had nearly forgotten," she said quickly, searching her pocket. "It is a new little photograph of me. Would you like it?" "WOULD I!" He took it gladly, and the porter came. There seemed to be an ominous glance on his face when he opened the gate. She passed in, looking back at Jude, and waving her hand. ----------PART 3, CHAPTER 3--------- The seventy young women, of ages varying in the main from nineteen to one-and-twenty, though several were older, who at this date filled the species of nunnery known as the Training-School at Melchester, formed a very mixed community, which included the daughters of mechanics, curates, surgeons, shopkeepers, farmers, dairy-men, soldiers, sailors, and villagers. They sat in the large school-room of the establishment on the evening previously described, and word was passed round that Sue Bridehead had not come in at closing-time. "She went out with her young man," said a second-year's student, who knew about young men. "And Miss Traceley saw her at the station with him. She'll have it hot when she does come." "She said he was her cousin," observed a youthful new girl. "That excuse has been made a little too often in this school to be effectual in saving our souls," said the head girl of the year, drily. The fact was that, only twelve months before, there had occurred a lamentable seduction of one of the pupils who had made the same statement in order to gain meetings with her lover. The affair had created a scandal, and the management had consequently been rough on cousins ever since. At nine o'clock the names were called, Sue's being pronounced three times sonorously by Miss Traceley without eliciting an answer. At a quarter past nine the seventy stood up to sing the "Evening Hymn," and then knelt down to prayers. After prayers they went in to supper, and every girl's thought was, Where is Sue Bridehead? Some of the students, who had seen Jude from the window, felt that they would not mind risking her punishment for the pleasure of being kissed by such a kindly-faced young man. Hardly one among them believed in the cousinship. Half an hour later they all lay in their cubicles, their tender feminine faces upturned to the flaring gas-jets which at intervals stretched down the long dormitories, every face bearing the legend "The Weaker" upon it, as the penalty of the sex wherein they were moulded, which by no possible exertion of their willing hearts and abilities could be made strong while the inexorable laws of nature remain what they are. They formed a pretty, suggestive, pathetic sight, of whose pathos and beauty they were themselves unconscious, and would not discover till, amid the storms and strains of after-years, with their injustice, loneliness, child-bearing, and bereavement, their minds would revert to this experience as to something which had been allowed to slip past them insufficiently regarded. One of the mistresses came in to turn out the lights, and before doing so gave a final glance at Sue's cot, which remained empty, and at her little dressing-table at the foot, which, like all the rest, was ornamented with various girlish trifles, framed photographs being not the least conspicuous among them. Sue's table had a moderate show, two men in their filigree and velvet frames standing together beside her looking-glass. "Who are these men--did she ever say?" asked the mistress. "Strictly speaking, relations' portraits only are allowed on these tables, you know." "One--the middle-aged man," said a student in the next bed--"is the schoolmaster she served under--Mr. Phillotson." "And the other--this undergraduate in cap and gown--who is he?" "He is a friend, or was. She has never told his name." "Was it either of these two who came for her?" "No." "You are sure 'twas not the undergraduate?" "Quite. He was a young man with a black beard." The lights were promptly extinguished, and till they fell asleep the girls indulged in conjectures about Sue, and wondered what games she had carried on in London and at Christminster before she came here, some of the more restless ones getting out of bed and looking from the mullioned windows at the vast west front of the cathedral opposite, and the spire rising behind it. When they awoke the next morning they glanced into Sue's nook, to find it still without a tenant. After the early lessons by gas-light, in half-toilet, and when they had come up to dress for breakfast, the bell of the entrance gate was heard to ring loudly. The mistress of the dormitory went away, and presently came back to say that the principal's orders were that nobody was to speak to Bridehead without permission. When, accordingly, Sue came into the dormitory to hastily tidy herself, looking flushed and tired, she went to her cubicle in silence, none of them coming out to greet her or to make inquiry. When they had gone downstairs they found that she did not follow them into the dining-hall to breakfast, and they then learnt that she had been severely reprimanded, and ordered to a solitary room for a week, there to be confined, and take her meals, and do all her reading. At this the seventy murmured, the sentence being, they thought, too severe. A round robin was prepared and sent in to the principal, asking for a remission of Sue's punishment. No notice was taken. Towards evening, when the geography mistress began dictating her subject, the girls in the class sat with folded arms. "You mean that you are not going to work?" said the mistress at last. "I may as well tell you that it has been ascertained that the young man Bridehead stayed out with was not her cousin, for the very good reason that she has no such relative. We have written to Christminster to ascertain." "We are willing to take her word," said the head girl. "This young man was discharged from his work at Christminster for drunkenness and blasphemy in public-houses, and he has come here to live, entirely to be near her." However, they remained stolid and motionless, and the mistress left the room to inquire from her superiors what was to be done. Presently, towards dusk, the pupils, as they sat, heard exclamations from the first-year's girls in an adjoining classroom, and one rushed in to say that Sue Bridehead had got out of the back window of the room in which she had been confined, escaped in the dark across the lawn, and disappeared. How she had managed to get out of the garden nobody could tell, as it was bounded by the river at the bottom, and the side door was locked. They went and looked at the empty room, the casement between the middle mullions of which stood open. The lawn was again searched with a lantern, every bush and shrub being examined, but she was nowhere hidden. Then the porter of the front gate was interrogated, and on reflection he said that he remembered hearing a sort of splashing in the stream at the back, but he had taken no notice, thinking some ducks had come down the river from above. "She must have walked through the river!" said a mistress. "Or drownded herself," said the porter. The mind of the matron was horrified--not so much at the possible death of Sue as at the possible half-column detailing that event in all the newspapers, which, added to the scandal of the year before, would give the college an unenviable notoriety for many months to come. More lanterns were procured, and the river examined; and then, at last, on the opposite shore, which was open to the fields, some little boot-tracks were discerned in the mud, which left no doubt that the too excitable girl had waded through a depth of water reaching nearly to her shoulders--for this was the chief river of the county, and was mentioned in all the geography books with respect. As Sue had not brought disgrace upon the school by drowning herself, the matron began to speak superciliously of her, and to express gladness that she was gone. On the self-same evening Jude sat in his lodgings by the Close Gate. Often at this hour after dusk he would enter the silent Close, and stand opposite the house that contained Sue, and watch the shadows of the girls' heads passing to and fro upon the blinds, and wish he had nothing else to do but to sit reading and learning all day what many of the thoughtless inmates despised. But to-night, having finished tea and brushed himself up, he was deep in the perusal of the Twenty-ninth Volume of Pusey's Library of the Fathers, a set of books which he had purchased of a second-hand dealer at a price that seemed to him to be one of miraculous cheapness for that invaluable work. He fancied he heard something rattle lightly against his window; then he heard it again. Certainly somebody had thrown gravel. He rose and gently lifted the sash. "Jude!" (from below). "Sue!" "Yes--it is! Can I come up without being seen?" "Oh yes!" "Then don't come down. Shut the window." Jude waited, knowing that she could enter easily enough, the front door being opened merely by a knob which anybody could turn, as in most old country towns. He palpitated at the thought that she had fled to him in her trouble as he had fled to her in his. What counterparts they were! He unlatched the door of his room, heard a stealthy rustle on the dark stairs, and in a moment she appeared in the light of his lamp. He went up to seize her hand, and found she was clammy as a marine deity, and that her clothes clung to her like the robes upon the figures in the Parthenon frieze. "I'm so cold!" she said through her chattering teeth. "Can I come by your fire, Jude?" She crossed to his little grate and very little fire, but as the water dripped from her as she moved, the idea of drying herself was absurd. "Whatever have you done, darling?" he asked, with alarm, the tender epithet slipping out unawares. "Walked through the largest river in the county--that's what I've done! They locked me up for being out with you; and it seemed so unjust that I couldn't bear it, so I got out of the window and escaped across the stream!" She had begun the explanation in her usual slightly independent tones, but before she had finished the thin pink lips trembled, and she could hardly refrain from crying. "Dear Sue!" he said. "You must take off all your things! And let me see--you must borrow some from the landlady. I'll ask her." "No, no! Don't let her know, for God's sake! We are so near the school that they'll come after me!" "Then you must put on mine. You don't mind?" "Oh no." "My Sunday suit, you know. It is close here." In fact, everything was close and handy in Jude's single chamber, because there was not room for it to be otherwise. He opened a drawer, took out his best dark suit, and giving the garments a shake, said, "Now, how long shall I give you?" "Ten minutes." Jude left the room and went into the street, where he walked up and down. A clock struck half-past seven, and he returned. Sitting in his only arm-chair he saw a slim and fragile being masquerading as himself on a Sunday, so pathetic in her defencelessness that his heart felt big with the sense of it. On two other chairs before the fire were her wet garments. She blushed as he sat down beside her, but only for a moment. "I suppose, Jude, it is odd that you should see me like this and all my things hanging there? Yet what nonsense! They are only a woman's clothes--sexless cloth and linen... I wish I didn't feel so ill and sick! Will you dry my clothes now? Please do, Jude, and I'll get a lodging by and by. It is not late yet." "No, you shan't, if you are ill. You must stay here. Dear, dear Sue, what can I get for you?" "I don't know! I can't help shivering. I wish I could get warm." Jude put on her his great-coat in addition, and then ran out to the nearest public-house, whence he returned with a little bottle in his hand. "Here's six of best brandy," he said. "Now you drink it, dear; all of it." "I can't out of the bottle, can I?" Jude fetched the glass from the dressing-table, and administered the spirit in some water. She gasped a little, but gulped it down, and lay back in the armchair. She then began to relate circumstantially her experiences since they had parted; but in the middle of her story her voice faltered, her head nodded, and she ceased. She was in a sound sleep. Jude, dying of anxiety lest she should have caught a chill which might permanently injure her, was glad to hear the regular breathing. He softly went nearer to her, and observed that a warm flush now rosed her hitherto blue cheeks, and felt that her hanging hand was no longer cold. Then he stood with his back to the fire regarding her, and saw in her almost a divinity.

cliffnotes

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chapters 5|chapters 7

In the cold light of morning, Sue takes stock of her situation and regrets her rashness in running away from the training college. She is also afraid of Phillotson's reaction to her departure. She decides to stay with a friend at Shaston, hoping to return later to the training college, after her escapade has been forgotten. Jude accompanies her to the station and is about to confess his love for her and tell her about Arabella, but Sue cautions him, saying that he is not to love her. The day after her departure Sue sends him a short note from Shaston, saying that she now grants him permission to love her. Jude goes to visit her at Shaston on Sunday and finds her sick in bed. Assuming that she is Jude's mistress, they have refused to take her back at the training college. Jude is distressed; he wants to tell her about Arabella but cannot gather the courage to do so. He reminds her of her engagement to Phillotson and resigns himself to a life of renunciation. But when he returns to Melchester, he receives another note from her, begging him to continue being her friend. She also requests him to meet her when she comes to Melchester for her belongings the following Saturday.

----------CHAPTERS 5--------- When he returned she was dressed as usual. "Now could I get out without anybody seeing me?" she asked. "The town is not yet astir." "But you have had no breakfast." "Oh, I don't want any! I fear I ought not to have run away from that school! Things seem so different in the cold light of morning, don't they? What Mr. Phillotson will say I don't know! It was quite by his wish that I went there. He is the only man in the world for whom I have any respect or fear. I hope he'll forgive me; but he'll scold me dreadfully, I expect!" "I'll go to him and explain--" began Jude. "Oh no, you shan't. I don't care for him! He may think what he likes--I shall do just as I choose!" "But you just this moment said--" "Well, if I did, I shall do as I like for all him! I have thought of what I shall do--go to the sister of one of my fellow-students in the training-school, who has asked me to visit her. She has a school near Shaston, about eighteen miles from here--and I shall stay there till this has blown over, and I get back to the training-school again." At the last moment he persuaded her to let him make her a cup of coffee, in a portable apparatus he kept in his room for use on rising to go to his work every day before the household was astir. "Now a dew-bit to eat with it," he said; "and off we go. You can have a regular breakfast when you get there." They went quietly out of the house, Jude accompanying her to the station. As they departed along the street a head was thrust out of an upper window of his lodging and quickly withdrawn. Sue still seemed sorry for her rashness, and to wish she had not rebelled; telling him at parting that she would let him know as soon as she got re-admitted to the training-school. They stood rather miserably together on the platform; and it was apparent that he wanted to say more. "I want to tell you something--two things," he said hurriedly as the train came up. "One is a warm one, the other a cold one!" "Jude," she said. "I know one of them. And you mustn't!" "What?" "You mustn't love me. You are to like me--that's all!" Jude's face became so full of complicated glooms that hers was agitated in sympathy as she bade him adieu through the carriage window. And then the train moved on, and waving her pretty hand to him she vanished away. Melchester was a dismal place enough for Jude that Sunday of her departure, and the Close so hateful that he did not go once to the cathedral services. The next morning there came a letter from her, which, with her usual promptitude, she had written directly she had reached her friend's house. She told him of her safe arrival and comfortable quarters, and then added:-- What I really write about, dear Jude, is something I said to you at parting. You had been so very good and kind to me that when you were out of sight I felt what a cruel and ungrateful woman I was to say it, and it has reproached me ever since. IF YOU WANT TO LOVE ME, JUDE, YOU MAY: I don't mind at all; and I'll never say again that you mustn't! Now I won't write any more about that. You do forgive your thoughtless friend for her cruelty? and won't make her miserable by saying you don't?--Ever, SUE. It would be superfluous to say what his answer was; and how he thought what he would have done had he been free, which should have rendered a long residence with a female friend quite unnecessary for Sue. He felt he might have been pretty sure of his own victory if it had come to a conflict between Phillotson and himself for the possession of her. Yet Jude was in danger of attaching more meaning to Sue's impulsive note than it really was intended to bear. After the lapse of a few days he found himself hoping that she would write again. But he received no further communication; and in the intensity of his solicitude he sent another note, suggesting that he should pay her a visit some Sunday, the distance being under eighteen miles. He expected a reply on the second morning after despatching his missive; but none came. The third morning arrived; the postman did not stop. This was Saturday, and in a feverish state of anxiety about her he sent off three brief lines stating that he was coming the following day, for he felt sure something had happened. His first and natural thought had been that she was ill from her immersion; but it soon occurred to him that somebody would have written for her in such a case. Conjectures were put an end to by his arrival at the village school-house near Shaston on the bright morning of Sunday, between eleven and twelve o'clock, when the parish was as vacant as a desert, most of the inhabitants having gathered inside the church, whence their voices could occasionally be heard in unison. A little girl opened the door. "Miss Bridehead is up-stairs," she said. "And will you please walk up to her?" "Is she ill?" asked Jude hastily. "Only a little--not very." Jude entered and ascended. On reaching the landing a voice told him which way to turn--the voice of Sue calling his name. He passed the doorway, and found her lying in a little bed in a room a dozen feet square. "Oh, Sue!" he cried, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. "How is this! You couldn't write?" "No--it wasn't that!" she answered. "I did catch a bad cold--but I could have written. Only I wouldn't!" "Why not?--frightening me like this!" "Yes--that was what I was afraid of! But I had decided not to write to you any more. They won't have me back at the school--that's why I couldn't write. Not the fact, but the reason!" "Well?" "They not only won't have me, but they gave me a parting piece of advice--" "What?" She did not answer directly. "I vowed I never would tell you, Jude--it is so vulgar and distressing!" "Is it about us?" "Yes." "But do tell me!" "Well--somebody has sent them baseless reports about us, and they say you and I ought to marry as soon as possible, for the sake of my reputation! ... There--now I have told you, and I wish I hadn't!" "Oh, poor Sue!" "I don't think of you like that means! It did just OCCUR to me to regard you in the way they think I do, but I hadn't begun to. I HAVE recognized that the cousinship was merely nominal, since we met as total strangers. But my marrying you, dear Jude--why, of course, if I had reckoned upon marrying you I shouldn't have come to you so often! And I never supposed you thought of such a thing as marrying me till the other evening; when I began to fancy you did love me a little. Perhaps I ought not to have been so intimate with you. It is all my fault. Everything is my fault always!" The speech seemed a little forced and unreal, and they regarded each other with a mutual distress. "I was so blind at first!" she went on. "I didn't see what you felt at all. Oh, you have been unkind to me--you have--to look upon me as a sweetheart without saying a word, and leaving me to discover it myself! Your attitude to me has become known; and naturally they think we've been doing wrong! I'll never trust you again!" "Yes, Sue," he said simply; "I am to blame--more than you think. I was quite aware that you did not suspect till within the last meeting or two what I was feeling about you. I admit that our meeting as strangers prevented a sense of relationship, and that it was a sort of subterfuge to avail myself of it. But don't you think I deserve a little consideration for concealing my wrong, very wrong, sentiments, since I couldn't help having them?" She turned her eyes doubtfully towards him, and then looked away as if afraid she might forgive him. By every law of nature and sex a kiss was the only rejoinder that fitted the mood and the moment, under the suasion of which Sue's undemonstrative regard of him might not inconceivably have changed its temperature. Some men would have cast scruples to the winds, and ventured it, oblivious both of Sue's declaration of her neutral feelings, and of the pair of autographs in the vestry chest of Arabella's parish church. Jude did not. He had, in fact, come in part to tell his own fatal story. It was upon his lips; yet at the hour of this distress he could not disclose it. He preferred to dwell upon the recognized barriers between them. "Of course--I know you don't--care about me in any particular way," he sorrowed. "You ought not, and you are right. You belong to--Mr. Phillotson. I suppose he has been to see you?" "Yes," she said shortly, her face changing a little. "Though I didn't ask him to come. You are glad, of course, that he has been! But I shouldn't care if he didn't come any more!" It was very perplexing to her lover that she should be piqued at his honest acquiescence in his rival, if Jude's feelings of love were deprecated by her. He went on to something else. "This will blow over, dear Sue," he said. "The training-school authorities are not all the world. You can get to be a student in some other, no doubt." "I'll ask Mr. Phillotson," she said decisively. Sue's kind hostess now returned from church, and there was no more intimate conversation. Jude left in the afternoon, hopelessly unhappy. But he had seen her, and sat with her. Such intercourse as that would have to content him for the remainder of his life. The lesson of renunciation it was necessary and proper that he, as a parish priest, should learn. But the next morning when he awoke he felt rather vexed with her, and decided that she was rather unreasonable, not to say capricious. Then, in illustration of what he had begun to discern as one of her redeeming characteristics there came promptly a note, which she must have written almost immediately he had gone from her: Forgive me for my petulance yesterday! I was horrid to you; I know it, and I feel perfectly miserable at my horridness. It was so dear of you not to be angry! Jude, please still keep me as your friend and associate, with all my faults. I'll try not to be like it again. I am coming to Melchester on Saturday, to get my things away from the T. S., &c. I could walk with you for half an hour, if you would like?--Your repentant SUE. Jude forgave her straightway, and asked her to call for him at the cathedral works when she came. ----------CHAPTERS 7--------- Tidings from Sue a day or two after passed across Jude like a withering blast. Before reading the letter he was led to suspect that its contents were of a somewhat serious kind by catching sight of the signature--which was in her full name, never used in her correspondence with him since her first note: MY DEAR JUDE,--I have something to tell you which perhaps you will not be surprised to hear, though certainly it may strike you as being accelerated (as the railway companies say of their trains). Mr. Phillotson and I are to be married quite soon--in three or four weeks. We had intended, as you know, to wait till I had gone through my course of training and obtained my certificate, so as to assist him, if necessary, in the teaching. But he generously says he does not see any object in waiting, now I am not at the training school. It is so good of him, because the awkwardness of my situation has really come about by my fault in getting expelled. Wish me joy. Remember I say you are to, and you mustn't refuse!--Your affectionate cousin, SUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD. Jude staggered under the news; could eat no breakfast; and kept on drinking tea because his mouth was so dry. Then presently he went back to his work and laughed the usual bitter laugh of a man so confronted. Everything seemed turning to satire. And yet, what could the poor girl do? he asked himself, and felt worse than shedding tears. "O Susanna Florence Mary!" he said as he worked. "You don't know what marriage means!" Could it be possible that his announcement of his own marriage had pricked her on to this, just as his visit to her when in liquor may have pricked her on to her engagement? To be sure, there seemed to exist these other and sufficient reasons, practical and social, for her decision; but Sue was not a very practical or calculating person; and he was compelled to think that a pique at having his secret sprung upon her had moved her to give way to Phillotson's probable representations, that the best course to prove how unfounded were the suspicions of the school authorities would be to marry him off-hand, as in fulfilment of an ordinary engagement. Sue had, in fact, been placed in an awkward corner. Poor Sue! He determined to play the Spartan; to make the best of it, and support her; but he could not write the requested good wishes for a day or two. Meanwhile there came another note from his impatient little dear: Jude, will you give me away? I have nobody else who could do it so conveniently as you, being the only married relation I have here on the spot, even if my father were friendly enough to be willing, which he isn't. I hope you won't think it a trouble? I have been looking at the marriage service in the prayer-book, and it seems to me very humiliating that a giver-away should be required at all. According to the ceremony as there printed, my bridegroom chooses me of his own will and pleasure; but I don't choose him. Somebody GIVES me to him, like a she-ass or she-goat, or any other domestic animal. Bless your exalted views of woman, O churchman! But I forget: I am no longer privileged to tease you.--Ever, SUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD. Jude screwed himself up to heroic key; and replied: MY DEAR SUE,--Of course I wish you joy! And also of course I will give you away. What I suggest is that, as you have no house of your own, you do not marry from your school friend's, but from mine. It would be more proper, I think, since I am, as you say, the person nearest related to you in this part of the world. I don't see why you sign your letter in such a new and terribly formal way? Surely you care a bit about me still!--Ever your affectionate, JUDE. What had jarred on him even more than the signature was a little sting he had been silent on--the phrase "married relation"--What an idiot it made him seem as her lover! If Sue had written that in satire, he could hardly forgive her; if in suffering--ah, that was another thing! His offer of his lodging must have commended itself to Phillotson at any rate, for the schoolmaster sent him a line of warm thanks, accepting the convenience. Sue also thanked him. Jude immediately moved into more commodious quarters, as much to escape the espionage of the suspicious landlady who had been one cause of Sue's unpleasant experience as for the sake of room. Then Sue wrote to tell him the day fixed for the wedding; and Jude decided, after inquiry, that she should come into residence on the following Saturday, which would allow of a ten days' stay in the city prior to the ceremony, sufficiently representing a nominal residence of fifteen. She arrived by the ten o'clock train on the day aforesaid, Jude not going to meet her at the station, by her special request, that he should not lose a morning's work and pay, she said (if this were her true reason). But so well by this time did he know Sue that the remembrance of their mutual sensitiveness at emotional crises might, he thought, have weighed with her in this. When he came home to dinner she had taken possession of her apartment. She lived in the same house with him, but on a different floor, and they saw each other little, an occasional supper being the only meal they took together, when Sue's manner was something like that of a scared child. What she felt he did not know; their conversation was mechanical, though she did not look pale or ill. Phillotson came frequently, but mostly when Jude was absent. On the morning of the wedding, when Jude had given himself a holiday, Sue and her cousin had breakfast together for the first and last time during this curious interval; in his room--the parlour--which he had hired for the period of Sue's residence. Seeing, as women do, how helpless he was in making the place comfortable, she bustled about. "What's the matter, Jude?" she said suddenly. He was leaning with his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands, looking into a futurity which seemed to be sketched out on the tablecloth. "Oh--nothing!" "You are 'father', you know. That's what they call the man who gives you away." Jude could have said "Phillotson's age entitles him to be called that!" But he would not annoy her by such a cheap retort. She talked incessantly, as if she dreaded his indulgence in reflection, and before the meal was over both he and she wished they had not put such confidence in their new view of things, and had taken breakfast apart. What oppressed Jude was the thought that, having done a wrong thing of this sort himself, he was aiding and abetting the woman he loved in doing a like wrong thing, instead of imploring and warning her against it. It was on his tongue to say, "You have quite made up your mind?" After breakfast they went out on an errand together moved by a mutual thought that it was the last opportunity they would have of indulging in unceremonious companionship. By the irony of fate, and the curious trick in Sue's nature of tempting Providence at critical times, she took his arm as they walked through the muddy street--a thing she had never done before in her life--and on turning the corner they found themselves close to a grey perpendicular church with a low-pitched roof--the church of St. Thomas. "That's the church," said Jude. "Where I am going to be married?" "Yes." "Indeed!" she exclaimed with curiosity. "How I should like to go in and see what the spot is like where I am so soon to kneel and do it." Again he said to himself, "She does not realize what marriage means!" He passively acquiesced in her wish to go in, and they entered by the western door. The only person inside the gloomy building was a charwoman cleaning. Sue still held Jude's arm, almost as if she loved him. Cruelly sweet, indeed, she had been to him that morning; but his thoughts of a penance in store for her were tempered by an ache: ... I can find no way How a blow should fall, such as falls on men, Nor prove too much for your womanhood! They strolled undemonstratively up the nave towards the altar railing, which they stood against in silence, turning then and walking down the nave again, her hand still on his arm, precisely like a couple just married. The too suggestive incident, entirely of her making, nearly broke down Jude. "I like to do things like this," she said in the delicate voice of an epicure in emotions, which left no doubt that she spoke the truth. "I know you do!" said Jude. "They are interesting, because they have probably never been done before. I shall walk down the church like this with my husband in about two hours, shan't I!" "No doubt you will!" "Was it like this when you were married?" "Good God, Sue--don't be so awfully merciless! ... There, dear one, I didn't mean it!" "Ah--you are vexed!" she said regretfully, as she blinked away an access of eye moisture. "And I promised never to vex you! ... I suppose I ought not to have asked you to bring me in here. Oh, I oughtn't! I see it now. My curiosity to hunt up a new sensation always leads me into these scrapes. Forgive me! ... You will, won't you, Jude?" The appeal was so remorseful that Jude's eyes were even wetter than hers as he pressed her hand for Yes. "Now we'll hurry away, and I won't do it any more!" she continued humbly; and they came out of the building, Sue intending to go on to the station to meet Phillotson. But the first person they encountered on entering the main street was the schoolmaster himself, whose train had arrived sooner than Sue expected. There was nothing really to demur to in her leaning on Jude's arm; but she withdrew her hand, and Jude thought that Phillotson had looked surprised. "We have been doing such a funny thing!" said she, smiling candidly. "We've been to the church, rehearsing as it were. Haven't we, Jude?" "How?" said Phillotson curiously. Jude inwardly deplored what he thought to be unnecessary frankness; but she had gone too far not to explain all, which she accordingly did, telling him how they had marched up to the altar. Seeing how puzzled Phillotson seemed, Jude said as cheerfully as he could, "I am going to buy her another little present. Will you both come to the shop with me?" "No," said Sue, "I'll go on to the house with him"; and requesting her lover not to be a long time she departed with the schoolmaster. Jude soon joined them at his rooms, and shortly after they prepared for the ceremony. Phillotson's hair was brushed to a painful extent, and his shirt collar appeared stiffer than it had been for the previous twenty years. Beyond this he looked dignified and thoughtful, and altogether a man of whom it was not unsafe to predict that he would make a kind and considerate husband. That he adored Sue was obvious; and she could almost be seen to feel that she was undeserving his adoration. Although the distance was so short he had hired a fly from the Red Lion, and six or seven women and children had gathered by the door when they came out. The schoolmaster and Sue were unknown, though Jude was getting to be recognized as a citizen; and the couple were judged to be some relations of his from a distance, nobody supposing Sue to have been a recent pupil at the training school. In the carriage Jude took from his pocket his extra little wedding-present, which turned out to be two or three yards of white tulle, which he threw over her bonnet and all, as a veil. "It looks so odd over a bonnet," she said. "I'll take the bonnet off." "Oh no--let it stay," said Phillotson. And she obeyed. When they had passed up the church and were standing in their places Jude found that the antecedent visit had certainly taken off the edge of this performance, but by the time they were half-way on with the service he wished from his heart that he had not undertaken the business of giving her away. How could Sue have had the temerity to ask him to do it--a cruelty possibly to herself as well as to him? Women were different from men in such matters. Was it that they were, instead of more sensitive, as reputed, more callous, and less romantic; or were they more heroic? Or was Sue simply so perverse that she wilfully gave herself and him pain for the odd and mournful luxury of practising long-suffering in her own person, and of being touched with tender pity for him at having made him practise it? He could perceive that her face was nervously set, and when they reached the trying ordeal of Jude giving her to Phillotson she could hardly command herself; rather, however, as it seemed, from her knowledge of what her cousin must feel, whom she need not have had there at all, than from self-consideration. Possibly she would go on inflicting such pains again and again, and grieving for the sufferer again and again, in all her colossal inconsistency. Phillotson seemed not to notice, to be surrounded by a mist which prevented his seeing the emotions of others. As soon as they had signed their names and come away, and the suspense was over, Jude felt relieved. The meal at his lodging was a very simple affair, and at two o'clock they went off. In crossing the pavement to the fly she looked back; and there was a frightened light in her eyes. Could it be that Sue had acted with such unusual foolishness as to plunge into she knew not what for the sake of asserting her independence of him, of retaliating on him for his secrecy? Perhaps Sue was thus venturesome with men because she was childishly ignorant of that side of their natures which wore out women's hearts and lives. When her foot was on the carriage-step she turned round, saying that she had forgotten something. Jude and the landlady offered to get it. "No," she said, running back. "It is my handkerchief. I know where I left it." Jude followed her back. She had found it, and came holding it in her hand. She looked into his eyes with her own tearful ones, and her lips suddenly parted as if she were going to avow something. But she went on; and whatever she had meant to say remained unspoken.

Jude the Obscure.part 5.c

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of chapter 1, utilizing the provided context.

chapter 1|part 5, chapter 1

A year later at Aldbrickham, Jude and Sue are still living as they were. With Phillotson's divorce from Sue now final, they both are free, Jude's divorce from Arabella having become final some time before. When Jude brings up the subject of their marrying, Sue says she would rather they go on as lovers and avoid the oppressive effects of marriage, though Jude objects that most people marry as a matter of course. Again, he complains of her lack of "animal passion" and her seeming inability to love him, but she still wants to dictate the terms of their relationship and Jude acquiesces. With some assistance from Sue, Jude is doing work on headstones, "a lower class of handicraft" than his cathedral work previously.

----------CHAPTER 1--------- How Gillingham's doubts were disposed of will most quickly appear by passing over the series of dreary months and incidents that followed the events of the last chapter, and coming on to a Sunday in the February of the year following. Sue and Jude were living in Aldbrickham, in precisely the same relations that they had established between themselves when she left Shaston to join him the year before. The proceedings in the law-courts had reached their consciousness, but as a distant sound and an occasional missive which they hardly understood. They had met, as usual, to breakfast together in the little house with Jude's name on it, that he had taken at fifteen pounds a year, with three-pounds-ten extra for rates and taxes, and furnished with his aunt's ancient and lumbering goods, which had cost him about their full value to bring all the way from Marygreen. Sue kept house, and managed everything. As he entered the room this morning Sue held up a letter she had just received. "Well; and what is it about?" he said after kissing her. "That the decree _nisi_ in the case of Phillotson _versus_ Phillotson and Fawley, pronounced six months ago, has just been made absolute." "Ah," said Jude, as he sat down. The same concluding incident in Jude's suit against Arabella had occurred about a month or two earlier. Both cases had been too insignificant to be reported in the papers, further than by name in a long list of other undefended cases. "Now then, Sue, at any rate, you can do what you like!" He looked at his sweetheart curiously. "Are we--you and I--just as free now as if we had never married at all?" "Just as free--except, I believe, that a clergyman may object personally to remarry you, and hand the job on to somebody else." "But I wonder--do you think it is really so with us? I know it is generally. But I have an uncomfortable feeling that my freedom has been obtained under false pretences!" "How?" "Well--if the truth about us had been known, the decree wouldn't have been pronounced. It is only, is it, because we have made no defence, and have led them into a false supposition? Therefore is my freedom lawful, however proper it may be?" "Well--why did you let it be under false pretences? You have only yourself to blame," he said mischievously. "Jude--don't! You ought not to be touchy about that still. You must take me as I am." "Very well, darling: so I will. Perhaps you were right. As to your question, we were not obliged to prove anything. That was their business. Anyhow we are living together." "Yes. Though not in their sense." "One thing is certain, that however the decree may be brought about, a marriage is dissolved when it is dissolved. There is this advantage in being poor obscure people like us--that these things are done for us in a rough and ready fashion. It was the same with me and Arabella. I was afraid her criminal second marriage would have been discovered, and she punished; but nobody took any interest in her--nobody inquired, nobody suspected it. If we'd been patented nobilities we should have had infinite trouble, and days and weeks would have been spent in investigations." By degrees Sue acquired her lover's cheerfulness at the sense of freedom, and proposed that they should take a walk in the fields, even if they had to put up with a cold dinner on account of it. Jude agreed, and Sue went up-stairs and prepared to start, putting on a joyful coloured gown in observance of her liberty; seeing which Jude put on a lighter tie. "Now we'll strut arm and arm," he said, "like any other engaged couple. We've a legal right to." They rambled out of the town, and along a path over the low-lying lands that bordered it, though these were frosty now, and the extensive seed-fields were bare of colour and produce. The pair, however, were so absorbed in their own situation that their surroundings were little in their consciousness. "Well, my dearest, the result of all this is that we can marry after a decent interval." "Yes; I suppose we can," said Sue, without enthusiasm. "And aren't we going to?" "I don't like to say no, dear Jude; but I feel just the same about it now as I have done all along. I have just the same dread lest an iron contract should extinguish your tenderness for me, and mine for you, as it did between our unfortunate parents." "Still, what can we do? I do love you, as you know, Sue." "I know it abundantly. But I think I would much rather go on living always as lovers, as we are living now, and only meeting by day. It is so much sweeter--for the woman at least, and when she is sure of the man. And henceforward we needn't be so particular as we have been about appearances." "Our experiences of matrimony with others have not been encouraging, I own," said he, with some gloom; "either owing to our own dissatisfied, unpractical natures, or by our misfortune. But we two--" "Should be two dissatisfied ones linked together, which would be twice as bad as before... I think I should begin to be afraid of you, Jude, the moment you had contracted to cherish me under a Government stamp, and I was licensed to be loved on the premises by you--Ugh, how horrible and sordid! Although, as you are, free, I trust you more than any other man in the world." "No, no--don't say I should change!" he expostulated; yet there was misgiving in his own voice also. "Apart from ourselves, and our unhappy peculiarities, it is foreign to a man's nature to go on loving a person when he is told that he must and shall be that person's lover. There would be a much likelier chance of his doing it if he were told not to love. If the marriage ceremony consisted in an oath and signed contract between the parties to cease loving from that day forward, in consideration of personal possession being given, and to avoid each other's society as much as possible in public, there would be more loving couples than there are now. Fancy the secret meetings between the perjuring husband and wife, the denials of having seen each other, the clambering in at bedroom windows, and the hiding in closets! There'd be little cooling then." "Yes; but admitting this, or something like it, to be true, you are not the only one in the world to see it, dear little Sue. People go on marrying because they can't resist natural forces, although many of them may know perfectly well that they are possibly buying a month's pleasure with a life's discomfort. No doubt my father and mother, and your father and mother, saw it, if they at all resembled us in habits of observation. But then they went and married just the same, because they had ordinary passions. But you, Sue, are such a phantasmal, bodiless creature, one who--if you'll allow me to say it--has so little animal passion in you, that you can act upon reason in the matter, when we poor unfortunate wretches of grosser substance can't." "Well," she sighed, "you've owned that it would probably end in misery for us. And I am not so exceptional a woman as you think. Fewer women like marriage than you suppose, only they enter into it for the dignity it is assumed to confer, and the social advantages it gains them sometimes--a dignity and an advantage that I am quite willing to do without." Jude fell back upon his old complaint--that, intimate as they were, he had never once had from her an honest, candid declaration that she loved or could love him. "I really fear sometimes that you cannot," he said, with a dubiousness approaching anger. "And you are so reticent. I know that women are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection is based on full sincerity on both sides. Not being men, these women don't know that in looking back on those he has had tender relations with, a man's heart returns closest to her who was the soul of truth in her conduct. The better class of man, even if caught by airy affectations of dodging and parrying, is not retained by them. A Nemesis attends the woman who plays the game of elusiveness too often, in the utter contempt for her that, sooner or later, her old admirers feel; under which they allow her to go unlamented to her grave." Sue, who was regarding the distance, had acquired a guilty look; and she suddenly replied in a tragic voice: "I don't think I like you to-day so well as I did, Jude!" "Don't you? Why?" "Oh, well--you are not nice--too sermony. Though I suppose I am so bad and worthless that I deserve the utmost rigour of lecturing!" "No, you are not bad. You are a dear. But as slippery as an eel when I want to get a confession from you." "Oh yes, I am bad, and obstinate, and all sorts! It is no use your pretending I am not! People who are good don't want scolding as I do... But now that I have nobody but you, and nobody to defend me, it is very hard that I mustn't have my own way in deciding how I'll live with you, and whether I'll be married or no!" "Sue, my own comrade and sweetheart, I don't want to force you either to marry or to do the other thing--of course I don't! It is too wicked of you to be so pettish! Now we won't say any more about it, and go on just the same as we have done; and during the rest of our walk we'll talk of the meadows only, and the floods, and the prospect of the farmers this coming year." After this the subject of marriage was not mentioned by them for several days, though living as they were with only a landing between them it was constantly in their minds. Sue was assisting Jude very materially now: he had latterly occupied himself on his own account in working and lettering headstones, which he kept in a little yard at the back of his little house, where in the intervals of domestic duties she marked out the letters full size for him, and blacked them in after he had cut them. It was a lower class of handicraft than were his former performances as a cathedral mason, and his only patrons were the poor people who lived in his own neighbourhood, and knew what a cheap man this "Jude Fawley: Monumental Mason" (as he called himself on his front door) was to employ for the simple memorials they required for their dead. But he seemed more independent than before, and it was the only arrangement under which Sue, who particularly wished to be no burden on him, could render any assistance. ----------PART 5, CHAPTER 1--------- How Gillingham's doubts were disposed of will most quickly appear by passing over the series of dreary months and incidents that followed the events of the last chapter, and coming on to a Sunday in the February of the year following. Sue and Jude were living in Aldbrickham, in precisely the same relations that they had established between themselves when she left Shaston to join him the year before. The proceedings in the law-courts had reached their consciousness, but as a distant sound and an occasional missive which they hardly understood. They had met, as usual, to breakfast together in the little house with Jude's name on it, that he had taken at fifteen pounds a year, with three-pounds-ten extra for rates and taxes, and furnished with his aunt's ancient and lumbering goods, which had cost him about their full value to bring all the way from Marygreen. Sue kept house, and managed everything. As he entered the room this morning Sue held up a letter she had just received. "Well; and what is it about?" he said after kissing her. "That the decree _nisi_ in the case of Phillotson _versus_ Phillotson and Fawley, pronounced six months ago, has just been made absolute." "Ah," said Jude, as he sat down. The same concluding incident in Jude's suit against Arabella had occurred about a month or two earlier. Both cases had been too insignificant to be reported in the papers, further than by name in a long list of other undefended cases. "Now then, Sue, at any rate, you can do what you like!" He looked at his sweetheart curiously. "Are we--you and I--just as free now as if we had never married at all?" "Just as free--except, I believe, that a clergyman may object personally to remarry you, and hand the job on to somebody else." "But I wonder--do you think it is really so with us? I know it is generally. But I have an uncomfortable feeling that my freedom has been obtained under false pretences!" "How?" "Well--if the truth about us had been known, the decree wouldn't have been pronounced. It is only, is it, because we have made no defence, and have led them into a false supposition? Therefore is my freedom lawful, however proper it may be?" "Well--why did you let it be under false pretences? You have only yourself to blame," he said mischievously. "Jude--don't! You ought not to be touchy about that still. You must take me as I am." "Very well, darling: so I will. Perhaps you were right. As to your question, we were not obliged to prove anything. That was their business. Anyhow we are living together." "Yes. Though not in their sense." "One thing is certain, that however the decree may be brought about, a marriage is dissolved when it is dissolved. There is this advantage in being poor obscure people like us--that these things are done for us in a rough and ready fashion. It was the same with me and Arabella. I was afraid her criminal second marriage would have been discovered, and she punished; but nobody took any interest in her--nobody inquired, nobody suspected it. If we'd been patented nobilities we should have had infinite trouble, and days and weeks would have been spent in investigations." By degrees Sue acquired her lover's cheerfulness at the sense of freedom, and proposed that they should take a walk in the fields, even if they had to put up with a cold dinner on account of it. Jude agreed, and Sue went up-stairs and prepared to start, putting on a joyful coloured gown in observance of her liberty; seeing which Jude put on a lighter tie. "Now we'll strut arm and arm," he said, "like any other engaged couple. We've a legal right to." They rambled out of the town, and along a path over the low-lying lands that bordered it, though these were frosty now, and the extensive seed-fields were bare of colour and produce. The pair, however, were so absorbed in their own situation that their surroundings were little in their consciousness. "Well, my dearest, the result of all this is that we can marry after a decent interval." "Yes; I suppose we can," said Sue, without enthusiasm. "And aren't we going to?" "I don't like to say no, dear Jude; but I feel just the same about it now as I have done all along. I have just the same dread lest an iron contract should extinguish your tenderness for me, and mine for you, as it did between our unfortunate parents." "Still, what can we do? I do love you, as you know, Sue." "I know it abundantly. But I think I would much rather go on living always as lovers, as we are living now, and only meeting by day. It is so much sweeter--for the woman at least, and when she is sure of the man. And henceforward we needn't be so particular as we have been about appearances." "Our experiences of matrimony with others have not been encouraging, I own," said he, with some gloom; "either owing to our own dissatisfied, unpractical natures, or by our misfortune. But we two--" "Should be two dissatisfied ones linked together, which would be twice as bad as before... I think I should begin to be afraid of you, Jude, the moment you had contracted to cherish me under a Government stamp, and I was licensed to be loved on the premises by you--Ugh, how horrible and sordid! Although, as you are, free, I trust you more than any other man in the world." "No, no--don't say I should change!" he expostulated; yet there was misgiving in his own voice also. "Apart from ourselves, and our unhappy peculiarities, it is foreign to a man's nature to go on loving a person when he is told that he must and shall be that person's lover. There would be a much likelier chance of his doing it if he were told not to love. If the marriage ceremony consisted in an oath and signed contract between the parties to cease loving from that day forward, in consideration of personal possession being given, and to avoid each other's society as much as possible in public, there would be more loving couples than there are now. Fancy the secret meetings between the perjuring husband and wife, the denials of having seen each other, the clambering in at bedroom windows, and the hiding in closets! There'd be little cooling then." "Yes; but admitting this, or something like it, to be true, you are not the only one in the world to see it, dear little Sue. People go on marrying because they can't resist natural forces, although many of them may know perfectly well that they are possibly buying a month's pleasure with a life's discomfort. No doubt my father and mother, and your father and mother, saw it, if they at all resembled us in habits of observation. But then they went and married just the same, because they had ordinary passions. But you, Sue, are such a phantasmal, bodiless creature, one who--if you'll allow me to say it--has so little animal passion in you, that you can act upon reason in the matter, when we poor unfortunate wretches of grosser substance can't." "Well," she sighed, "you've owned that it would probably end in misery for us. And I am not so exceptional a woman as you think. Fewer women like marriage than you suppose, only they enter into it for the dignity it is assumed to confer, and the social advantages it gains them sometimes--a dignity and an advantage that I am quite willing to do without." Jude fell back upon his old complaint--that, intimate as they were, he had never once had from her an honest, candid declaration that she loved or could love him. "I really fear sometimes that you cannot," he said, with a dubiousness approaching anger. "And you are so reticent. I know that women are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection is based on full sincerity on both sides. Not being men, these women don't know that in looking back on those he has had tender relations with, a man's heart returns closest to her who was the soul of truth in her conduct. The better class of man, even if caught by airy affectations of dodging and parrying, is not retained by them. A Nemesis attends the woman who plays the game of elusiveness too often, in the utter contempt for her that, sooner or later, her old admirers feel; under which they allow her to go unlamented to her grave." Sue, who was regarding the distance, had acquired a guilty look; and she suddenly replied in a tragic voice: "I don't think I like you to-day so well as I did, Jude!" "Don't you? Why?" "Oh, well--you are not nice--too sermony. Though I suppose I am so bad and worthless that I deserve the utmost rigour of lecturing!" "No, you are not bad. You are a dear. But as slippery as an eel when I want to get a confession from you." "Oh yes, I am bad, and obstinate, and all sorts! It is no use your pretending I am not! People who are good don't want scolding as I do... But now that I have nobody but you, and nobody to defend me, it is very hard that I mustn't have my own way in deciding how I'll live with you, and whether I'll be married or no!" "Sue, my own comrade and sweetheart, I don't want to force you either to marry or to do the other thing--of course I don't! It is too wicked of you to be so pettish! Now we won't say any more about it, and go on just the same as we have done; and during the rest of our walk we'll talk of the meadows only, and the floods, and the prospect of the farmers this coming year." After this the subject of marriage was not mentioned by them for several days, though living as they were with only a landing between them it was constantly in their minds. Sue was assisting Jude very materially now: he had latterly occupied himself on his own account in working and lettering headstones, which he kept in a little yard at the back of his little house, where in the intervals of domestic duties she marked out the letters full size for him, and blacked them in after he had cut them. It was a lower class of handicraft than were his former performances as a cathedral mason, and his only patrons were the poor people who lived in his own neighbourhood, and knew what a cheap man this "Jude Fawley: Monumental Mason" (as he called himself on his front door) was to employ for the simple memorials they required for their dead. But he seemed more independent than before, and it was the only arrangement under which Sue, who particularly wished to be no burden on him, could render any assistance.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for chapter 7 based on the provided context.

Over two years have passed. Jude and Sue lead a wandering life, stopping wherever Jude can find work as a mason. However, he refuses to do any church work. At the little town of Kennetbridge, Arabella and Anny arrive one day. Arabella is now widowed and is in mourning and has come to Kennetbridge to see the laying of a foundation stone of a new chapel. She claims that she has now turned to religion for consolation. She suddenly spots Sue and Little Father Time selling cakes and gingerbread at a stall at the fair. She questions Sue and learns that Jude was very ill that winter, and they have therefore tried their hand at baking in an attempt to earn a living. Sue now has two children of her own and is expecting a third. The cakes Jude makes are shaped like Christminster colleges, with towers and pinnacles and traceried windows, indicating that Jude still has a passion for Christminster.

----------CHAPTER 7--------- From that week Jude Fawley and Sue walked no more in the town of Aldbrickham. Whither they had gone nobody knew, chiefly because nobody cared to know. Any one sufficiently curious to trace the steps of such an obscure pair might have discovered without great trouble that they had taken advantage of his adaptive craftsmanship to enter on a shifting, almost nomadic, life, which was not without its pleasantness for a time. Wherever Jude heard of free-stone work to be done, thither he went, choosing by preference places remote from his old haunts and Sue's. He laboured at a job, long or briefly, till it was finished; and then moved on. Two whole years and a half passed thus. Sometimes he might have been found shaping the mullions of a country mansion, sometimes setting the parapet of a town-hall, sometimes ashlaring an hotel at Sandbourne, sometimes a museum at Casterbridge, sometimes as far down as Exonbury, sometimes at Stoke-Barehills. Later still he was at Kennetbridge, a thriving town not more than a dozen miles south of Marygreen, this being his nearest approach to the village where he was known; for he had a sensitive dread of being questioned as to his life and fortunes by those who had been acquainted with him during his ardent young manhood of study and promise, and his brief and unhappy married life at that time. At some of these places he would be detained for months, at others only a few weeks. His curious and sudden antipathy to ecclesiastical work, both episcopal and noncomformist, which had risen in him when suffering under a smarting sense of misconception, remained with him in cold blood, less from any fear of renewed censure than from an ultra-conscientiousness which would not allow him to seek a living out of those who would disapprove of his ways; also, too, from a sense of inconsistency between his former dogmas and his present practice, hardly a shred of the beliefs with which he had first gone up to Christminster now remaining with him. He was mentally approaching the position which Sue had occupied when he first met her. On a Saturday evening in May, nearly three years after Arabella's recognition of Sue and himself at the agricultural show, some of those who there encountered each other met again. It was the spring fair at Kennetbridge, and, though this ancient trade-meeting had much dwindled from its dimensions of former times, the long straight street of the borough presented a lively scene about midday. At this hour a light trap, among other vehicles, was driven into the town by the north road, and up to the door of a temperance inn. There alighted two women, one the driver, an ordinary country person, the other a finely built figure in the deep mourning of a widow. Her sombre suit, of pronounced cut, caused her to appear a little out of place in the medley and bustle of a provincial fair. "I will just find out where it is, Anny," said the widow-lady to her companion, when the horse and cart had been taken by a man who came forward: "and then I'll come back, and meet you here; and we'll go in and have something to eat and drink. I begin to feel quite a sinking." "With all my heart," said the other. "Though I would sooner have put up at the Chequers or The Jack. You can't get much at these temperance houses." "Now, don't you give way to gluttonous desires, my child," said the woman in weeds reprovingly. "This is the proper place. Very well: we'll meet in half an hour, unless you come with me to find out where the site of the new chapel is?" "I don't care to. You can tell me." The companions then went their several ways, the one in crape walking firmly along with a mien of disconnection from her miscellaneous surroundings. Making inquiries she came to a hoarding, within which were excavations denoting the foundations of a building; and on the boards without one or two large posters announcing that the foundation-stone of the chapel about to be erected would be laid that afternoon at three o'clock by a London preacher of great popularity among his body. Having ascertained thus much the immensely weeded widow retraced her steps, and gave herself leisure to observe the movements of the fair. By and by her attention was arrested by a little stall of cakes and ginger-breads, standing between the more pretentious erections of trestles and canvas. It was covered with an immaculate cloth, and tended by a young woman apparently unused to the business, she being accompanied by a boy with an octogenarian face, who assisted her. "Upon my--senses!" murmured the widow to herself. "His wife Sue--if she is so!" She drew nearer to the stall. "How do you do, Mrs. Fawley?" she said blandly. Sue changed colour and recognized Arabella through the crape veil. "How are you, Mrs. Cartlett?" she said stiffly. And then perceiving Arabella's garb her voice grew sympathetic in spite of herself. "What?--you have lost--" "My poor husband. Yes. He died suddenly, six weeks ago, leaving me none too well off, though he was a kind husband to me. But whatever profit there is in public-house keeping goes to them that brew the liquors, and not to them that retail 'em... And you, my little old man! You don't know me, I expect?" "Yes, I do. You be the woman I thought wer my mother for a bit, till I found you wasn't," replied Father Time, who had learned to use the Wessex tongue quite naturally by now. "All right. Never mind. I am a friend." "Juey," said Sue suddenly, "go down to the station platform with this tray--there's another train coming in, I think." When he was gone Arabella continued: "He'll never be a beauty, will he, poor chap! Does he know I am his mother really?" "No. He thinks there is some mystery about his parentage--that's all. Jude is going to tell him when he is a little older." "But how do you come to be doing this? I am surprised." "It is only a temporary occupation--a fancy of ours while we are in a difficulty." "Then you are living with him still?" "Yes." "Married?" "Of course." "Any children?" "Two." "And another coming soon, I see." Sue writhed under the hard and direct questioning, and her tender little mouth began to quiver. "Lord--I mean goodness gracious--what is there to cry about? Some folks would be proud enough!" "It is not that I am ashamed--not as you think! But it seems such a terribly tragic thing to bring beings into the world--so presumptuous--that I question my right to do it sometimes!" "Take it easy, my dear... But you don't tell me why you do such a thing as this? Jude used to be a proud sort of chap--above any business almost, leave alone keeping a standing." "Perhaps my husband has altered a little since then. I am sure he is not proud now!" And Sue's lips quivered again. "I am doing this because he caught a chill early in the year while putting up some stonework of a music-hall, at Quartershot, which he had to do in the rain, the work having to be executed by a fixed day. He is better than he was; but it has been a long, weary time! We have had an old widow friend with us to help us through it; but she's leaving soon." "Well, I am respectable too, thank God, and of a serious way of thinking since my loss. Why did you choose to sell gingerbreads?" "That's a pure accident. He was brought up to the baking business, and it occurred to him to try his hand at these, which he can make without coming out of doors. We call them Christminster cakes. They are a great success." "I never saw any like 'em. Why, they are windows and towers, and pinnacles! And upon my word they are very nice." She had helped herself, and was unceremoniously munching one of the cakes. "Yes. They are reminiscences of the Christminster Colleges. Traceried windows, and cloisters, you see. It was a whim of his to do them in pastry." "Still harping on Christminster--even in his cakes!" laughed Arabella. "Just like Jude. A ruling passion. What a queer fellow he is, and always will be!" Sue sighed, and she looked her distress at hearing him criticized. "Don't you think he is? Come now; you do, though you are so fond of him!" "Of course Christminster is a sort of fixed vision with him, which I suppose he'll never be cured of believing in. He still thinks it a great centre of high and fearless thought, instead of what it is, a nest of commonplace schoolmasters whose characteristic is timid obsequiousness to tradition." Arabella was quizzing Sue with more regard of how she was speaking than of what she was saying. "How odd to hear a woman selling cakes talk like that!" she said. "Why don't you go back to school-keeping?" She shook her head. "They won't have me." "Because of the divorce, I suppose?" "That and other things. And there is no reason to wish it. We gave up all ambition, and were never so happy in our lives till his illness came." "Where are you living?" "I don't care to say." "Here in Kennetbridge?" Sue's manner showed Arabella that her random guess was right. "Here comes the boy back again," continued Arabella. "My boy and Jude's!" Sue's eyes darted a spark. "You needn't throw that in my face!" she cried. "Very well--though I half-feel as if I should like to have him with me! ... But Lord, I don't want to take him from 'ee--ever I should sin to speak so profane--though I should think you must have enough of your own! He's in very good hands, that I know; and I am not the woman to find fault with what the Lord has ordained. I've reached a more resigned frame of mind." "Indeed! I wish I had been able to do so." "You should try," replied the widow, from the serene heights of a soul conscious not only of spiritual but of social superiority. "I make no boast of my awakening, but I'm not what I was. After Cartlett's death I was passing the chapel in the street next ours, and went into it for shelter from a shower of rain. I felt a need of some sort of support under my loss, and, as 'twas righter than gin, I took to going there regular, and found it a great comfort. But I've left London now, you know, and at present I am living at Alfredston, with my friend Anny, to be near my own old country. I'm not come here to the fair to-day. There's to be the foundation-stone of a new chapel laid this afternoon by a popular London preacher, and I drove over with Anny. Now I must go back to meet her." Then Arabella wished Sue good-bye, and went on. ----------CHAPTER 8--------- In the afternoon Sue and the other people bustling about Kennetbridge fair could hear singing inside the placarded hoarding farther down the street. Those who peeped through the opening saw a crowd of persons in broadcloth, with hymn-books in their hands, standing round the excavations for the new chapel-walls. Arabella Cartlett and her weeds stood among them. She had a clear, powerful voice, which could be distinctly heard with the rest, rising and falling to the tune, her inflated bosom being also seen doing likewise. It was two hours later on the same day that Anny and Mrs. Cartlett, having had tea at the Temperance Hotel, started on their return journey across the high and open country which stretches between Kennetbridge and Alfredston. Arabella was in a thoughtful mood; but her thoughts were not of the new chapel, as Anny at first surmised. "No--it is something else," at last said Arabella sullenly. "I came here to-day never thinking of anybody but poor Cartlett, or of anything but spreading the Gospel by means of this new tabernacle they've begun this afternoon. But something has happened to turn my mind another way quite. Anny, I've heard of un again, and I've seen HER!" "Who?" "I've heard of Jude, and I've seen his wife. And ever since, do what I will, and though I sung the hymns wi' all my strength, I have not been able to help thinking about 'n; which I've no right to do as a chapel member." "Can't ye fix your mind upon what was said by the London preacher to-day, and try to get rid of your wandering fancies that way?" "I do. But my wicked heart will ramble off in spite of myself!" "Well--I know what it is to have a wanton mind o' my own, too! If you on'y knew what I do dream sometimes o' nights quite against my wishes, you'd say I had my struggles!" (Anny, too, had grown rather serious of late, her lover having jilted her.) "What shall I do about it?" urged Arabella morbidly. "You could take a lock of your late-lost husband's hair, and have it made into a mourning brooch, and look at it every hour of the day." "I haven't a morsel!--and if I had 'twould be no good... After all that's said about the comforts of this religion, I wish I had Jude back again!" "You must fight valiant against the feeling, since he's another's. And I've heard that another good thing for it, when it afflicts volupshious widows, is to go to your husband's grave in the dusk of evening, and stand a long while a-bowed down." "Pooh! I know as well as you what I should do; only I don't do it!" They drove in silence along the straight road till they were within the horizon of Marygreen, which lay not far to the left of their route. They came to the junction of the highway and the cross-lane leading to that village, whose church-tower could be seen athwart the hollow. When they got yet farther on, and were passing the lonely house in which Arabella and Jude had lived during the first months of their marriage, and where the pig-killing had taken place, she could control herself no longer. "He's more mine than hers!" she burst out. "What right has she to him, I should like to know! I'd take him from her if I could!" "Fie, Abby! And your husband only six weeks gone! Pray against it!" "Be damned if I do! Feelings are feelings! I won't be a creeping hypocrite any longer--so there!" Arabella had hastily drawn from her pocket a bundle of tracts which she had brought with her to distribute at the fair, and of which she had given away several. As she spoke she flung the whole remainder of the packet into the hedge. "I've tried that sort o' physic and have failed wi' it. I must be as I was born!" "Hush! You be excited, dear! Now you come along home quiet, and have a cup of tea, and don't let us talk about un no more. We won't come out this road again, as it leads to where he is, because it inflames 'ee so. You'll be all right again soon." Arabella did calm herself down by degrees; and they crossed the ridge-way. When they began to descend the long, straight hill, they saw plodding along in front of them an elderly man of spare stature and thoughtful gait. In his hand he carried a basket; and there was a touch of slovenliness in his attire, together with that indefinable something in his whole appearance which suggested one who was his own housekeeper, purveyor, confidant, and friend, through possessing nobody else at all in the world to act in those capacities for him. The remainder of the journey was down-hill, and guessing him to be going to Alfredston they offered him a lift, which he accepted. Arabella looked at him, and looked again, till at length she spoke. "If I don't mistake I am talking to Mr. Phillotson?" The wayfarer faced round and regarded her in turn. "Yes; my name is Phillotson," he said. "But I don't recognize you, ma'am." "I remember you well enough when you used to be schoolmaster out at Marygreen, and I one of your scholars. I used to walk up there from Cresscombe every day, because we had only a mistress down at our place, and you taught better. But you wouldn't remember me as I should you?--Arabella Donn." He shook his head. "No," he said politely, "I don't recall the name. And I should hardly recognize in your present portly self the slim school child no doubt you were then." "Well, I always had plenty of flesh on my bones. However, I am staying down here with some friends at present. You know, I suppose, who I married?" "No." "Jude Fawley--also a scholar of yours--at least a night scholar--for some little time, I think? And known to you afterwards, if I am not mistaken." "Dear me, dear me," said Phillotson, starting out of his stiffness. "YOU Fawley's wife? To be sure--he had a wife! And he--I understood--" "Divorced her--as you did yours--perhaps for better reasons." "Indeed?" "Well--he med have been right in doing it--right for both; for I soon married again, and all went pretty straight till my husband died lately. But you--you were decidedly wrong!" "No," said Phillotson, with sudden testiness. "I would rather not talk of this, but--I am convinced I did only what was right, and just, and moral. I have suffered for my act and opinions, but I hold to them; though her loss was a loss to me in more ways than one!" "You lost your school and good income through her, did you not?" "I don't care to talk of it. I have recently come back here--to Marygreen. I mean." "You are keeping the school there again, just as formerly?" The pressure of a sadness that would out unsealed him. "I am there," he replied. "Just as formerly, no. Merely on sufferance. It was a last resource--a small thing to return to after my move upwards, and my long indulged hopes--a returning to zero, with all its humiliations. But it is a refuge. I like the seclusion of the place, and the vicar having known me before my so-called eccentric conduct towards my wife had ruined my reputation as a schoolmaster, he accepted my services when all other schools were closed against me. However, although I take fifty pounds a year here after taking above two hundred elsewhere, I prefer it to running the risk of having my old domestic experiences raked up against me, as I should do if I tried to make a move." "Right you are. A contented mind is a continual feast. She has done no better." "She is not doing well, you mean?" "I met her by accident at Kennetbridge this very day, and she is anything but thriving. Her husband is ill, and she anxious. You made a fool of a mistake about her, I tell 'ee again, and the harm you did yourself by dirting your own nest serves you right, excusing the liberty." "How?" "She was innocent." "But nonsense! They did not even defend the case!" "That was because they didn't care to. She was quite innocent of what obtained you your freedom, at the time you obtained it. I saw her just afterwards, and proved it to myself completely by talking to her." Phillotson grasped the edge of the spring-cart, and appeared to be much stressed and worried by the information. "Still--she wanted to go," he said. "Yes. But you shouldn't have let her. That's the only way with these fanciful women that chaw high--innocent or guilty. She'd have come round in time. We all do! Custom does it! It's all the same in the end! However, I think she's fond of her man still--whatever he med be of her. You were too quick about her. _I_ shouldn't have let her go! I should have kept her chained on--her spirit for kicking would have been broke soon enough! There's nothing like bondage and a stone-deaf taskmaster for taming us women. Besides, you've got the laws on your side. Moses knew. Don't you call to mind what he says?" "Not for the moment, ma'am, I regret to say." "Call yourself a schoolmaster! I used to think o't when they read it in church, and I was carrying on a bit. 'Then shall the man be guiltless; but the woman shall bear her iniquity.' Damn rough on us women; but we must grin and put up wi' it! Haw haw! Well; she's got her deserts now." "Yes," said Phillotson, with biting sadness. "Cruelty is the law pervading all nature and society; and we can't get out of it if we would!" "Well--don't you forget to try it next time, old man." "I cannot answer you, madam. I have never known much of womankind." They had now reached the low levels bordering Alfredston, and passing through the outskirts approached a mill, to which Phillotson said his errand led him; whereupon they drew up, and he alighted, bidding them good-night in a preoccupied mood. In the meantime Sue, though remarkably successful in her cake-selling experiment at Kennetbridge fair, had lost the temporary brightness which had begun to sit upon her sadness on account of that success. When all her "Christminster" cakes had been disposed of she took upon her arm the empty basket, and the cloth which had covered the standing she had hired, and giving the other things to the boy left the street with him. They followed a lane to a distance of half a mile, till they met an old woman carrying a child in short clothes, and leading a toddler in the other hand. Sue kissed the children, and said, "How is he now?" "Still better!" returned Mrs. Edlin cheerfully. "Before you are upstairs again your husband will be well enough--don't 'ee trouble." They turned, and came to some old, dun-tiled cottages with gardens and fruit-trees. Into one of these they entered by lifting the latch without knocking, and were at once in the general living-room. Here they greeted Jude, who was sitting in an arm-chair, the increased delicacy of his normally delicate features, and the childishly expectant look in his eyes, being alone sufficient to show that he had been passing through a severe illness. "What--you have sold them all?" he said, a gleam of interest lighting up his face. "Yes. Arcades, gables, east windows and all." She told him the pecuniary results, and then hesitated. At last, when they were left alone, she informed him of the unexpected meeting with Arabella, and the latter's widowhood. Jude was discomposed. "What--is she living here?" he said. "No; at Alfredston," said Sue. Jude's countenance remained clouded. "I thought I had better tell you?" she continued, kissing him anxiously. "Yes... Dear me! Arabella not in the depths of London, but down here! It is only a little over a dozen miles across the country to Alfredston. What is she doing there?" She told him all she knew. "She has taken to chapel-going," Sue added; "and talks accordingly." "Well," said Jude, "perhaps it is for the best that we have almost decided to move on. I feel much better to-day, and shall be well enough to leave in a week or two. Then Mrs. Edlin can go home again--dear faithful old soul--the only friend we have in the world!" "Where do you think to go to?" Sue asked, a troublousness in her tones. Then Jude confessed what was in his mind. He said it would surprise her, perhaps, after his having resolutely avoided all the old places for so long. But one thing and another had made him think a great deal of Christminster lately, and, if she didn't mind, he would like to go back there. Why should they care if they were known? It was oversensitive of them to mind so much. They could go on selling cakes there, for that matter, if he couldn't work. He had no sense of shame at mere poverty; and perhaps he would be as strong as ever soon, and able to set up stone-cutting for himself there. "Why should you care so much for Christminster?" she said pensively. "Christminster cares nothing for you, poor dear!" "Well, I do, I can't help it. I love the place--although I know how it hates all men like me--the so-called self-taught--how it scorns our laboured acquisitions, when it should be the first to respect them; how it sneers at our false quantities and mispronunciations, when it should say, I see you want help, my poor friend! ... Nevertheless, it is the centre of the universe to me, because of my early dream: and nothing can alter it. Perhaps it will soon wake up, and be generous. I pray so! ... I should like to go back to live there--perhaps to die there! In two or three weeks I might, I think. It will then be June, and I should like to be there by a particular day." His hope that he was recovering proved so far well grounded that in three weeks they had arrived in the city of many memories; were actually treading its pavements, receiving the reflection of the sunshine from its wasting walls. Part Sixth AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN "... And she humbled her body greatly, and all the places of her joy she filled with her torn hair."--ESTHER (Apoc.). "There are two who decline, a woman and I, And enjoy our death in the darkness here." --R. BROWNING.

Jude the Obscure.part 6.c

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 10 with the given context.

chapter 10|chapter 11

Jude often muses on "the defeat of his early aims" and thinks of the possible changes in the colleges to benefit people like himself. Though he tells Arabella he doesn't want Sue to know about him, when Mrs. Edlin calls he asks about Sue and is startled to discover she is now sharing her husband's bed. He talks about the best days of the relationship between Sue and himself and the ways in which each of them changed. Physician Vilbert, who has been attending Jude at Arabella's request, calls, but Jude's insults cause him to leave. On his way out he meets Arabella, who gives him wine with some of the quack doctor's own "love-philter" in it. From her allowing him to kiss her and from what she says, it is evident that Arabella is keeping an eye out for the time when Jude will be dead.

----------CHAPTER 10--------- Despite himself Jude recovered somewhat, and worked at his trade for several weeks. After Christmas, however, he broke down again. With the money he had earned he shifted his lodgings to a yet more central part of the town. But Arabella saw that he was not likely to do much work for a long while, and was cross enough at the turn affairs had taken since her remarriage to him. "I'm hanged if you haven't been clever in this last stroke!" she would say, "to get a nurse for nothing by marrying me!" Jude was absolutely indifferent to what she said, and indeed, often regarded her abuse in a humorous light. Sometimes his mood was more earnest, and as he lay he often rambled on upon the defeat of his early aims. "Every man has some little power in some one direction," he would say. "I was never really stout enough for the stone trade, particularly the fixing. Moving the blocks always used to strain me, and standing the trying draughts in buildings before the windows are in always gave me colds, and I think that began the mischief inside. But I felt I could do one thing if I had the opportunity. I could accumulate ideas, and impart them to others. I wonder if the founders had such as I in their minds--a fellow good for nothing else but that particular thing? ... I hear that soon there is going to be a better chance for such helpless students as I was. There are schemes afoot for making the university less exclusive, and extending its influence. I don't know much about it. And it is too late, too late for me! Ah--and for how many worthier ones before me!" "How you keep a-mumbling!" said Arabella. "I should have thought you'd have got over all that craze about books by this time. And so you would, if you'd had any sense to begin with. You are as bad now as when we were first married." On one occasion while soliloquizing thus he called her "Sue" unconsciously. "I wish you'd mind who you are talking to!" said Arabella indignantly. "Calling a respectable married woman by the name of that--" She remembered herself and he did not catch the word. But in the course of time, when she saw how things were going, and how very little she had to fear from Sue's rivalry, she had a fit of generosity. "I suppose you want to see your--Sue?" she said. "Well, I don't mind her coming. You can have her here if you like." "I don't wish to see her again." "Oh--that's a change!" "And don't tell her anything about me--that I'm ill, or anything. She has chosen her course. Let her go!" One day he received a surprise. Mrs. Edlin came to see him, quite on her own account. Jude's wife, whose feelings as to where his affections were centred had reached absolute indifference by this time, went out, leaving the old woman alone with Jude. He impulsively asked how Sue was, and then said bluntly, remembering what Sue had told him: "I suppose they are still only husband and wife in name?" Mrs. Edlin hesitated. "Well, no--it's different now. She's begun it quite lately--all of her own free will." "When did she begin?" he asked quickly. "The night after you came. But as a punishment to her poor self. He didn't wish it, but she insisted." "Sue, my Sue--you darling fool--this is almost more than I can endure! ... Mrs. Edlin--don't be frightened at my rambling--I've got to talk to myself lying here so many hours alone--she was once a woman whose intellect was to mine like a star to a benzoline lamp: who saw all MY superstitions as cobwebs that she could brush away with a word. Then bitter affliction came to us, and her intellect broke, and she veered round to darkness. Strange difference of sex, that time and circumstance, which enlarge the views of most men, narrow the views of women almost invariably. And now the ultimate horror has come--her giving herself like this to what she loathes, in her enslavement to forms! She, so sensitive, so shrinking, that the very wind seemed to blow on her with a touch of deference... As for Sue and me when we were at our own best, long ago--when our minds were clear, and our love of truth fearless--the time was not ripe for us! Our ideas were fifty years too soon to be any good to us. And so the resistance they met with brought reaction in her, and recklessness and ruin on me! ... There--this, Mrs. Edlin, is how I go on to myself continually, as I lie here. I must be boring you awfully." "Not at all, my dear boy. I could hearken to 'ee all day." As Jude reflected more and more on her news, and grew more restless, he began in his mental agony to use terribly profane language about social conventions, which started a fit of coughing. Presently there came a knock at the door downstairs. As nobody answered it Mrs. Edlin herself went down. The visitor said blandly: "The Doctor." The lanky form was that of Physician Vilbert, who had been called in by Arabella. "How is my patient at present?" asked the physician. "Oh bad--very bad! Poor chap, he got excited, and do blaspeam terribly, since I let out some gossip by accident--the more to my blame. But there--you must excuse a man in suffering for what he says, and I hope God will forgive him." "Ah. I'll go up and see him. Mrs. Fawley at home?" "She's not in at present, but she'll be here soon." Vilbert went; but though Jude had hitherto taken the medicines of that skilful practitioner with the greatest indifference whenever poured down his throat by Arabella, he was now so brought to bay by events that he vented his opinion of Vilbert in the physician's face, and so forcibly, and with such striking epithets, that Vilbert soon scurried downstairs again. At the door he met Arabella, Mrs. Edlin having left. Arabella inquired how he thought her husband was now, and seeing that the Doctor looked ruffled, asked him to take something. He assented. "I'll bring it to you here in the passage," she said. "There's nobody but me about the house to-day." She brought him a bottle and a glass, and he drank. Arabella began shaking with suppressed laughter. "What is this, my dear?" he asked, smacking his lips. "Oh--a drop of wine--and something in it." Laughing again she said: "I poured your own love-philtre into it, that you sold me at the agricultural show, don't you re-member?" "I do, I do! Clever woman! But you must be prepared for the consequences." Putting his arm round her shoulders he kissed her there and then. "Don't don't," she whispered, laughing good-humouredly. "My man will hear." She let him out of the house, and as she went back she said to herself: "Well! Weak women must provide for a rainy day. And if my poor fellow upstairs do go off--as I suppose he will soon--it's well to keep chances open. And I can't pick and choose now as I could when I was younger. And one must take the old if one can't get the young." ----------CHAPTER 11--------- The last pages to which the chronicler of these lives would ask the reader's attention are concerned with the scene in and out of Jude's bedroom when leafy summer came round again. His face was now so thin that his old friends would hardly have known him. It was afternoon, and Arabella was at the looking-glass curling her hair, which operation she performed by heating an umbrella-stay in the flame of a candle she had lighted, and using it upon the flowing lock. When she had finished this, practised a dimple, and put on her things, she cast her eyes round upon Jude. He seemed to be sleeping, though his position was an elevated one, his malady preventing him lying down. Arabella, hatted, gloved, and ready, sat down and waited, as if expecting some one to come and take her place as nurse. Certain sounds from without revealed that the town was in festivity, though little of the festival, whatever it might have been, could be seen here. Bells began to ring, and the notes came into the room through the open window, and travelled round Jude's head in a hum. They made her restless, and at last she said to herself: "Why ever doesn't Father come?" She looked again at Jude, critically gauged his ebbing life, as she had done so many times during the late months, and glancing at his watch, which was hung up by way of timepiece, rose impatiently. Still he slept, and coming to a resolution she slipped from the room, closed the door noiselessly, and descended the stairs. The house was empty. The attraction which moved Arabella to go abroad had evidently drawn away the other inmates long before. It was a warm, cloudless, enticing day. She shut the front door, and hastened round into Chief Street, and when near the theatre could hear the notes of the organ, a rehearsal for a coming concert being in progress. She entered under the archway of Oldgate College, where men were putting up awnings round the quadrangle for a ball in the hall that evening. People who had come up from the country for the day were picnicking on the grass, and Arabella walked along the gravel paths and under the aged limes. But finding this place rather dull she returned to the streets, and watched the carriages drawing up for the concert, numerous Dons and their wives, and undergraduates with gay female companions, crowding up likewise. When the doors were closed, and the concert began, she moved on. The powerful notes of that concert rolled forth through the swinging yellow blinds of the open windows, over the housetops, and into the still air of the lanes. They reached so far as to the room in which Jude lay; and it was about this time that his cough began again and awakened him. As soon as he could speak he murmured, his eyes still closed: "A little water, please." Nothing but the deserted room received his appeal, and he coughed to exhaustion again--saying still more feebly: "Water--some water--Sue--Arabella!" The room remained still as before. Presently he gasped again: "Throat--water--Sue--darling--drop of water--please--oh please!" No water came, and the organ notes, faint as a bee's hum, rolled in as before. While he remained, his face changing, shouts and hurrahs came from somewhere in the direction of the river. "Ah--yes! The Remembrance games," he murmured. "And I here. And Sue defiled!" The hurrahs were repeated, drowning the faint organ notes. Jude's face changed more: he whispered slowly, his parched lips scarcely moving: _"Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man-child conceived."_ ("Hurrah!") _"Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein."_ ("Hurrah!") _"Why died I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly? ... For now should I have lain still and been quiet. I should have slept: then had I been at rest!"_ ("Hurrah!") _"There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the oppressor... The small and the great are there; and the servant is free from his master. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?"_ Meanwhile Arabella, in her journey to discover what was going on, took a short cut down a narrow street and through an obscure nook into the quad of Cardinal. It was full of bustle, and brilliant in the sunlight with flowers and other preparations for a ball here also. A carpenter nodded to her, one who had formerly been a fellow-workman of Jude's. A corridor was in course of erection from the entrance to the hall staircase, of gay red and buff bunting. Waggon-loads of boxes containing bright plants in full bloom were being placed about, and the great staircase was covered with red cloth. She nodded to one workman and another, and ascended to the hall on the strength of their acquaintance, where they were putting down a new floor and decorating for the dance. The cathedral bell close at hand was sounding for five o'clock service. "I should not mind having a spin there with a fellow's arm round my waist," she said to one of the men. "But Lord, I must be getting home again--there's a lot to do. No dancing for me!" When she reached home she was met at the door by Stagg, and one or two other of Jude's fellow stoneworkers. "We are just going down to the river," said the former, "to see the boat-bumping. But we've called round on our way to ask how your husband is." "He's sleeping nicely, thank you," said Arabella. "That's right. Well now, can't you give yourself half an hour's relaxation, Mrs. Fawley, and come along with us? 'Twould do you good." "I should like to go," said she. "I've never seen the boat-racing, and I hear it is good fun." "Come along!" "How I WISH I could!" She looked longingly down the street. "Wait a minute, then. I'll just run up and see how he is now. Father is with him, I believe; so I can most likely come." They waited, and she entered. Downstairs the inmates were absent as before, having, in fact, gone in a body to the river where the procession of boats was to pass. When she reached the bedroom she found that her father had not even now come. "Why couldn't he have been here!" she said impatiently. "He wants to see the boats himself--that's what it is!" However, on looking round to the bed she brightened, for she saw that Jude was apparently sleeping, though he was not in the usual half-elevated posture necessitated by his cough. He had slipped down, and lay flat. A second glance caused her to start, and she went to the bed. His face was quite white, and gradually becoming rigid. She touched his fingers; they were cold, though his body was still warm. She listened at his chest. All was still within. The bumping of near thirty years had ceased. After her first appalled sense of what had happened, the faint notes of a military or other brass band from the river reached her ears; and in a provoked tone she exclaimed, "To think he should die just now! Why did he die just now!" Then meditating another moment or two she went to the door, softly closed it as before, and again descended the stairs. "Here she is!" said one of the workmen. "We wondered if you were coming after all. Come along; we must be quick to get a good place... Well, how is he? Sleeping well still? Of course, we don't want to drag 'ee away if--" "Oh yes--sleeping quite sound. He won't wake yet," she said hurriedly. They went with the crowd down Cardinal Street, where they presently reached the bridge, and the gay barges burst upon their view. Thence they passed by a narrow slit down to the riverside path--now dusty, hot, and thronged. Almost as soon as they had arrived the grand procession of boats began; the oars smacking with a loud kiss on the face of the stream, as they were lowered from the perpendicular. "Oh, I say--how jolly! I'm glad I've come," said Arabella. "And--it can't hurt my husband--my being away." On the opposite side of the river, on the crowded barges, were gorgeous nosegays of feminine beauty, fashionably arrayed in green, pink, blue, and white. The blue flag of the boat club denoted the centre of interest, beneath which a band in red uniform gave out the notes she had already heard in the death-chamber. Collegians of all sorts, in canoes with ladies, watching keenly for "our" boat, darted up and down. While she regarded the lively scene somebody touched Arabella in the ribs, and looking round she saw Vilbert. "That philtre is operating, you know!" he said with a leer. "Shame on 'ee to wreck a heart so!" "I shan't talk of love to-day." "Why not? It is a general holiday." She did not reply. Vilbert's arm stole round her waist, which act could be performed unobserved in the crowd. An arch expression overspread Arabella's face at the feel of the arm, but she kept her eyes on the river as if she did not know of the embrace. The crowd surged, pushing Arabella and her friends sometimes nearly into the river, and she would have laughed heartily at the horse-play that succeeded, if the imprint on her mind's eye of a pale, statuesque countenance she had lately gazed upon had not sobered her a little. The fun on the water reached the acme of excitement; there were immersions, there were shouts: the race was lost and won, the pink and blue and yellow ladies retired from the barges, and the people who had watched began to move. "Well--it's been awfully good," cried Arabella. "But I think I must get back to my poor man. Father is there, so far as I know; but I had better get back." "What's your hurry?" "Well, I must go... Dear, dear, this is awkward!" At the narrow gangway where the people ascended from the riverside path to the bridge the crowd was literally jammed into one hot mass--Arabella and Vilbert with the rest; and here they remained motionless, Arabella exclaiming, "Dear, dear!" more and more impatiently; for it had just occurred to her mind that if Jude were discovered to have died alone an inquest might be deemed necessary. "What a fidget you are, my love," said the physician, who, being pressed close against her by the throng, had no need of personal effort for contact. "Just as well have patience: there's no getting away yet!" It was nearly ten minutes before the wedged multitude moved sufficiently to let them pass through. As soon as she got up into the street Arabella hastened on, forbidding the physician to accompany her further that day. She did not go straight to her house; but to the abode of a woman who performed the last necessary offices for the poorer dead; where she knocked. "My husband has just gone, poor soul," she said. "Can you come and lay him out?" Arabella waited a few minutes; and the two women went along, elbowing their way through the stream of fashionable people pouring out of Cardinal meadow, and being nearly knocked down by the carriages. "I must call at the sexton's about the bell, too," said Arabella. "It is just round here, isn't it? I'll meet you at my door." By ten o'clock that night Jude was lying on the bedstead at his lodging covered with a sheet, and straight as an arrow. Through the partly opened window the joyous throb of a waltz entered from the ball-room at Cardinal. Two days later, when the sky was equally cloudless, and the air equally still, two persons stood beside Jude's open coffin in the same little bedroom. On one side was Arabella, on the other the Widow Edlin. They were both looking at Jude's face, the worn old eyelids of Mrs. Edlin being red. "How beautiful he is!" said she. "Yes. He's a 'andsome corpse," said Arabella. The window was still open to ventilate the room, and it being about noontide the clear air was motionless and quiet without. From a distance came voices; and an apparent noise of persons stamping. "What's that?" murmured the old woman. "Oh, that's the Doctors in the theatre, conferring Honorary degrees on the Duke of Hamptonshire and a lot more illustrious gents of that sort. It's Remembrance Week, you know. The cheers come from the young men." "Aye; young and strong-lunged! Not like our poor boy here." An occasional word, as from some one making a speech, floated from the open windows of the theatre across to this quiet corner, at which there seemed to be a smile of some sort upon the marble features of Jude; while the old, superseded, Delphin editions of Virgil and Horace, and the dog-eared Greek Testament on the neighbouring shelf, and the few other volumes of the sort that he had not parted with, roughened with stone-dust where he had been in the habit of catching them up for a few minutes between his labours, seemed to pale to a sickly cast at the sounds. The bells struck out joyously; and their reverberations travelled round the bed-room. Arabella's eyes removed from Jude to Mrs. Edlin. "D'ye think she will come?" she asked. "I could not say. She swore not to see him again." "How is she looking?" "Tired and miserable, poor heart. Years and years older than when you saw her last. Quite a staid, worn woman now. 'Tis the man--she can't stomach un, even now!" "If Jude had been alive to see her, he would hardly have cared for her any more, perhaps." "That's what we don't know... Didn't he ever ask you to send for her, since he came to see her in that strange way?" "No. Quite the contrary. I offered to send, and he said I was not to let her know how ill he was." "Did he forgive her?" "Not as I know." "Well--poor little thing, 'tis to be believed she's found forgiveness somewhere! She said she had found peace! "She may swear that on her knees to the holy cross upon her necklace till she's hoarse, but it won't be true!" said Arabella. "She's never found peace since she left his arms, and never will again till she's as he is now!"

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 6 with the given context.

chapter 4|chapter 6

The next day in Christminster, Arabella arrives at Jude's doorstep saying she is destitute and homeless after quarrelling with her father. She begs Jude to take her in. Jude is initially reluctant, but ultimately he feels sorry for her, and he arranges with the landlord to have a bed provided for her. When she raises the issue of Sue's wedding, Jude becomes touchy. But Arabella persists and offers to get news of the wedding from Anny in Alfredston. Arabella leaves and returns with the news that Phillotson and Sue were married; she has even heard about the incident of Sue's burning a particular nightgown in an attempt to forget Jude. She also tells Jude that Sue has now resolved to accept Phillotson as her husband. Arabella declares the same feelings for Jude. Jude is miserable and depressed, and after visiting his old haunts, he goes into a tavern to drink. In the meantime Arabella patches up her quarrel with her father and arranges with him to leave the house open for herself and Jude. She goes to the tavern to find Jude, gets him to drink more, and then persuades him to come to her father's house. Jude is too drunk to know what he is doing.

----------CHAPTER 4--------- The man whom Sue, in her mental _volte-face_, was now regarding as her inseparable husband, lived still at Marygreen. On the day before the tragedy of the children, Phillotson had seen both her and Jude as they stood in the rain at Christminster watching the procession to the theatre. But he had said nothing of it at the moment to his companion Gillingham, who, being an old friend, was staying with him at the village aforesaid, and had, indeed, suggested the day's trip to Christminster. "What are you thinking of?" said Gillingham, as they went home. "The university degree you never obtained?" "No, no," said Phillotson gruffly. "Of somebody I saw to-day." In a moment he added, "Susanna." "I saw her, too." "You said nothing." "I didn't wish to draw your attention to her. But, as you did see her, you should have said: 'How d'ye do, my dear-that-was?'" "Ah, well. I might have. But what do you think of this: I have good reason for supposing that she was innocent when I divorced her--that I was all wrong. Yes, indeed! Awkward, isn't it?" "She has taken care to set you right since, anyhow, apparently." "H'm. That's a cheap sneer. I ought to have waited, unquestionably." At the end of the week, when Gillingham had gone back to his school near Shaston, Phillotson, as was his custom, went to Alfredston market; ruminating again on Arabella's intelligence as he walked down the long hill which he had known before Jude knew it, though his history had not beaten so intensely upon its incline. Arrived in the town he bought his usual weekly local paper; and when he had sat down in an inn to refresh himself for the five miles' walk back, he pulled the paper from his pocket and read awhile. The account of the "strange suicide of a stone-mason's children" met his eye. Unimpassioned as he was, it impressed him painfully, and puzzled him not a little, for he could not understand the age of the elder child being what it was stated to be. However, there was no doubt that the newspaper report was in some way true. "Their cup of sorrow is now full!" he said: and thought and thought of Sue, and what she had gained by leaving him. Arabella having made her home at Alfredston, and the schoolmaster coming to market there every Saturday, it was not wonderful that in a few weeks they met again--the precise time being just after her return from Christminster, where she had stayed much longer than she had at first intended, keeping an interested eye on Jude, though Jude had seen no more of her. Phillotson was on his way homeward when he encountered Arabella, and she was approaching the town. "You like walking out this way, Mrs. Cartlett?" he said. "I've just begun to again," she replied. "It is where I lived as maid and wife, and all the past things of my life that are interesting to my feelings are mixed up with this road. And they have been stirred up in me too, lately; for I've been visiting at Christminster. Yes; I've seen Jude." "Ah! How do they bear their terrible affliction?" "In a ve-ry strange way--ve-ry strange! She don't live with him any longer. I only heard of it as a certainty just before I left; though I had thought things were drifting that way from their manner when I called on them." "Not live with her husband? Why, I should have thought 'twould have united them more." "He's not her husband, after all. She has never really married him although they have passed as man and wife so long. And now, instead of this sad event making 'em hurry up, and get the thing done legally, she's took in a queer religious way, just as I was in my affliction at losing Cartlett, only hers is of a more 'sterical sort than mine. And she says, so I was told, that she's your wife in the eye of Heaven and the Church--yours only; and can't be anybody else's by any act of man." "Ah--indeed? ... Separated, have they!" "You see, the eldest boy was mine--" "Oh--yours!" "Yes, poor little fellow--born in lawful wedlock, thank God. And perhaps she feels, over and above other things, that I ought to have been in her place. I can't say. However, as for me, I am soon off from here. I've got Father to look after now, and we can't live in such a hum-drum place as this. I hope soon to be in a bar again at Christminster, or some other big town." They parted. When Phillotson had ascended the hill a few steps he stopped, hastened back, and called her. "What is, or was, their address?" Arabella gave it. "Thank you. Good afternoon." Arabella smiled grimly as she resumed her way, and practised dimple-making all along the road from where the pollard willows begin to the old almshouses in the first street of the town. Meanwhile Phillotson ascended to Marygreen, and for the first time during a lengthened period he lived with a forward eye. On crossing under the large trees of the green to the humble schoolhouse to which he had been reduced he stood a moment, and pictured Sue coming out of the door to meet him. No man had ever suffered more inconvenience from his own charity, Christian or heathen, than Phillotson had done in letting Sue go. He had been knocked about from pillar to post at the hands of the virtuous almost beyond endurance; he had been nearly starved, and was now dependent entirely upon the very small stipend from the school of this village (where the parson had got ill-spoken of for befriending him). He had often thought of Arabella's remarks that he should have been more severe with Sue, that her recalcitrant spirit would soon have been broken. Yet such was his obstinate and illogical disregard of opinion, and of the principles in which he had been trained, that his convictions on the rightness of his course with his wife had not been disturbed. Principles which could be subverted by feeling in one direction were liable to the same catastrophe in another. The instincts which had allowed him to give Sue her liberty now enabled him to regard her as none the worse for her life with Jude. He wished for her still, in his curious way, if he did not love her, and, apart from policy, soon felt that he would be gratified to have her again as his, always provided that she came willingly. But artifice was necessary, he had found, for stemming the cold and inhumane blast of the world's contempt. And here were the materials ready made. By getting Sue back and remarrying her on the respectable plea of having entertained erroneous views of her, and gained his divorce wrongfully, he might acquire some comfort, resume his old courses, perhaps return to the Shaston school, if not even to the Church as a licentiate. He thought he would write to Gillingham to inquire his views, and what he thought of his, Phillotson's, sending a letter to her. Gillingham replied, naturally, that now she was gone it were best to let her be, and considered that if she were anybody's wife she was the wife of the man to whom she had borne three children and owed such tragical adventures. Probably, as his attachment to her seemed unusually strong, the singular pair would make their union legal in course of time, and all would be well, and decent, and in order. "But they won't--Sue won't!" exclaimed Phillotson to himself. "Gillingham is so matter of fact. She's affected by Christminster sentiment and teaching. I can see her views on the indissolubility of marriage well enough, and I know where she got them. They are not mine; but I shall make use of them to further mine." He wrote a brief reply to Gillingham. "I know I am entirely wrong, but I don't agree with you. As to her having lived with and had three children by him, my feeling is (though I can advance no logical or moral defence of it, on the old lines) that it has done little more than finish her education. I shall write to her, and learn whether what that woman said is true or no." As he had made up his mind to do this before he had written to his friend, there had not been much reason for writing to the latter at all. However, it was Phillotson's way to act thus. He accordingly addressed a carefully considered epistle to Sue, and, knowing her emotional temperament, threw a Rhadamanthine strictness into the lines here and there, carefully hiding his heterodox feelings, not to frighten her. He stated that, it having come to his knowledge that her views had considerably changed, he felt compelled to say that his own, too, were largely modified by events subsequent to their parting. He would not conceal from her that passionate love had little to do with his communication. It arose from a wish to make their lives, if not a success, at least no such disastrous failure as they threatened to become, through his acting on what he had considered at the time a principle of justice, charity, and reason. To indulge one's instinctive and uncontrolled sense of justice and right, was not, he had found, permitted with impunity in an old civilization like ours. It was necessary to act under an acquired and cultivated sense of the same, if you wished to enjoy an average share of comfort and honour; and to let crude loving kindness take care of itself. He suggested that she should come to him there at Marygreen. On second thoughts he took out the last paragraph but one; and having rewritten the letter he dispatched it immediately, and in some excitement awaited the issue. A few days after a figure moved through the white fog which enveloped the Beersheba suburb of Christminster, towards the quarter in which Jude Fawley had taken up his lodging since his division from Sue. A timid knock sounded upon the door of his abode. It was evening--so he was at home; and by a species of divination he jumped up and rushed to the door himself. "Will you come out with me? I would rather not come in. I want to--to talk with you--and to go with you to the cemetery." It had been in the trembling accents of Sue that these words came. Jude put on his hat. "It is dreary for you to be out," he said. "But if you prefer not to come in, I don't mind." "Yes--I do. I shall not keep you long." Jude was too much affected to go on talking at first; she, too, was now such a mere cluster of nerves that all initiatory power seemed to have left her, and they proceeded through the fog like Acherontic shades for a long while, without sound or gesture. "I want to tell you," she presently said, her voice now quick, now slow, "so that you may not hear of it by chance. I am going back to Richard. He has--so magnanimously--agreed to forgive all." "Going back? How can you go--" "He is going to marry me again. That is for form's sake, and to satisfy the world, which does not see things as they are. But of course I AM his wife already. Nothing has changed that." He turned upon her with an anguish that was well-nigh fierce. "But you are MY wife! Yes, you are. You know it. I have always regretted that feint of ours in going away and pretending to come back legally married, to save appearances. I loved you, and you loved me; and we closed with each other; and that made the marriage. We still love--you as well as I--KNOW it, Sue! Therefore our marriage is not cancelled." "Yes; I know how you see it," she answered with despairing self-suppression. "But I am going to marry him again, as it would be called by you. Strictly speaking you, too--don't mind my saying it, Jude!--you should take back--Arabella." "I should? Good God--what next! But how if you and I had married legally, as we were on the point of doing?" "I should have felt just the same--that ours was not a marriage. And I would go back to Richard without repeating the sacrament, if he asked me. But 'the world and its ways have a certain worth' (I suppose), therefore I concede a repetition of the ceremony... Don't crush all the life out of me by satire and argument, I implore you! I was strongest once, I know, and perhaps I treated you cruelly. But Jude, return good for evil! I am the weaker now. Don't retaliate upon me, but be kind. Oh be kind to me--a poor wicked woman who is trying to mend!" He shook his head hopelessly, his eyes wet. The blow of her bereavement seemed to have destroyed her reasoning faculty. The once keen vision was dimmed. "All wrong, all wrong!" he said huskily. "Error--perversity! It drives me out of my senses. Do you care for him? Do you love him? You know you don't! It will be a fanatic prostitution--God forgive me, yes--that's what it will be!" "I don't love him--I must, must, own it, in deepest remorse! But I shall try to learn to love him by obeying him." Jude argued, urged, implored; but her conviction was proof against all. It seemed to be the one thing on earth on which she was firm, and that her firmness in this had left her tottering in every other impulse and wish she possessed. "I have been considerate enough to let you know the whole truth, and to tell it you myself," she said in cut tones; "that you might not consider yourself slighted by hearing of it at second hand. I have even owned the extreme fact that I do not love him. I did not think you would be so rough with me for doing so! I was going to ask you..." "To give you away?" "No. To send--my boxes to me--if you would. But I suppose you won't." "Why, of course I will. What--isn't he coming to fetch you--to marry you from here? He won't condescend to do that?" "No--I won't let him. I go to him voluntarily, just as I went away from him. We are to be married at his little church at Marygreen." She was so sadly sweet in what he called her wrong-headedness that Jude could not help being moved to tears more than once for pity of her. "I never knew such a woman for doing impulsive penances, as you, Sue! No sooner does one expect you to go straight on, as the one rational proceeding, than you double round the corner!" "Ah, well; let that go! ... Jude, I must say good-bye! But I wanted you to go to the cemetery with me. Let our farewell be there--beside the graves of those who died to bring home to me the error of my views." They turned in the direction of the place, and the gate was opened to them on application. Sue had been there often, and she knew the way to the spot in the dark. They reached it, and stood still. "It is here--I should like to part," said she. "So be it!" "Don't think me hard because I have acted on conviction. Your generous devotion to me is unparalleled, Jude! Your worldly failure, if you have failed, is to your credit rather than to your blame. Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail... 'Charity seeketh not her own.'" "In that chapter we are at one, ever beloved darling, and on it we'll part friends. Its verses will stand fast when all the rest that you call religion has passed away!" "Well--don't discuss it. Good-bye, Jude; my fellow-sinner, and kindest friend!" "Good-bye, my mistaken wife. Good-bye!" ----------CHAPTER 6--------- The place was the door of Jude's lodging in the out-skirts of Christminster--far from the precincts of St. Silas' where he had formerly lived, which saddened him to sickness. The rain was coming down. A woman in shabby black stood on the doorstep talking to Jude, who held the door in his hand. "I am lonely, destitute, and houseless--that's what I am! Father has turned me out of doors after borrowing every penny I'd got, to put it into his business, and then accusing me of laziness when I was only waiting for a situation. I am at the mercy of the world! If you can't take me and help me, Jude, I must go to the workhouse, or to something worse. Only just now two undergraduates winked at me as I came along. 'Tis hard for a woman to keep virtuous where there's so many young men!" The woman in the rain who spoke thus was Arabella, the evening being that of the day after Sue's remarriage with Phillotson. "I am sorry for you, but I am only in lodgings," said Jude coldly. "Then you turn me away?" "I'll give you enough to get food and lodging for a few days." "Oh, but can't you have the kindness to take me in? I cannot endure going to a public house to lodge; and I am so lonely. Please, Jude, for old times' sake!" "No, no," said Jude hastily. "I don't want to be reminded of those things; and if you talk about them I shall not help you." "Then I suppose I must go!" said Arabella. She bent her head against the doorpost and began sobbing. "The house is full," said Jude. "And I have only a little extra room to my own--not much more than a closet--where I keep my tools, and templates, and the few books I have left!" "That would be a palace for me!" "There is no bedstead in it." "A bit of a bed could be made on the floor. It would be good enough for me." Unable to be harsh with her, and not knowing what to do, Jude called the man who let the lodgings, and said this was an acquaintance of his in great distress for want of temporary shelter. "You may remember me as barmaid at the Lamb and Flag formerly?" spoke up Arabella. "My father has insulted me this afternoon, and I've left him, though without a penny!" The householder said he could not recall her features. "But still, if you are a friend of Mr. Fawley's we'll do what we can for a day or two--if he'll make himself answerable?" "Yes, yes," said Jude. "She has really taken me quite unawares; but I should wish to help her out of her difficulty." And an arrangement was ultimately come to under which a bed was to be thrown down in Jude's lumber-room, to make it comfortable for Arabella till she could get out of the strait she was in--not by her own fault, as she declared--and return to her father's again. While they were waiting for this to be done Arabella said: "You know the news, I suppose?" "I guess what you mean; but I know nothing." "I had a letter from Anny at Alfredston to-day. She had just heard that the wedding was to be yesterday: but she didn't know if it had come off." "I don't wish to talk of it." "No, no: of course you don't. Only it shows what kind of woman--" "Don't speak of her I say! She's a fool! And she's an angel, too, poor dear!" "If it's done, he'll have a chance of getting back to his old position, by everybody's account, so Anny says. All his well-wishers will be pleased, including the bishop himself." "Do spare me, Arabella." Arabella was duly installed in the little attic, and at first she did not come near Jude at all. She went to and fro about her own business, which, when they met for a moment on the stairs or in the passage, she informed him was that of obtaining another place in the occupation she understood best. When Jude suggested London as affording the most likely opening in the liquor trade, she shook her head. "No--the temptations are too many," she said. "Any humble tavern in the country before that for me." On the Sunday morning following, when he breakfasted later than on other days, she meekly asked him if she might come in to breakfast with him, as she had broken her teapot, and could not replace it immediately, the shops being shut. "Yes, if you like," he said indifferently. While they sat without speaking she suddenly observed: "You seem all in a brood, old man. I'm sorry for you." "I am all in a brood." "It is about her, I know. It's no business of mine, but I could find out all about the wedding--if it really did take place--if you wanted to know." "How could you?" "I wanted to go to Alfredston to get a few things I left there. And I could see Anny, who'll be sure to have heard all about it, as she has friends at Marygreen." Jude could not bear to acquiesce in this proposal; but his suspense pitted itself against his discretion, and won in the struggle. "You can ask about it if you like," he said. "I've not heard a sound from there. It must have been very private, if--they have married." "I am afraid I haven't enough cash to take me there and back, or I should have gone before. I must wait till I have earned some." "Oh--I can pay the journey for you," he said impatiently. And thus his suspense as to Sue's welfare, and the possible marriage, moved him to dispatch for intelligence the last emissary he would have thought of choosing deliberately. Arabella went, Jude requesting her to be home not later than by the seven o'clock train. When she had gone he said: "Why should I have charged her to be back by a particular time! She's nothing to me--nor the other neither!" But having finished work he could not help going to the station to meet Arabella, dragged thither by feverish haste to get the news she might bring, and know the worst. Arabella had made dimples most successfully all the way home, and when she stepped out of the railway carriage she smiled. He merely said "Well?" with the very reverse of a smile. "They are married." "Yes--of course they are!" he returned. She observed, however, the hard strain upon his lip as he spoke. "Anny says she has heard from Belinda, her relation out at Marygreen, that it was very sad, and curious!" "How do you mean sad? She wanted to marry him again, didn't she? And he her!" "Yes--that was it. She wanted to in one sense, but not in the other. Mrs. Edlin was much upset by it all, and spoke out her mind at Phillotson. But Sue was that excited about it that she burnt her best embroidery that she'd worn with you, to blot you out entirely. Well--if a woman feels like it, she ought to do it. I commend her for it, though others don't." Arabella sighed. "She felt he was her only husband, and that she belonged to nobody else in the sight of God A'mighty while he lived. Perhaps another woman feels the same about herself, too!" Arabella sighed again. "I don't want any cant!" exclaimed Jude. "It isn't cant," said Arabella. "I feel exactly the same as she!" He closed that issue by remarking abruptly: "Well--now I know all I wanted to know. Many thanks for your information. I am not going back to my lodgings just yet." And he left her straightway. In his misery and depression Jude walked to well-nigh every spot in the city that he had visited with Sue; thence he did not know whither, and then thought of going home to his usual evening meal. But having all the vices of his virtues, and some to spare, he turned into a public house, for the first time during many months. Among the possible consequences of her marriage Sue had not dwelt on this. Arabella, meanwhile, had gone back. The evening passed, and Jude did not return. At half-past nine Arabella herself went out, first proceeding to an outlying district near the river where her father lived, and had opened a small and precarious pork-shop lately. "Well," she said to him, "for all your rowing me that night, I've called in, for I have something to tell you. I think I shall get married and settled again. Only you must help me: and you can do no less, after what I've stood 'ee." "I'll do anything to get thee off my hands!" "Very well. I am now going to look for my young man. He's on the loose I'm afraid, and I must get him home. All I want you to do to-night is not to fasten the door, in case I should want to sleep here, and should be late." "I thought you'd soon get tired of giving yourself airs and keeping away!" "Well--don't do the door. That's all I say." She then sallied out again, and first hastening back to Jude's to make sure that he had not returned, began her search for him. A shrewd guess as to his probable course took her straight to the tavern which Jude had formerly frequented, and where she had been barmaid for a brief term. She had no sooner opened the door of the "Private Bar" than her eyes fell upon him--sitting in the shade at the back of the compartment, with his eyes fixed on the floor in a blank stare. He was drinking nothing stronger than ale just then. He did not observe her, and she entered and sat beside him. Jude looked up, and said without surprise: "You've come to have something, Arabella? ... I'm trying to forget her: that's all! But I can't; and I am going home." She saw that he was a little way on in liquor, but only a little as yet. "I've come entirely to look for you, dear boy. You are not well. Now you must have something better than that." Arabella held up her finger to the barmaid. "You shall have a liqueur--that's better fit for a man of education than beer. You shall have maraschino, or curacao dry or sweet, or cherry brandy. I'll treat you, poor chap!" "I don't care which! Say cherry brandy... Sue has served me badly, very badly. I didn't expect it of Sue! I stuck to her, and she ought to have stuck to me. I'd have sold my soul for her sake, but she wouldn't risk hers a jot for me. To save her own soul she lets mine go damn! ... But it isn't her fault, poor little girl--I am sure it isn't!" How Arabella had obtained money did not appear, but she ordered a liqueur each, and paid for them. When they had drunk these Arabella suggested another; and Jude had the pleasure of being, as it were, personally conducted through the varieties of spirituous delectation by one who knew the landmarks well. Arabella kept very considerably in the rear of Jude; but though she only sipped where he drank, she took as much as she could safely take without losing her head--which was not a little, as the crimson upon her countenance showed. Her tone towards him to-night was uniformly soothing and cajoling; and whenever he said "I don't care what happens to me," a thing he did continually, she replied, "But I do very much!" The closing hour came, and they were compelled to turn out; whereupon Arabella put her arm round his waist, and guided his unsteady footsteps. When they were in the streets she said: "I don't know what our landlord will say to my bringing you home in this state. I expect we are fastened out, so that he'll have to come down and let us in." "I don't know--I don't know." "That's the worst of not having a home of your own. I tell you, Jude, what we had best do. Come round to my father's--I made it up with him a bit to-day. I can let you in, and nobody will see you at all; and by to-morrow morning you'll be all right." "Anything--anywhere," replied Jude. "What the devil does it matter to me?" They went along together, like any other fuddling couple, her arm still round his waist, and his, at last, round hers; though with no amatory intent; but merely because he was weary, unstable, and in need of support. "This--is th' Martyrs'--burning-place," he stammered as they dragged across a broad street. "I remember--in old Fuller's _Holy State_--and I am reminded of it--by our passing by here--old Fuller in his _Holy State_ says, that at the burning of Ridley, Doctor Smith--preached sermon, and took as his text _'Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.'_--Often think of it as I pass here. Ridley was a--" "Yes. Exactly. Very thoughtful of you, deary, even though it hasn't much to do with our present business." "Why, yes it has! I'm giving my body to be burned! But--ah you don't understand!--it wants Sue to understand such things! And I was her seducer--poor little girl! And she's gone--and I don't care about myself! Do what you like with me! ... And yet she did it for conscience' sake, poor little Sue!" "Hang her!--I mean, I think she was right," hiccuped Arabella. "I've my feelings too, like her; and I feel I belong to you in Heaven's eye, and to nobody else, till death us do part! It is--hic--never too late--hic to mend!" They had reached her father's house, and she softly unfastened the door, groping about for a light within. The circumstances were not altogether unlike those of their entry into the cottage at Cresscombe, such a long time before. Nor were perhaps Arabella's motives. But Jude did not think of that, though she did. "I can't find the matches, dear," she said when she had fastened up the door. "But never mind--this way. As quiet as you can, please." "It is as dark as pitch," said Jude. "Give me your hand, and I'll lead you. That's it. Just sit down here, and I'll pull off your boots. I don't want to wake him." "Who?" "Father. He'd make a row, perhaps." She pulled off his boots. "Now," she whispered, "take hold of me--never mind your weight. Now--first stair, second stair--" "But--are we out in our old house by Marygreen?" asked the stupefied Jude. "I haven't been inside it for years till now! Hey? And where are my books? That's what I want to know?" "We are at my house, dear, where there's nobody to spy out how ill you are. Now--third stair, fourth stair--that's it. Now we shall get on."

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for chapter 7 with the given context.

chapter 7|chapter 8

Arabella plots with her father to make Jude stay with them until she can remarry him. She arranges to have his belongings brought over, and all the while, they ply Jude with liquor. Finally, they arrange an-all night party to advertise her father's shop, and in the morning Arabella insists that Jude has promised to marry her. Jude, who is intoxicated and dazed, claims he has made no such promise. But when Mr. Donn questions Jude's "honor," Jude gives in. He defends himself, claiming that he has never in his life intended to treat anyone with indignity. He is also too befuddled to make any more protests. They go off to the church and are remarried. When they return, Arabella is triumphant at having achieved her goal, while Jude is still drunk and in a daze.

----------CHAPTER 7--------- Arabella was preparing breakfast in the downstairs back room of this small, recently hired tenement of her father's. She put her head into the little pork-shop in front, and told Mr. Donn it was ready. Donn, endeavouring to look like a master pork-butcher, in a greasy blue blouse, and with a strap round his waist from which a steel dangled, came in promptly. "You must mind the shop this morning," he said casually. "I've to go and get some inwards and half a pig from Lumsdon, and to call elsewhere. If you live here you must put your shoulder to the wheel, at least till I get the business started!" "Well, for to-day I can't say." She looked deedily into his face. "I've got a prize upstairs." "Oh? What's that?" "A husband--almost." "No!" "Yes. It's Jude. He's come back to me." "Your old original one? Well, I'm damned!" "Well, I always did like him, that I will say." "But how does he come to be up there?" said Donn, humour-struck, and nodding to the ceiling. "Don't ask inconvenient questions, Father. What we've to do is to keep him here till he and I are--as we were." "How was that?" "Married." "Ah... Well it is the rummest thing I ever heard of--marrying an old husband again, and so much new blood in the world! He's no catch, to my thinking. I'd have had a new one while I was about it." "It isn't rum for a woman to want her old husband back for respectability, though for a man to want his old wife back--well, perhaps it is funny, rather!" And Arabella was suddenly seized with a fit of loud laughter, in which her father joined more moderately. "Be civil to him, and I'll do the rest," she said when she had recovered seriousness. "He told me this morning that his head ached fit to burst, and he hardly seemed to know where he was. And no wonder, considering how he mixed his drink last night. We must keep him jolly and cheerful here for a day or two, and not let him go back to his lodging. Whatever you advance I'll pay back to you again. But I must go up and see how he is now, poor deary." Arabella ascended the stairs, softly opened the door of the first bedroom, and peeped in. Finding that her shorn Samson was asleep she entered to the bedside and stood regarding him. The fevered flush on his face from the debauch of the previous evening lessened the fragility of his ordinary appearance, and his long lashes, dark brows, and curly back hair and beard against the white pillow completed the physiognomy of one whom Arabella, as a woman of rank passions, still felt it worth while to recapture, highly important to recapture as a woman straitened both in means and in reputation. Her ardent gaze seemed to affect him; his quick breathing became suspended, and he opened his eyes. "How are you now, dear?" said she. "It is I--Arabella." "Ah!--where--oh yes, I remember! You gave me shelter... I am stranded--ill--demoralized--damn bad! That's what I am!" "Then do stay here. There's nobody in the house but father and me, and you can rest till you are thoroughly well. I'll tell them at the stoneworks that you are knocked up." "I wonder what they are thinking at the lodgings!" "I'll go round and explain. Perhaps you had better let me pay up, or they'll think we've run away?" "Yes. You'll find enough money in my pocket there." Quite indifferent, and shutting his eyes because he could not bear the daylight in his throbbing eye-balls, Jude seemed to doze again. Arabella took his purse, softly left the room, and putting on her outdoor things went off to the lodgings she and he had quitted the evening before. Scarcely half an hour had elapsed ere she reappeared round the corner, walking beside a lad wheeling a truck on which were piled all Jude's household possessions, and also the few of Arabella's things which she had taken to the lodging for her short sojourn there. Jude was in such physical pain from his unfortunate break-down of the previous night, and in such mental pain from the loss of Sue and from having yielded in his half-somnolent state to Arabella, that when he saw his few chattels unpacked and standing before his eyes in this strange bedroom, intermixed with woman's apparel, he scarcely considered how they had come there, or what their coming signalized. "Now," said Arabella to her father downstairs, "we must keep plenty of good liquor going in the house these next few days. I know his nature, and if he once gets into that fearfully low state that he does get into sometimes, he'll never do the honourable thing by me in this world, and I shall be left in the lurch. He must be kept cheerful. He has a little money in the savings bank, and he has given me his purse to pay for anything necessary. Well, that will be the licence; for I must have that ready at hand, to catch him the moment he's in the humour. You must pay for the liquor. A few friends, and a quiet convivial party would be the thing, if we could get it up. It would advertise the shop, and help me too." "That can be got up easy enough by anybody who'll afford victuals and drink... Well yes--it would advertise the shop--that's true." Three days later, when Jude had recovered somewhat from the fearful throbbing of his eyes and brain, but was still considerably confused in his mind by what had been supplied to him by Arabella during the interval--to keep him, jolly, as she expressed it--the quiet convivial gathering, suggested by her, to wind Jude up to the striking point, took place. Donn had only just opened his miserable little pork and sausage shop, which had as yet scarce any customers; nevertheless that party advertised it well, and the Donns acquired a real notoriety among a certain class in Christminster who knew not the colleges, nor their works, nor their ways. Jude was asked if he could suggest any guest in addition to those named by Arabella and her father, and in a saturnine humour of perfect recklessness mentioned Uncle Joe, and Stagg, and the decayed auctioneer, and others whom he remembered as having been frequenters of the well-known tavern during his bout therein years before. He also suggested Freckles and Bower o' Bliss. Arabella took him at his word so far as the men went, but drew the line at the ladies. Another man they knew, Tinker Taylor, though he lived in the same street, was not invited; but as he went homeward from a late job on the evening of the party, he had occasion to call at the shop for trotters. There were none in, but he was promised some the next morning. While making his inquiry Taylor glanced into the back room, and saw the guests sitting round, card-playing, and drinking, and otherwise enjoying themselves at Donn's expense. He went home to bed, and on his way out next morning wondered how the party went off. He thought it hardly worth while to call at the shop for his provisions at that hour, Donn and his daughter being probably not up, if they caroused late the night before. However, he found in passing that the door was open, and he could hear voices within, though the shutters of the meat-stall were not down. He went and tapped at the sitting-room door, and opened it. "Well--to be sure!" he said, astonished. Hosts and guests were sitting card-playing, smoking, and talking, precisely as he had left them eleven hours earlier; the gas was burning and the curtains drawn, though it had been broad daylight for two hours out of doors. "Yes!" cried Arabella, laughing. "Here we are, just the same. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, oughtn't we? But it is a sort of housewarming, you see; and our friends are in no hurry. Come in, Mr. Taylor, and sit down." The tinker, or rather reduced ironmonger, was nothing loath, and entered and took a seat. "I shall lose a quarter, but never mind," he said. "Well, really, I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked in! It seemed as if I was flung back again into last night, all of a sudden." "So you are. Pour out for Mr. Taylor." He now perceived that she was sitting beside Jude, her arm being round his waist. Jude, like the rest of the company, bore on his face the signs of how deeply he had been indulging. "Well, we've been waiting for certain legal hours to arrive, to tell the truth," she continued bashfully, and making her spirituous crimson look as much like a maiden blush as possible. "Jude and I have decided to make up matters between us by tying the knot again, as we find we can't do without one another after all. So, as a bright notion, we agreed to sit on till it was late enough, and go and do it off-hand." Jude seemed to pay no great heed to what she was announcing, or indeed to anything whatever. The entrance of Taylor infused fresh spirit into the company, and they remained sitting, till Arabella whispered to her father: "Now we may as well go." "But the parson don't know?" "Yes, I told him last night that we might come between eight and nine, as there were reasons of decency for doing it as early and quiet as possible; on account of it being our second marriage, which might make people curious to look on if they knew. He highly approved." "Oh very well, I'm ready," said her father, getting up and shaking himself. "Now, old darling," she said to Jude. "Come along, as you promised." "When did I promise anything?" asked he, whom she had made so tipsy by her special knowledge of that line of business as almost to have made him sober again--or to seem so to those who did not know him. "Why!" said Arabella, affecting dismay. "You've promised to marry me several times as we've sat here to-night. These gentlemen have heard you." "I don't remember it," said Jude doggedly. "There's only one woman--but I won't mention her in this Capharnaum!" Arabella looked towards her father. "Now, Mr. Fawley be honourable," said Donn. "You and my daughter have been living here together these three or four days, quite on the understanding that you were going to marry her. Of course I shouldn't have had such goings on in my house if I hadn't understood that. As a point of honour you must do it now." "Don't say anything against my honour!" enjoined Jude hotly, standing up. "I'd marry the W---- of Babylon rather than do anything dishonourable! No reflection on you, my dear. It is a mere rhetorical figure--what they call in the books, hyperbole." "Keep your figures for your debts to friends who shelter you," said Donn. "If I am bound in honour to marry her--as I suppose I am--though how I came to be here with her I know no more than a dead man--marry her I will, so help me God! I have never behaved dishonourably to a woman or to any living thing. I am not a man who wants to save himself at the expense of the weaker among us!" "There--never mind him, deary," said she, putting her cheek against Jude's. "Come up and wash your face, and just put yourself tidy, and off we'll go. Make it up with Father." They shook hands. Jude went upstairs with her, and soon came down looking tidy and calm. Arabella, too, had hastily arranged herself, and accompanied by Donn away they went. "Don't go," she said to the guests at parting. "I've told the little maid to get the breakfast while we are gone; and when we come back we'll all have some. A good strong cup of tea will set everybody right for going home." When Arabella, Jude, and Donn had disappeared on their matrimonial errand the assembled guests yawned themselves wider awake, and discussed the situation with great interest. Tinker Taylor, being the most sober, reasoned the most lucidly. "I don't wish to speak against friends," he said. "But it do seem a rare curiosity for a couple to marry over again! If they couldn't get on the first time when their minds were limp, they won't the second, by my reckoning." "Do you think he'll do it?" "He's been put upon his honour by the woman, so he med." "He'd hardly do it straight off like this. He's got no licence nor anything." "She's got that, bless you. Didn't you hear her say so to her father?" "Well," said Tinker Taylor, relighting his pipe at the gas-jet. "Take her all together, limb by limb, she's not such a bad-looking piece--particular by candlelight. To be sure, halfpence that have been in circulation can't be expected to look like new ones from the mint. But for a woman that's been knocking about the four hemispheres for some time, she's passable enough. A little bit thick in the flitch perhaps: but I like a woman that a puff o' wind won't blow down." Their eyes followed the movements of the little girl as she spread the breakfast-cloth on the table they had been using, without wiping up the slops of the liquor. The curtains were undrawn, and the expression of the house made to look like morning. Some of the guests, however, fell asleep in their chairs. One or two went to the door, and gazed along the street more than once. Tinker Taylor was the chief of these, and after a time he came in with a leer on his face. "By Gad, they are coming! I think the deed's done!" "No," said Uncle Joe, following him in. "Take my word, he turned rusty at the last minute. They are walking in a very unusual way; and that's the meaning of it!" They waited in silence till the wedding-party could be heard entering the house. First into the room came Arabella boisterously; and her face was enough to show that her strategy had succeeded. "Mrs. Fawley, I presume?" said Tinker Taylor with mock courtesy. "Certainly. Mrs. Fawley again," replied Arabella blandly, pulling off her glove and holding out her left hand. "There's the padlock, see... Well, he was a very nice, gentlemanly man indeed. I mean the clergyman. He said to me as gentle as a babe when all was done: 'Mrs. Fawley, I congratulate you heartily,' he says. 'For having heard your history, and that of your husband, I think you have both done the right and proper thing. And for your past errors as a wife, and his as a husband, I think you ought now to be forgiven by the world, as you have forgiven each other,' says he. Yes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man. 'The Church don't recognize divorce in her dogma, strictly speaking,' he says: 'and bear in mind the words of the service in your goings out and your comings in: What God hath joined together let no man put asunder.' Yes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man... But, Jude, my dear, you were enough to make a cat laugh! You walked that straight, and held yourself that steady, that one would have thought you were going 'prentice to a judge; though I knew you were seeing double all the time, from the way you fumbled with my finger." "I said I'd do anything to--save a woman's honour," muttered Jude. "And I've done it!" "Well now, old deary, come along and have some breakfast." "I want--some--more whisky," said Jude stolidly. "Nonsense, dear. Not now! There's no more left. The tea will take the muddle out of our heads, and we shall be as fresh as larks." "All right. I've--married you. She said I ought to marry you again, and I have straightway. It is true religion! Ha--ha--ha!" ----------CHAPTER 8--------- Michaelmas came and passed, and Jude and his wife, who had lived but a short time in her father's house after their remarriage, were in lodgings on the top floor of a dwelling nearer to the centre of the city. He had done a few days' work during the two or three months since the event, but his health had been indifferent, and it was now precarious. He was sitting in an arm-chair before the fire, and coughed a good deal. "I've got a bargain for my trouble in marrying thee over again!" Arabella was saying to him. "I shall have to keep 'ee entirely--that's what 'twill come to! I shall have to make black-pot and sausages, and hawk 'em about the street, all to support an invalid husband I'd no business to be saddled with at all. Why didn't you keep your health, deceiving one like this? You were well enough when the wedding was!" "Ah, yes!" said he, laughing acridly. "I have been thinking of my foolish feeling about the pig you and I killed during our first marriage. I feel now that the greatest mercy that could be vouchsafed to me would be that something should serve me as I served that animal." This was the sort of discourse that went on between them every day now. The landlord of the lodging, who had heard that they were a queer couple, had doubted if they were married at all, especially as he had seen Arabella kiss Jude one evening when she had taken a little cordial; and he was about to give them notice to quit, till by chance overhearing her one night haranguing Jude in rattling terms, and ultimately flinging a shoe at his head, he recognized the note of genuine wedlock; and concluding that they must be respectable, said no more. Jude did not get any better, and one day he requested Arabella, with considerable hesitation, to execute a commission for him. She asked him indifferently what it was. "To write to Sue." "What in the name--do you want me to write to her for?" "To ask how she is, and if she'll come to see me, because I'm ill, and should like to see her--once again." "It is like you to insult a lawful wife by asking such a thing!" "It is just in order not to insult you that I ask you to do it. You know I love Sue. I don't wish to mince the matter--there stands the fact: I love her. I could find a dozen ways of sending a letter to her without your knowledge. But I wish to be quite above-board with you, and with her husband. A message through you asking her to come is at least free from any odour of intrigue. If she retains any of her old nature at all, she'll come." "You've no respect for marriage whatever, or its rights and duties!" "What DOES it matter what my opinions are--a wretch like me! Can it matter to anybody in the world who comes to see me for half an hour--here with one foot in the grave! ... Come, please write, Arabella!" he pleaded. "Repay my candour by a little generosity!" "I should think NOT!" "Not just once?--Oh do!" He felt that his physical weakness had taken away all his dignity. "What do you want HER to know how you are for? She don't want to see 'ee. She's the rat that forsook the sinking ship!" "Don't, don't!" "And I stuck to un--the more fool I! Have that strumpet in the house indeed!" Almost as soon as the words were spoken Jude sprang from the chair, and before Arabella knew where she was he had her on her back upon a little couch which stood there, he kneeling above her. "Say another word of that sort," he whispered, "and I'll kill you--here and now! I've everything to gain by it--my own death not being the least part. So don't think there's no meaning in what I say!" "What do you want me to do?" gasped Arabella. "Promise never to speak of her." "Very well. I do." "I take your word," he said scornfully as he loosened her. "But what it is worth I can't say." "You couldn't kill the pig, but you could kill me!" "Ah--there you have me! No--I couldn't kill you--even in a passion. Taunt away!" He then began coughing very much, and she estimated his life with an appraiser's eye as he sank back ghastly pale. "I'll send for her," Arabella murmured, "if you'll agree to my being in the room with you all the time she's here." The softer side of his nature, the desire to see Sue, made him unable to resist the offer even now, provoked as he had been; and he replied breathlessly: "Yes, I agree. Only send for her!" In the evening he inquired if she had written. "Yes," she said; "I wrote a note telling her you were ill, and asking her to come to-morrow or the day after. I haven't posted it yet." The next day Jude wondered if she really did post it, but would not ask her; and foolish Hope, that lives on a drop and a crumb, made him restless with expectation. He knew the times of the possible trains, and listened on each occasion for sounds of her. She did not come; but Jude would not address Arabella again thereon. He hoped and expected all the next day; but no Sue appeared; neither was there any note of reply. Then Jude decided in the privacy of his mind that Arabella had never posted hers, although she had written it. There was something in her manner which told it. His physical weakness was such that he shed tears at the disappointment when she was not there to see. His suspicions were, in fact, well founded. Arabella, like some other nurses, thought that your duty towards your invalid was to pacify him by any means short of really acting upon his fancies. He never said another word to her about his wish or his conjecture. A silent, undiscerned resolve grew up in him, which gave him, if not strength, stability and calm. One midday when, after an absence of two hours, she came into the room, she beheld the chair empty. Down she flopped on the bed, and sitting, meditated. "Now where the devil is my man gone to!" she said. A driving rain from the north-east had been falling with more or less intermission all the morning, and looking from the window at the dripping spouts it seemed impossible to believe that any sick man would have ventured out to almost certain death. Yet a conviction possessed Arabella that he had gone out, and it became a certainty when she had searched the house. "If he's such a fool, let him be!" she said. "I can do no more." Jude was at that moment in a railway train that was drawing near to Alfredston, oddly swathed, pale as a monumental figure in alabaster, and much stared at by other passengers. An hour later his thin form, in the long great-coat and blanket he had come with, but without an umbrella, could have been seen walking along the five-mile road to Marygreen. On his face showed the determined purpose that alone sustained him, but to which has weakness afforded a sorry foundation. By the up-hill walk he was quite blown, but he pressed on; and at half-past three o'clock stood by the familiar well at Marygreen. The rain was keeping everybody indoors; Jude crossed the green to the church without observation, and found the building open. Here he stood, looking forth at the school, whence he could hear the usual sing-song tones of the little voices that had not learnt Creation's groan. He waited till a small boy came from the school--one evidently allowed out before hours for some reason or other. Jude held up his hand, and the child came. "Please call at the schoolhouse and ask Mrs. Phillotson if she will be kind enough to come to the church for a few minutes." The child departed, and Jude heard him knock at the door of the dwelling. He himself went further into the church. Everything was new, except a few pieces of carving preserved from the wrecked old fabric, now fixed against the new walls. He stood by these: they seemed akin to the perished people of that place who were his ancestors and Sue's. A light footstep, which might have been accounted no more than an added drip to the rainfall, sounded in the porch, and he looked round. "Oh--I didn't think it was you! I didn't--Oh, Jude!" A hysterical catch in her breath ended in a succession of them. He advanced, but she quickly recovered and went back. "Don't go--don't go!" he implored. "This is my last time! I thought it would be less intrusive than to enter your house. And I shall never come again. Don't then be unmerciful. Sue, Sue! We are acting by the letter; and 'the letter killeth'!" "I'll stay--I won't be unkind!" she said, her mouth quivering and her tears flowing as she allowed him to come closer. "But why did you come, and do this wrong thing, after doing such a right thing as you have done?" "What right thing?" "Marrying Arabella again. It was in the Alfredston paper. She has never been other than yours, Jude--in a proper sense. And therefore you did so well--Oh so well!--in recognizing it--and taking her to you again." "God above--and is that all I've come to hear? If there is anything more degrading, immoral, unnatural, than another in my life, it is this meretricious contract with Arabella which has been called doing the right thing! And you too--you call yourself Phillotson's wife! HIS wife! You are mine." "Don't make me rush away from you--I can't bear much! But on this point I am decided." "I cannot understand how you did it--how you think it--I cannot!" "Never mind that. He is a kind husband to me--And I--I've wrestled and struggled, and fasted, and prayed. I have nearly brought my body into complete subjection. And you mustn't--will you--wake--" "Oh you darling little fool; where is your reason? You seem to have suffered the loss of your faculties! I would argue with you if I didn't know that a woman in your state of feeling is quite beyond all appeals to her brains. Or is it that you are humbugging yourself, as so many women do about these things; and don't actually believe what you pretend to, and only are indulging in the luxury of the emotion raised by an affected belief?" "Luxury! How can you be so cruel!" "You dear, sad, soft, most melancholy wreck of a promising human intellect that it has ever been my lot to behold! Where is your scorn of convention gone? I WOULD have died game!" "You crush, almost insult me, Jude! Go away from me!" She turned off quickly. "I will. I would never come to see you again, even if I had the strength to come, which I shall not have any more. Sue, Sue, you are not worth a man's love!" Her bosom began to go up and down. "I can't endure you to say that!" she burst out, and her eye resting on him a moment, she turned back impulsively. "Don't, don't scorn me! Kiss me, oh kiss me lots of times, and say I am not a coward and a contemptible humbug--I can't bear it!" She rushed up to him and, with her mouth on his, continued: "I must tell you--oh I must--my darling Love! It has been--only a church marriage--an apparent marriage I mean! He suggested it at the very first!" "How?" "I mean it is a nominal marriage only. It hasn't been more than that at all since I came back to him!" "Sue!" he said. Pressing her to him in his arms, he bruised her lips with kisses. "If misery can know happiness, I have a moment's happiness now! Now, in the name of all you hold holy, tell me the truth, and no lie. You do love me still?" "I do! You know it too well! ... But I MUSTN'T do this! I mustn't kiss you back as I would!" "But do!" "And yet you are so dear!--and you look so ill--" "And so do you! There's one more, in memory of our dead little children--yours and mine!" The words struck her like a blow, and she bent her head. "I MUSTN'T--I CAN'T go on with this!" she gasped presently. "But there, there, darling; I give you back your kisses; I do, I do! ... And now I'll HATE myself for ever for my sin!" "No--let me make my last appeal. Listen to this! We've both remarried out of our senses. I was made drunk to do it. You were the same. I was gin-drunk; you were creed-drunk. Either form of intoxication takes away the nobler vision... Let us then shake off our mistakes, and run away together!" "No; again no! ... Why do you tempt me so far, Jude! It is too merciless! ... But I've got over myself now. Don't follow me--don't look at me. Leave me, for pity's sake!" She ran up the church to the east end, and Jude did as she requested. He did not turn his head, but took up his blanket, which she had not seen, and went straight out. As he passed the end of the church she heard his coughs mingling with the rain on the windows, and in a last instinct of human affection, even now unsubdued by her fetters, she sprang up as if to go and succour him. But she knelt down again, and stopped her ears with her hands till all possible sound of him had passed away. He was by this time at the corner of the green, from which the path ran across the fields in which he had scared rooks as a boy. He turned and looked back, once, at the building which still contained Sue; and then went on, knowing that his eyes would light on that scene no more. There are cold spots up and down Wessex in autumn and winter weather; but the coldest of all when a north or east wind is blowing is the crest of the down by the Brown House, where the road to Alfredston crosses the old Ridgeway. Here the first winter sleets and snows fall and lie, and here the spring frost lingers last unthawed. Here in the teeth of the north-east wind and rain Jude now pursued his way, wet through, the necessary slowness of his walk from lack of his former strength being insufficent to maintain his heat. He came to the milestone, and, raining as it was, spread his blanket and lay down there to rest. Before moving on he went and felt at the back of the stone for his own carving. It was still there; but nearly obliterated by moss. He passed the spot where the gibbet of his ancestor and Sue's had stood, and descended the hill. It was dark when he reached Alfredston, where he had a cup of tea, the deadly chill that began to creep into his bones being too much for him to endure fasting. To get home he had to travel by a steam tram-car, and two branches of railway, with much waiting at a junction. He did not reach Christminster till ten o'clock.

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for part 6, chapter 9 based on the provided context.

part 6, chapter 9|part 6, chapter 10

Arabella waits for Jude at the Christminster railway platform. She helps him home and chides him for the risk he took in going out in the rain. But Jude tells her that he did it deliberately, in the hope that the exposure would kill him. He claims that he had only two wishes: to see Sue and to die. He declares that he has accomplished both at once with his journey to Marygreen. As they walk home, he imagines that he can see the spirits of the great scholars of Christminster: Addison and Gibbon, Johnson, Walter Raleigh and Wycliffe. This vision is similar to the one he had when he first arrived in Christminster, however, this time the scholars seem to mock him. Arabella is impatient with his fantasies. At Marygreen, Mrs. Edlin has come to help Sue with the housework and finds that Sue has been scrubbing the stairs to punish herself for her sin that afternoon. She tells Mrs. Edlin of Jude's visit and that she still loves him. She declares, however, that she will make amends for what has happened by sleeping with Phillotson. Mrs. Edlin tries to dissuade her, since it is obvious that Sue is forcing herself to do this, but Sue is determined to inflict this penance on herself. She goes to Phillotson's room, wakes him up and confesses to meeting with Jude that afternoon and to the kiss they shared. But she promises she will never see Jude again. Phillotson asks her to swear on the New Testament and she does. Phillotson asks her twice if she is sure she wants to give herself to him. Although at first she recoils, Sue controls her aversion, and Phillotson lifts her up and carries her into his room.

----------PART 6, CHAPTER 9--------- On the platform stood Arabella. She looked him up and down. "You've been to see her?" she asked. "I have," said Jude, literally tottering with cold and lassitude. "Well, now you'd best march along home." The water ran out of him as he went, and he was compelled to lean against the wall to support himself while coughing. "You've done for yourself by this, young man," said she. "I don't know whether you know it." "Of course I do. I meant to do for myself." "What--to commit suicide?" "Certainly." "Well, I'm blest! Kill yourself for a woman." "Listen to me, Arabella. You think you are the stronger; and so you are, in a physical sense, now. You could push me over like a nine-pin. You did not send that letter the other day, and I could not resent your conduct. But I am not so weak in another way as you think. I made up my mind that a man confined to his room by inflammation of the lungs, a fellow who had only two wishes left in the world, to see a particular woman, and then to die, could neatly accomplish those two wishes at one stroke by taking this journey in the rain. That I've done. I have seen her for the last time, and I've finished myself--put an end to a feverish life which ought never to have been begun!" "Lord--you do talk lofty! Won't you have something warm to drink?" "No thank you. Let's get home." They went along by the silent colleges, and Jude kept stopping. "What are you looking at?" "Stupid fancies. I see, in a way, those spirits of the dead again, on this my last walk, that I saw when I first walked here!" "What a curious chap you are!" "I seem to see them, and almost hear them rustling. But I don't revere all of them as I did then. I don't believe in half of them. The theologians, the apologists, and their kin the metaphysicians, the high-handed statesmen, and others, no longer interest me. All that has been spoilt for me by the grind of stern reality!" The expression of Jude's corpselike face in the watery lamplight was indeed as if he saw people where there was nobody. At moments he stood still by an archway, like one watching a figure walk out; then he would look at a window like one discerning a familiar face behind it. He seemed to hear voices, whose words he repeated as if to gather their meaning. "They seem laughing at me!" "Who?" "Oh--I was talking to myself! The phantoms all about here, in the college archways, and windows. They used to look friendly in the old days, particularly Addison, and Gibbon, and Johnson, and Dr. Browne, and Bishop Ken--" "Come along do! Phantoms! There's neither living nor dead hereabouts except a damn policeman! I never saw the streets emptier." "Fancy! The Poet of Liberty used to walk here, and the great Dissector of Melancholy there!" "I don't want to hear about 'em! They bore me." "Walter Raleigh is beckoning to me from that lane--Wycliffe--Harvey-- Hooker--Arnold--and a whole crowd of Tractarian Shades--" "I DON'T WANT to know their names, I tell you! What do I care about folk dead and gone? Upon my soul you are more sober when you've been drinking than when you have not!" "I must rest a moment," he said; and as he paused, holding to the railings, he measured with his eye the height of a college front. "This is old Rubric. And that Sarcophagus; and up that lane Crozier and Tudor: and all down there is Cardinal with its long front, and its windows with lifted eyebrows, representing the polite surprise of the university at the efforts of such as I." "Come along, and I'll treat you!" "Very well. It will help me home, for I feel the chilly fog from the meadows of Cardinal as if death-claws were grabbing me through and through. As Antigone said, I am neither a dweller among men nor ghosts. But, Arabella, when I am dead, you'll see my spirit flitting up and down here among these!" "Pooh! You mayn't die after all. You are tough enough yet, old man." It was night at Marygreen, and the rain of the afternoon showed no sign of abatement. About the time at which Jude and Arabella were walking the streets of Christminster homeward, the Widow Edlin crossed the green, and opened the back door of the schoolmaster's dwelling, which she often did now before bedtime, to assist Sue in putting things away. Sue was muddling helplessly in the kitchen, for she was not a good housewife, though she tried to be, and grew impatient of domestic details. "Lord love 'ee, what do ye do that yourself for, when I've come o' purpose! You knew I should come." "Oh--I don't know--I forgot! No, I didn't forget. I did it to discipline myself. I have scrubbed the stairs since eight o'clock. I MUST practise myself in my household duties. I've shamefully neglected them!" "Why should ye? He'll get a better school, perhaps be a parson, in time, and you'll keep two servants. 'Tis a pity to spoil them pretty hands." "Don't talk of my pretty hands, Mrs. Edlin. This pretty body of mine has been the ruin of me already!" "Pshoo--you've got no body to speak of! You put me more in mind of a sperrit. But there seems something wrong to-night, my dear. Husband cross?" "No. He never is. He's gone to bed early." "Then what is it?" "I cannot tell you. I have done wrong to-day. And I want to eradicate it... Well--I will tell you this--Jude has been here this afternoon, and I find I still love him--oh, grossly! I cannot tell you more." "Ah!" said the widow. "I told 'ee how 'twould be!" "But it shan't be! I have not told my husband of his visit; it is not necessary to trouble him about it, as I never mean to see Jude any more. But I am going to make my conscience right on my duty to Richard--by doing a penance--the ultimate thing. I must!" "I wouldn't--since he agrees to it being otherwise, and it has gone on three months very well as it is." "Yes--he agrees to my living as I choose; but I feel it is an indulgence I ought not to exact from him. It ought not to have been accepted by me. To reverse it will be terrible--but I must be more just to him. O why was I so unheroic!" "What is it you don't like in him?" asked Mrs. Edlin curiously. "I cannot tell you. It is something... I cannot say. The mournful thing is, that nobody would admit it as a reason for feeling as I do; so that no excuse is left me." "Did you ever tell Jude what it was?" "Never." "I've heard strange tales o' husbands in my time," observed the widow in a lowered voice. "They say that when the saints were upon the earth devils used to take husbands' forms o' nights, and get poor women into all sorts of trouble. But I don't know why that should come into my head, for it is only a tale... What a wind and rain it is to-night! Well--don't be in a hurry to alter things, my dear. Think it over." "No, no! I've screwed my weak soul up to treating him more courteously--and it must be now--at once--before I break down!" "I don't think you ought to force your nature. No woman ought to be expected to." "It is my duty. I will drink my cup to the dregs!" Half an hour later when Mrs. Edlin put on her bonnet and shawl to leave, Sue seemed to be seized with vague terror. "No--no--don't go, Mrs. Edlin," she implored, her eyes enlarged, and with a quick nervous look over her shoulder. "But it is bedtime, child." "Yes, but--there's the little spare room--my room that was. It is quite ready. Please stay, Mrs. Edlin!--I shall want you in the morning." "Oh well--I don't mind, if you wish. Nothing will happen to my four old walls, whether I be there or no." She then fastened up the doors, and they ascended the stairs together. "Wait here, Mrs. Edlin," said Sue. "I'll go into my old room a moment by myself." Leaving the widow on the landing Sue turned to the chamber which had been hers exclusively since her arrival at Marygreen, and pushing to the door knelt down by the bed for a minute or two. She then arose, and taking her night-gown from the pillow undressed and came out to Mrs. Edlin. A man could be heard snoring in the room opposite. She wished Mrs. Edlin good-night, and the widow entered the room that Sue had just vacated. Sue unlatched the other chamber door, and, as if seized with faintness, sank down outside it. Getting up again she half opened the door, and said "Richard." As the word came out of her mouth she visibly shuddered. The snoring had quite ceased for some time, but he did not reply. Sue seemed relieved, and hurried back to Mrs. Edlin's chamber. "Are you in bed, Mrs. Edlin?" she asked. "No, dear," said the widow, opening the door. "I be old and slow, and it takes me a long while to un-ray. I han't unlaced my jumps yet." "I--don't hear him! And perhaps--perhaps--" "What, child?" "Perhaps he's dead!" she gasped. "And then--I should be FREE, and I could go to Jude! ... Ah--no--I forgot HER--and God!" "Let's go and hearken. No--he's snoring again. But the rain and the wind is so loud that you can hardly hear anything but between whiles." Sue had dragged herself back. "Mrs. Edlin, good-night again! I am sorry I called you out." The widow retreated a second time. The strained, resigned look returned to Sue's face when she was alone. "I must do it--I must! I must drink to the dregs!" she whispered. "Richard!" she said again. "Hey--what? Is that you, Susanna?" "Yes." "What do you want? Anything the matter? Wait a moment." He pulled on some articles of clothing, and came to the door. "Yes?" "When we were at Shaston I jumped out of the window rather than that you should come near me. I have never reversed that treatment till now--when I have come to beg your pardon for it, and ask you to let me in." "Perhaps you only think you ought to do this? I don't wish you to come against your impulses, as I have said." "But I beg to be admitted." She waited a moment, and repeated, "I beg to be admitted! I have been in error--even to-day. I have exceeded my rights. I did not mean to tell you, but perhaps I ought. I sinned against you this afternoon." "How?" "I met Jude! I didn't know he was coming. And--" "Well?" "I kissed him, and let him kiss me." "Oh--the old story!" "Richard, I didn't know we were going to kiss each other till we did!" "How many times?" "A good many. I don't know. I am horrified to look back on it, and the least I can do after it is to come to you like this." "Come--this is pretty bad, after what I've done! Anything else to confess?" "No." She had been intending to say: "I called him my darling Love." But, as a contrite woman always keeps back a little, that portion of the scene remained untold. She went on: "I am never going to see him any more. He spoke of some things of the past, and it overcame me. He spoke of--the children. But, as I have said, I am glad--almost glad I mean--that they are dead, Richard. It blots out all that life of mine!" "Well--about not seeing him again any more. Come--you really mean this?" There was something in Phillotson's tone now which seemed to show that his three months of remarriage with Sue had somehow not been so satisfactory as his magnanimity or amative patience had anticipated. "Yes, yes!" "Perhaps you'll swear it on the New Testament?" "I will." He went back to the room and brought out a little brown Testament. "Now then: So help you God!" She swore. "Very good!" "Now I supplicate you, Richard, to whom I belong, and whom I wish to honour and obey, as I vowed, to let me in." "Think it over well. You know what it means. Having you back in the house was one thing--this another. So think again." "I have thought--I wish this!" "That's a complaisant spirit--and perhaps you are right. With a lover hanging about, a half-marriage should be completed. But I repeat my reminder this third and last time." "It is my wish! ... O God!" "What did you say 'O God' for?" "I don't know!" "Yes you do! But ..." He gloomily considered her thin and fragile form a moment longer as she crouched before him in her night-clothes. "Well, I thought it might end like this," he said presently. "I owe you nothing, after these signs; but I'll take you in at your word, and forgive you." He put his arm round her to lift her up. Sue started back. "What's the matter?" he asked, speaking for the first time sternly. "You shrink from me again?--just as formerly!" "No, Richard--I--I--was not thinking--" "You wish to come in here?" "Yes." "You still bear in mind what it means?" "Yes. It is my duty!" Placing the candlestick on the chest of drawers he led her through the doorway, and lifting her bodily, kissed her. A quick look of aversion passed over her face, but clenching her teeth she uttered no cry. Mrs. Edlin had by this time undressed, and was about to get into bed when she said to herself: "Ah--perhaps I'd better go and see if the little thing is all right. How it do blow and rain!" The widow went out on the landing, and saw that Sue had disappeared. "Ah! Poor soul! Weddings be funerals 'a b'lieve nowadays. Fifty-five years ago, come Fall, since my man and I married! Times have changed since then!" ----------PART 6, CHAPTER 10--------- Despite himself Jude recovered somewhat, and worked at his trade for several weeks. After Christmas, however, he broke down again. With the money he had earned he shifted his lodgings to a yet more central part of the town. But Arabella saw that he was not likely to do much work for a long while, and was cross enough at the turn affairs had taken since her remarriage to him. "I'm hanged if you haven't been clever in this last stroke!" she would say, "to get a nurse for nothing by marrying me!" Jude was absolutely indifferent to what she said, and indeed, often regarded her abuse in a humorous light. Sometimes his mood was more earnest, and as he lay he often rambled on upon the defeat of his early aims. "Every man has some little power in some one direction," he would say. "I was never really stout enough for the stone trade, particularly the fixing. Moving the blocks always used to strain me, and standing the trying draughts in buildings before the windows are in always gave me colds, and I think that began the mischief inside. But I felt I could do one thing if I had the opportunity. I could accumulate ideas, and impart them to others. I wonder if the founders had such as I in their minds--a fellow good for nothing else but that particular thing? ... I hear that soon there is going to be a better chance for such helpless students as I was. There are schemes afoot for making the university less exclusive, and extending its influence. I don't know much about it. And it is too late, too late for me! Ah--and for how many worthier ones before me!" "How you keep a-mumbling!" said Arabella. "I should have thought you'd have got over all that craze about books by this time. And so you would, if you'd had any sense to begin with. You are as bad now as when we were first married." On one occasion while soliloquizing thus he called her "Sue" unconsciously. "I wish you'd mind who you are talking to!" said Arabella indignantly. "Calling a respectable married woman by the name of that--" She remembered herself and he did not catch the word. But in the course of time, when she saw how things were going, and how very little she had to fear from Sue's rivalry, she had a fit of generosity. "I suppose you want to see your--Sue?" she said. "Well, I don't mind her coming. You can have her here if you like." "I don't wish to see her again." "Oh--that's a change!" "And don't tell her anything about me--that I'm ill, or anything. She has chosen her course. Let her go!" One day he received a surprise. Mrs. Edlin came to see him, quite on her own account. Jude's wife, whose feelings as to where his affections were centred had reached absolute indifference by this time, went out, leaving the old woman alone with Jude. He impulsively asked how Sue was, and then said bluntly, remembering what Sue had told him: "I suppose they are still only husband and wife in name?" Mrs. Edlin hesitated. "Well, no--it's different now. She's begun it quite lately--all of her own free will." "When did she begin?" he asked quickly. "The night after you came. But as a punishment to her poor self. He didn't wish it, but she insisted." "Sue, my Sue--you darling fool--this is almost more than I can endure! ... Mrs. Edlin--don't be frightened at my rambling--I've got to talk to myself lying here so many hours alone--she was once a woman whose intellect was to mine like a star to a benzoline lamp: who saw all MY superstitions as cobwebs that she could brush away with a word. Then bitter affliction came to us, and her intellect broke, and she veered round to darkness. Strange difference of sex, that time and circumstance, which enlarge the views of most men, narrow the views of women almost invariably. And now the ultimate horror has come--her giving herself like this to what she loathes, in her enslavement to forms! She, so sensitive, so shrinking, that the very wind seemed to blow on her with a touch of deference... As for Sue and me when we were at our own best, long ago--when our minds were clear, and our love of truth fearless--the time was not ripe for us! Our ideas were fifty years too soon to be any good to us. And so the resistance they met with brought reaction in her, and recklessness and ruin on me! ... There--this, Mrs. Edlin, is how I go on to myself continually, as I lie here. I must be boring you awfully." "Not at all, my dear boy. I could hearken to 'ee all day." As Jude reflected more and more on her news, and grew more restless, he began in his mental agony to use terribly profane language about social conventions, which started a fit of coughing. Presently there came a knock at the door downstairs. As nobody answered it Mrs. Edlin herself went down. The visitor said blandly: "The Doctor." The lanky form was that of Physician Vilbert, who had been called in by Arabella. "How is my patient at present?" asked the physician. "Oh bad--very bad! Poor chap, he got excited, and do blaspeam terribly, since I let out some gossip by accident--the more to my blame. But there--you must excuse a man in suffering for what he says, and I hope God will forgive him." "Ah. I'll go up and see him. Mrs. Fawley at home?" "She's not in at present, but she'll be here soon." Vilbert went; but though Jude had hitherto taken the medicines of that skilful practitioner with the greatest indifference whenever poured down his throat by Arabella, he was now so brought to bay by events that he vented his opinion of Vilbert in the physician's face, and so forcibly, and with such striking epithets, that Vilbert soon scurried downstairs again. At the door he met Arabella, Mrs. Edlin having left. Arabella inquired how he thought her husband was now, and seeing that the Doctor looked ruffled, asked him to take something. He assented. "I'll bring it to you here in the passage," she said. "There's nobody but me about the house to-day." She brought him a bottle and a glass, and he drank. Arabella began shaking with suppressed laughter. "What is this, my dear?" he asked, smacking his lips. "Oh--a drop of wine--and something in it." Laughing again she said: "I poured your own love-philtre into it, that you sold me at the agricultural show, don't you re-member?" "I do, I do! Clever woman! But you must be prepared for the consequences." Putting his arm round her shoulders he kissed her there and then. "Don't don't," she whispered, laughing good-humouredly. "My man will hear." She let him out of the house, and as she went back she said to herself: "Well! Weak women must provide for a rainy day. And if my poor fellow upstairs do go off--as I suppose he will soon--it's well to keep chances open. And I can't pick and choose now as I could when I was younger. And one must take the old if one can't get the young."

Julius Caesar.act 1.scene

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1 scene 1 with the given context.

act 1 scene 1|act 1 scene 2|act 1 scene 3|act 1, scene 1

Two Roman tribunes, Flavius and Murellus, see the common people parading in the streets instead of working in their shops. They demand to know why the men are not working. A cobbler informs them that the people are celebrating Caesar's victory. Murellus is infuriated by this information, and calls the workers, "you blocks, you stones". He then tells them that Caesar has not defeated an enemy, but rather that Ceasar has killed the sons of Pompey the Great. Pompey previously ruled Rome along with Caesar until their alliance fell apart, at which point they went to battle over the right to rule. Flavius's speech then causes the commoners to be ashamed of celebrating Caesar's victory. They depart in a more sober mood. Flavius and Murellus then prepare to remove the imperial crowns placed on all the statues of Caesar and next decide to drive the commoners back into their houses in an effort to prevent Rome from celebrating Caesar's victory

----------ACT 1 SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street. [Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a Throng of Citizens.] FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday? What! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession?--Speak, what trade art thou? FIRST CITIZEN. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?-- You, sir; what trade are you? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. SECOND CITIZEN. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! SECOND CITIZEN. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt CITIZENS.] See whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. A public place. [Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.--Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music.] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still.--Peace yet again! [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar"! Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS.] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-- Among which number, Cassius, be you one-- Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome,-- Except immortal Caesar!-- speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself, in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shout.] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.--Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish.] BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves,that we are underlings. "Brutus" and "Caesar": what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. [Re-enter Caesar and his Train.] BRUTUS. I will do so.--But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. [Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.] CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer'd him; and being offer'd him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer'd him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer'd him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapp'd their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swooned and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam'd at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues:--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that he came, thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say any thing? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good; I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [Exit CASCA.] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.-- [Exit Brutus.] Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, Thy honorable metal may be wrought, From that it is disposed: therefore 'tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus; If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at: And after this let Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Exit.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A street. [Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.] CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave--you'd know him well by sight-- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides,--I ha' not since put up my sword,-- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural"; For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero.] [Enter Cassius.] CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca;and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts,from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate;-- Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality;--why, you shall find That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunders still.] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca; and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs; And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element Is favor'd like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend.-- [Enter Cinna.] Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, You are. O Cassius, if you could but win The noble Brutus to our party,-- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.-- [Exit Cinna.] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already; and the man entire, Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts! And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and, ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street. [Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a Throng of Citizens.] FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday? What! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession?--Speak, what trade art thou? FIRST CITIZEN. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?-- You, sir; what trade are you? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. SECOND CITIZEN. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! SECOND CITIZEN. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt CITIZENS.] See whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

Produce a brief summary for scene 1 based on the provided context.

act 1, scene 2|act 1, scene 3|scene 1

On a street in ancient Rome, Flavius and Marullus, two Roman tribunes -- judges meant to protect the rights of the people -- accost a group of workmen and ask them to name their trades and to explain their absence from work. The first workman answers straight forwardly, but the second workman answers with a spirited string of puns that he is a cobbler and that he and his fellow workmen have gathered to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph over Pompey. Marullus accuses the workmen of forgetting that they are desecrating the great Pompey, whose triumphs they once cheered so enthusiastically. He upbraids them for wanting to honor the man who is celebrating a victory in battle over Pompey's sons, and he commands them to return to their homes to ask forgiveness of the gods for their offensive ingratitude. Flavius orders them to assemble all the commoners they can and take them to the banks of the Tiber and fill it with their tears of remorse for the dishonor they have shown Pompey. Flavius then tells Marullus to assist him in removing the ceremonial decorations that have been placed on public statues in honor of Caesar's triumph. Marullus questions the propriety of doing so on the day during which the feast of Lupercal is being celebrated, but Flavius says that they must remove the ornaments to prevent Caesar from becoming a godlike tyrant.

----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. A public place. [Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.--Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music.] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still.--Peace yet again! [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar"! Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS.] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-- Among which number, Cassius, be you one-- Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome,-- Except immortal Caesar!-- speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself, in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shout.] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.--Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish.] BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves,that we are underlings. "Brutus" and "Caesar": what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. [Re-enter Caesar and his Train.] BRUTUS. I will do so.--But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. [Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.] CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer'd him; and being offer'd him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer'd him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer'd him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapp'd their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swooned and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam'd at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues:--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that he came, thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say any thing? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good; I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [Exit CASCA.] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.-- [Exit Brutus.] Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, Thy honorable metal may be wrought, From that it is disposed: therefore 'tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus; If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at: And after this let Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Exit.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A street. [Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.] CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave--you'd know him well by sight-- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides,--I ha' not since put up my sword,-- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural"; For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero.] [Enter Cassius.] CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca;and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts,from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate;-- Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality;--why, you shall find That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunders still.] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca; and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs; And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element Is favor'd like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend.-- [Enter Cinna.] Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, You are. O Cassius, if you could but win The noble Brutus to our party,-- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.-- [Exit Cinna.] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already; and the man entire, Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts! And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and, ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street. [Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a Throng of Citizens.] FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday? What! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession?--Speak, what trade art thou? FIRST CITIZEN. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?-- You, sir; what trade are you? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. SECOND CITIZEN. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! SECOND CITIZEN. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt CITIZENS.] See whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

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scene 2|scene 3|scene 1

The scene opens in February of 44 B.C. with the triumphant return of Julius Caesar after his victory over Pompey the Great. The streets of Rome are decorated and full of ordinary citizens wishing to join in the triumphant celebration. Flavius and Marullus, two tribunes, confront some of the citizens, called plebeians, and want to know why they are not at work. Flavius reproaches them as "idle creatures" and tells them to go home. He scornfully reminds them that manual laborers are not supposed to walk around on a working day without their professional apparel and equipment. An exchange follows in which the commoners joke and respond with considerable wit. Marullus is in no mood for their banter; both he and Flavius are jealous of Caesar's popularity and sympathetic to Pompey's causes. Marullus reminds the commoners that not too long ago they gathered in the streets to celebrate Pompey as their leader. He now orders them to return to their homes and repent of their disloyalty. Flavius adds dramatically that they should gather on the banks of the Tiber and shed tears of repentance into the river until its lowest stream rises up to the level of its highest bank. The commoners depart somewhat sheepishly. Flavius tells Marullus to disrobe all the statues of Caesar that have been adorned with scarves to honor his victory. Marullus thinks this is a bad idea, since the day is also a celebration of the Feast of Lupercal. Flavius is insistent about his orders; he explains that he is certain that Caesar will prove to be a dominating ruler who will "keep us all in servile fearfulness." Flavius adds that he and Marullus must do their duty to prevent such tyranny.

----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. A public place. [Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.--Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music.] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still.--Peace yet again! [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar"! Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS.] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-- Among which number, Cassius, be you one-- Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome,-- Except immortal Caesar!-- speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself, in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shout.] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.--Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish.] BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves,that we are underlings. "Brutus" and "Caesar": what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. [Re-enter Caesar and his Train.] BRUTUS. I will do so.--But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. [Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.] CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer'd him; and being offer'd him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer'd him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer'd him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapp'd their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swooned and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam'd at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues:--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that he came, thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say any thing? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good; I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [Exit CASCA.] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.-- [Exit Brutus.] Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, Thy honorable metal may be wrought, From that it is disposed: therefore 'tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus; If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at: And after this let Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Exit.] ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A street. [Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.] CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave--you'd know him well by sight-- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides,--I ha' not since put up my sword,-- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural"; For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero.] [Enter Cassius.] CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca;and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts,from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate;-- Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality;--why, you shall find That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunders still.] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca; and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs; And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element Is favor'd like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend.-- [Enter Cinna.] Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, You are. O Cassius, if you could but win The noble Brutus to our party,-- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.-- [Exit Cinna.] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already; and the man entire, Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts! And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and, ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Exeunt.] ----------SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street. [Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a Throng of Citizens.] FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday? What! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession?--Speak, what trade art thou? FIRST CITIZEN. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?-- You, sir; what trade are you? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. SECOND CITIZEN. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! SECOND CITIZEN. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt CITIZENS.] See whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

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scene 2|scene 3|act 1 scene 1

The people of Rome await with anticipation the arrival of their hero, Julius Caesar, who is fresh from his victories over the sons of Pompey in Spain. Two Roman Tribunes, Flavius and Marullus are concerned at the ecstasy of the people who clearly think Caesar is a god. They notice that some of the statues of Caesar are now adorned with crowns, and they remove these ornaments, chastising the people and accusing them of having short memories, for it was just a short time ago that they cheered Pompey.

----------SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. A public place. [Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.--Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music.] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still.--Peace yet again! [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar"! Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS.] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-- Among which number, Cassius, be you one-- Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome,-- Except immortal Caesar!-- speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself, in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shout.] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.--Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish.] BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves,that we are underlings. "Brutus" and "Caesar": what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. [Re-enter Caesar and his Train.] BRUTUS. I will do so.--But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. [Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.] CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer'd him; and being offer'd him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer'd him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer'd him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapp'd their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swooned and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam'd at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues:--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that he came, thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say any thing? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good; I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [Exit CASCA.] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.-- [Exit Brutus.] Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, Thy honorable metal may be wrought, From that it is disposed: therefore 'tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus; If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at: And after this let Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Exit.] ----------SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A street. [Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.] CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave--you'd know him well by sight-- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides,--I ha' not since put up my sword,-- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural"; For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero.] [Enter Cassius.] CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca;and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts,from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate;-- Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality;--why, you shall find That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunders still.] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca; and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs; And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element Is favor'd like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend.-- [Enter Cinna.] Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, You are. O Cassius, if you could but win The noble Brutus to our party,-- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.-- [Exit Cinna.] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already; and the man entire, Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts! And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and, ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 1--------- ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street. [Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a Throng of Citizens.] FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home! Is this a holiday? What! know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession?--Speak, what trade art thou? FIRST CITIZEN. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?-- You, sir; what trade are you? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. SECOND CITIZEN. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! SECOND CITIZEN. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's-leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. [Exeunt CITIZENS.] See whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [Exeunt.]

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act 1 scene 2|act 1 scene 3

Caesar has now entered Rome in triumph and Caesar and his wife, Calphurnia, are about to watch the traditional foot race in which Mark Antony will run. There is a superstition that if a runner touches a childless woman, she will regain her fertility, and so Mark Antony touches Calphurnia. In a shrill voice a soothsayer calls out to Caesar, Beware the Ides of March". However, Caesar does not heed this warning. All leave except Brutus and Cassius. Cassius is concerned that Caesar is becoming the Dictator of Rome. Cassius is organizing a conspiracy against Caesar and needs the influential Brutus on his side. His task is to persuade Brutus to join the conspirators and he uses the ploy that as he is from a noble family, he is a guardian of its welfare. Their conversation is interrupted by shouting and the sound of trumpets, and the two fear that Caesar has been elected King. Brutus: For some new honors that are heaped on Caesar" Cassius: "Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves." Caesar re-enters and he looks suspiciously at Cassius and he says, "Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look, He thinks too much: such men are dangerous." Antony: Fear him not, Caesar, he's not dangerous, He is a noble Roman and well given." Caesar leaves and Casca tells Brutus and Cassius that Mark Antony offered the crown to Caesar three times, but that Caesar rejected this. Caesar then had an epileptic seizure. Although Brutus has leanings towards the conspirators, he has not yet fully committed to them, but Cassius reveals in his soliloquy how he plans to win Brutus over.

----------ACT 1 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. A public place. [Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.--Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music.] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still.--Peace yet again! [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar"! Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS.] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-- Among which number, Cassius, be you one-- Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome,-- Except immortal Caesar!-- speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself, in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shout.] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.--Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish.] BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves,that we are underlings. "Brutus" and "Caesar": what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. [Re-enter Caesar and his Train.] BRUTUS. I will do so.--But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. [Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.] CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer'd him; and being offer'd him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer'd him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer'd him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapp'd their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swooned and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam'd at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues:--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that he came, thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say any thing? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good; I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [Exit CASCA.] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.-- [Exit Brutus.] Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, Thy honorable metal may be wrought, From that it is disposed: therefore 'tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus; If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at: And after this let Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Exit.] ----------ACT 1 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A street. [Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.] CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave--you'd know him well by sight-- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides,--I ha' not since put up my sword,-- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural"; For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero.] [Enter Cassius.] CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca;and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts,from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate;-- Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality;--why, you shall find That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunders still.] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca; and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs; And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element Is favor'd like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend.-- [Enter Cinna.] Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, You are. O Cassius, if you could but win The noble Brutus to our party,-- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.-- [Exit Cinna.] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already; and the man entire, Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts! And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and, ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

Generate a succinct summary for act 1, scene 2 with the given context.

In another public place in Rome, Caesar, accompanied by his followers, encounters a soothsayer, who tells him to beware the ides of March . Caesar dismisses him as a dreamer. Caesar and his entourage exit, leaving Cassius and Brutus to engage in conversation. Cassius mentions that recently Brutus has not seemed so friendly towards him as he usually is. Brutus replies that it is nothing personal; he is troubled by some private business and this is affecting his behavior towards others. Cassius hints that he knows Brutus better than Brutus himself does. He suggests that others in Rome who are suffering under Caesar's oppression have wished that Brutus would open his eyes to their plight and do something about it. He promises to tell Brutus something about himself that he is as yet unaware of. . As shouts are heard from the crowd offstage, Brutus says he fears that the people will choose Caesar for their king. Even though he loves Caesar, Brutus does not want him to be crowned king. Cassius then gives a long speech in which he explains that Caesar is not fit to hold the great office that he does. He expresses his frustration at the inferior position he occupies in relation to Caesar, even though he was born just as free as the man who now rules. Cassius relates an incident that showed he was a better swimmer than Caesar. He also observed Caesar when the latter had a fever, and he was not impressed. Caesar trembled and groaned, his eyes looked dull and his voice sounded feeble, like that of a sick girl. And yet this Caesar, who is physically weak, rules over Rome. . More shouts are heard from the crowd outside, which Brutus takes to be a sign that new honors are being heaped on Caesar. Cassius continues his complaint against Caesar and bemoans the fact that so much power is concentrated in one man. He castigates Romans for allowing it. . Brutus says he will consider Cassius's words, but he does not want to commit himself yet. . Caesar and his entourage return. Caesar tells Mark Antony that Cassius is a dangerous man, although he hastens to add that he is not afraid of him, since he fears no one. But men like Cassius, Caesar observes, are never at rest while someone else holds power over them. . After Caesar exits, Casca explains to Cassius and Brutus that Antony just offered Caesar a crown three times. Each time Caesar rejected it, but each time he did so with greater reluctance. The crowd cheered when he rejected it for the third time, at which Caesar had an epileptic fit and fell down foaming at the mouth. Just before he collapsed, he theatrically opened his doublet, offering the crowd his throat to cut. . Casca also mentions that Flavius and Murellus have been executed for removing crowns from Caesar's statues. Their acts were considered treasonous. . After all have left, Cassius is left alone. He reflects that although Brutus is a noble man, it is possible to be lure him away from his natural inclinations and persuade him to join the conspiracy to kill Caesar. Cassius plans to write some letters, in different handwriting, and toss them through Brutus's window that night, as if they came from several different Roman citizens. The letters will confirm how high Brutus is held in public esteem and hint at Caesar's ambition. .

----------ACT 1, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. The same. A public place. [Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Calpurnia,-- CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius' way, When he doth run his course.--Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Music.] SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still.--Peace yet again! [Music ceases.] CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar"! Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and CASSIUS.] CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved-- Among which number, Cassius, be you one-- Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. 'Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome,-- Except immortal Caesar!-- speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself, in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [Flourish and shout.] BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you: We both have fed as well; and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy; But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain; And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their color fly; And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl.--Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. [Shout. Flourish.] BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus; and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves,that we are underlings. "Brutus" and "Caesar": what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd Th' eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say, I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve; And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. [Re-enter Caesar and his Train.] BRUTUS. I will do so.--But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius,-- ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet, if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music: Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves; And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. [Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays.] CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today, That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer'd him; and being offer'd him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer'd him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was't, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer'd him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown;--yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets;--and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refused it, the rabblement shouted, and clapp'd their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swooned and fell down at it: and for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam'd at mouth, and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck'd me ope his doublet, and offered them his throat to cut: an I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues:--and so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb'd their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that he came, thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say any thing? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good; I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [Exit CASCA.] BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world.-- [Exit Brutus.] Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see, Thy honorable metal may be wrought, From that it is disposed: therefore 'tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus; If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at: And after this let Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Exit.] ----------ACT 1, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. The same. A street. [Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, CASCA, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.] CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave--you'd know him well by sight-- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides,--I ha' not since put up my sword,-- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me: and there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural"; For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [Exit Cicero.] [Enter Cassius.] CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca;and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts,from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate;-- Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality;--why, you shall find That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators to-morrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat: Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunders still.] CASCA. So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca; and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs; And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element Is favor'd like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend.-- [Enter Cinna.] Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, You are. O Cassius, if you could but win The noble Brutus to our party,-- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's theatre.-- [Exit Cinna.] Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already; and the man entire, Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts! And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and, ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Exeunt.]

Julius Caesar.act 2.scene

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2 scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

act 2 scene 1|act 2 scene 2|act 2 scene 3|act 2 scene 4

Brutus is in his garden and has decided that Caesar must be killed. His reasons for reaching this conclusion are that Caesar is abusing his power and that has ascended far too quickly. Lucius, Brutus' servant, brings him a letter he has found in Brutus' private room. The first line of the letter reads, "Brutus, thou sleep'st. Awake, and see thyself". Brutus interprets the letter as if it were a request from all of Rome to slay Caesar and restore the republic. Brutus then asks Lucius what day it is, and he informs his master that it is the ides of March, or March 15th. A knock sounds on the door and Lucius leaves to answer it. Alone, Brutus states he has not slept since Cassius first incited him against Caesar. Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus and Trebonius, all of them conspirators against Caesar, have arrived at Brutus' home. Brutus invites them in and Cassius takes him aside. Soon Brutus rejoins the group of men and shakes all their hands, agreeing to join them in their murderous quest. The men then discuss whether they should invite Cicero, the great orator, to join their plot, but Brutus convinces them against it. Cassius states Mark Antony should be killed along with Caesar, but again Brutus is against the plan, fearing they will be perceived as too bloody. The group plans to commit Caesar's murder at the Senate at eight o'clock that morning. However, they are worried that Caesar will not attend the Senate because he has become increasingly superstitious over the past few months. Decius tells the group that he knows how to flatter Caesar, and assures them he will convince Caesar to go to the Senate. Cassius and his followers then depart, leaving Brutus alone. Brutus' wife Portia arrives and tells him he has left her bed and given her unkind looks. She begs him to tell her why he is so upset. He lies, telling her he is sick, to which she responds that it appears to be a sickness of the mind, not of the body. A strong woman of brave lineage, she again begs him to tell her what is wrong, asking him, "Think you I am no stronger than my sex, / Being so fathered and so husbanded. She then stabs herself in the thigh as proof of her courage. Brutus finally agrees to tell her what is concerning him, but sends her away before he is able to explain, because there is another knock on the door. Ligarius enters, pretending to be sick. He tells Brutus that he could be cured if only Brutus had a noble undertaking in mind. Brutus tells him that he does, and Ligarius pledges to follow Brutus on whatever task he leads him to

----------ACT 2 SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Rome. BRUTUS'S orchard. [Enter Brutus.] BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho!-- I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.--Lucius, I say!-- I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly.-- When, Lucius, when! Awake, I say! What, Lucius! [Enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. Call'd you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. [Exit.] BRUTUS. It must be by his death: and, for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown'd: How that might change his nature, there's the question: It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; And that craves wary walking. Crown him?--that: And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th' abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway'd More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But, when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend: so Caesar may; Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel Will bear no color for the thing he is, Fashion it thus,--that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which hatch'd, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell. [Re-enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint I found This paper thus seal'd up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed. BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March? LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. LUCIUS. I will, sir. [Exit.] BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.-- [Opens the letter and reads.] "Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress--! Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake!--" Such instigations have been often dropp'd Where I have took them up. "Shall Rome, & c." Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king.-- "Speak, strike, redress!"--Am I entreated, then, To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus! [Re-enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. [Knocking within.] BRUTUS. 'Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.-- [Exit Lucius.] Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. [Re-enter Lucius]. LUCIUS. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there are more with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck'd about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favor. BRUTUS. Let 'em enter.-- [Exit Lucius.] They are the faction.--O conspiracy, Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou pass, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. [Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius. CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honors you; and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome hither. CASSIUS. This Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all welcome.-- What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? [BRUTUS and CASSIUS whisper apart.] DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here? CASCA. No. CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth, and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceived. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution. BRUTUS. No, not an oath: if not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse-- If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests, and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt: but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th' insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us. CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us have him! for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men's voices to commend our deeds: It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not! let us not break with him; For he will never follow any thing That other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. Indeed, he is not fit. DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar? CASSIUS. Decius, well urged.--I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all: which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together. BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar; And in the spirit of men there is no blood: O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds; And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide 'em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head is off. CASSIUS. Yet I do fear him; For in th' ingrafted love he bears to Caesar-- BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself,--take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company. TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. [Clock strikes.] BRUTUS. Peace! count the clock. CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. 'Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom'd terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers May hold him from the Capitol to-day. DECIUS. Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray'd with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers: But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humor the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost? CINNA. Be that the uttermost; and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey: I wonder none of you have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. CASSIUS. The morning comes upon 's. We'll leave you, Brutus;-- And, friends, disperse yourselves, but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans. BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy: And so, good morrow to you every one.-- [Exeunt all but Brutus.] Boy! Lucius!--Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. [Enter Portia.] PORTIA. Brutus, my lord! BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk'd about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And, when I ask'd you what the matter was, You stared upon me with ungentle looks: I urged you further; then you scratch'd your head, And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot: Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not; But, with an angry wafture of your hand, Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did; Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem'd too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And, could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail'd on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all. PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus sick? and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offense within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charge you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men to-night Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation,-- To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honorable wife; As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife: I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato's daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father'd and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband's secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife! [Knocking within.] Hark, hark, one knocks: Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart: All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. [Exit Portia.] --Lucius, who's that knocks? [Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius.] LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.-- Boy, stand aside.--Caius Ligarius,--how? LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honorable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible; Yea, get the better of them. What's to do? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick? BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going, To whom it must be done. LIGARIUS. Set on your foot; And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what: but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. BRUTUS. Follow me then. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 2 SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. A room in Caesar's palace. [Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown.] CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight: Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, "Help, ho! They murder Caesar!"--Who's within? [Enter a Servant.] SERVANT. My lord? CAESAR. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success. SERVANT. I will, my lord. [Exit.] [Enter Calpurnia.] CALPURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house to-day. CAESAR. Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten me Ne'er look but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. CALPURNIA. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets; And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds, In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan; And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar,these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them! CAESAR. What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar. CALPURNIA. When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.-- [Re-enter Servant.] What say the augurers? SERVANT. They would not have you to stir forth to-day. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within the beast. CAESAR. The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart, If he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not: danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he: We are two lions litter'd in one day, And I the elder and more terrible; And Caesar shall go forth. CALPURNIA. Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consumed in confidence! Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear That keeps you in the house, and not your own. We'll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house, And he shall say you are not well to-day: Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And, for thy humor, I will stay at home. [Enter Decius.] Here's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar: I come to fetch you to the Senate-house. CAESAR. And you are come in very happy time To bear my greeting to the Senators, And tell them that I will not come to-day. Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser: I will not come to-day. Tell them so, Decius. CALPURNIA. Say he is sick. CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far, To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth?-- Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. DECIUS. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so. CAESAR. The cause is in my will; I will not come: That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But, for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let you know: Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home: She dreamt to-night she saw my statua, Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans Came smiling and did bathe their hands in it: And these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent; and on her knee Hath begg'd that I will stay at home to-day. DECIUS. This dream is all amiss interpreted: It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bathed, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood; and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calpurnia's dream is signified. CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it. DECIUS. I have, when you have heard what I can say; And know it now: The Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render'd, for someone to say "Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams." If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper "Lo, Caesar is afraid"? Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this; And reason to my love is liable. CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. [Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna.] And look where Publius is come to fetch me. PUBLIUS. Good morrow, Caesar. CAESAR. Welcome, Publius.-- What, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too?-- Good morrow, Casca.--Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean.-- What is't o'clock? BRUTUS. Caesar, 'tis strucken eight. CAESAR. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. [Enter Antony.] See! Antony, that revels long o'nights, Is notwithstanding up.--Good morrow, Antony. ANTONY. So to most noble Caesar. CAESAR. Bid them prepare within: I am to blame to be thus waited for.-- Now, Cinna;--now, Metellus;--what, Trebonius! I have an hour's talk in store for you: Remember that you call on me to-day; Be near me, that I may remember you. TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [Aside.] and so near will I be, That your best friends shall wish I had been further. CAESAR. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me; And we, like friends, will straightway go together. BRUTUS. [Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon! [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 2 SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A street near the Capitol. [Enter Artemidorus, reading paper.] ARTEMIDORUS. "Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wrong'd Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou be'st not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus." Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation.-- If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayest live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. [Exit.] ----------ACT 2 SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. [Enter Portia and Lucius.] PORTIA. I pr'ythee, boy, run to the Senate-house; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay? LUCIUS. To know my errand, madam. PORTIA. I would have had thee there, and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there.-- [Aside.] O constancy, be strong upon my side! Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! I have a man's mind, but a woman's might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel!-- Art thou here yet? LUCIUS. Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else? PORTIA. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy! what noise is that? LUCIUS. I hear none, madam. PORTIA. Pr'ythee, listen well: I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol. LUCIUS. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. [Enter Artemidorus.] PORTIA. Come hither, fellow: Which way hast thou been? ARTEMIDORUS. At mine own house, good lady. PORTIA. What is't o'clock? ARTEMIDORUS. About the ninth hour, lady. PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? ARTEMIDORUS. Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand To see him pass on to the Capitol. PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not? ARTEMIDORUS. That I have, lady: if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. PORTIA. Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him? ARTEMIDORUS. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you.--Here the street is narrow: The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of Senators, of Praetors, common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: I'll get me to a place more void, and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. [Exit.] PORTIA. I must go in.--[Aside.] Ah me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is!--O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!-- Sure, the boy heard me.--Brutus hath a suit That Caesar will not grant.--O, I grow faint.-- Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry: come to me again, And bring me word what he doth say to thee. [Exeunt.]

cliffnotes

Create a compact summary that covers the main points of act 2, scene 1, utilizing the provided context.

act 2, scene 1|act 2, scene 2|act 2, scene 3|act 2, scene 4

Brutus contemplates the conspiracy in his garden late into the night. He has reached the conclusion that Julius Caesar must die. Brutus can't justify Caesar's death by any personal acts of Caesar's; Caesar has just got to go for the public good. Brutus reasons that, although Caesar isn't bad now, getting a crown would change his nature. Brutus admits he's seen no evidence that ambition would change Caesar, but he reckons it isn't worth taking the chance. Thus Brutus decides action must be taken now, as Caesar is like a serpent's egg--dangerous once hatched. While doing all this thinking, Brutus sends his servant Lucius to light a candle in his room. Lucius returns with a letter he's found . The letter says Brutus should recognize his own noble nature and do something before Rome falls to the tyranny of a monarch. Brutus is taken in and promises that, for Rome's sake, he won't fail. Lucius then confirms that tomorrow is indeed the Ides of March . After this healthy bit of foreshadowing for the audience, Brutus admits he's been kept up every night since Cassius planted the fear of tyranny in his mind. The group of conspirators then shows up at Brutus' door to try to win Brutus over to their cause. They're all disguised and looking shady. Cassius introduces all the conspirators, and Brutus says they are all welcome in his home. As Cassius takes Brutus aside to chat, the others discuss exactly where the sun will rise on the horizon. Brutus steps forward and asks to hold everyone's hand for the Roman version of Kumbaya over their murdering plan. Cassius thinks he wants everyone to swear an oath to their cause, but Brutus opposes that idea violently. They are Romans, and Romans don't do oaths--they're just true to their word, even if that word is murder. Then they all have a little debate about whether to include Cicero, but it's decided he'd never be a follower and shouldn't be invited to join Team Secret Conspiracy. It's important here to note that the minor conspirators are easily swayed one direction or another regarding whether Cicero should be asked to join, at first thinking he'd be great and then insisting he's totally unfit. They're easily persuaded. Cassius then suggests they also kill Antony while they're at it. Brutus disagrees, thinking that would be overkill. He talks about how they should murder Caesar nobly, carving him up like a dish for the gods, not like a "carcass fit for hounds." The conspirators should think of the murder as an act of sacrifice for the state and not as a bloodbath. Brutus also contends that because Antony is like Caesar's arm, once they kill Caesar, Antony will be powerless. An arm without a head can do nothing, and Brutus is sure they have nothing to fear from Caesar's friend. Trebonius, another conspiratorial lackey, suggests that Antony will be sad after the murder but will eventually laugh about the whole thing...which kind of makes us wonder about Trebonius's emotional IQ. The clock strikes 3 , and they agree to part. Before they do, Cassius points out that Caesar has been cautious lately because of all the bad omens floating about. Cassius further worries that Caesar's prophets might convince him to take a sick day from the Capitol. Decius tells everyone not to worry; he'll show up at Caesar's place in the morning to make sure Caesar goes the Capitol. He can sway Caesar easily with fairy-tale interpretations of whatever worries Caesar. In fact, everyone will meet at Caesar's to make sure he shows up at the Capitol for the murder. It's a team effort. Cassius prompts them to be "good Romans" and keep their word. Brutus tells them to make sure they don't look like suspicious murderers. Brilliant! After everyone leaves Brutus, his wife, Portia, whom he left in bed, shows up to have a little husband-wife chat. The other night Brutus gave her a mean look at dinner and dismissed her when she wanted to talk about what was bothering him. Portia pleads with him to tell her what's making him so unhappy. Brutus claims he's just a bit sick, and Portia says that pacing about at all hours of the night is surely not the best cure. She points out it must be a sickness of the mind that plagues him. Brilliant! She says she has a right to know who the masked men who were just at their house in the middle of the night were. Portia claims she does more than simply serve Brutus, and she asks that he confide in her as a beloved wife rather than ignore her like a kept woman. Though she knows she's a woman, she's his wife and the daughter of noble Cato, and she can keep a secret, no matter what it is. Brutus then asks the gods to make him worthy of such a noble wife. Just then, there's a knock at the door. Brutus sends Portia back to bed, promising to tell her everything later. Caius Ligarius, a guy who one of the conspirators wanted to bring onto the team, has shown up. Although he's sick, he says he's filled with spirit after hearing of the killing plan. The two walk and talk about the murder afoot.

----------ACT 2, SCENE 1--------- ACT II. SCENE I. Rome. BRUTUS'S orchard. [Enter Brutus.] BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho!-- I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.--Lucius, I say!-- I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly.-- When, Lucius, when! Awake, I say! What, Lucius! [Enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. Call'd you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. [Exit.] BRUTUS. It must be by his death: and, for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown'd: How that might change his nature, there's the question: It is the bright day that brings forth the adder; And that craves wary walking. Crown him?--that: And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th' abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway'd More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But, when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend: so Caesar may; Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel Will bear no color for the thing he is, Fashion it thus,--that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which hatch'd, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell. [Re-enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint I found This paper thus seal'd up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed. BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March? LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. LUCIUS. I will, sir. [Exit.] BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.-- [Opens the letter and reads.] "Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress--! Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake!--" Such instigations have been often dropp'd Where I have took them up. "Shall Rome, & c." Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king.-- "Speak, strike, redress!"--Am I entreated, then, To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus! [Re-enter Lucius.] LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. [Knocking within.] BRUTUS. 'Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.-- [Exit Lucius.] Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. [Re-enter Lucius]. LUCIUS. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there are more with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck'd about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favor. BRUTUS. Let 'em enter.-- [Exit Lucius.] They are the faction.--O conspiracy, Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou pass, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. [Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius. CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honors you; and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome hither. CASSIUS. This Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all welcome.-- What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? [BRUTUS and CASSIUS whisper apart.] DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here? CASCA. No. CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth, and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceived. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution. BRUTUS. No, not an oath: if not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse-- If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests, and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt: but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th' insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us. CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us have him! for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men's voices to commend our deeds: It shall be said, his judgment ruled our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not! let us not break with him; For he will never follow any thing That other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. Indeed, he is not fit. DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar? CASSIUS. Decius, well urged.--I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all: which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together. BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar; And in the spirit of men there is no blood: O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds; And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide 'em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head is off. CASSIUS. Yet I do fear him; For in th' ingrafted love he bears to Caesar-- BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself,--take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company. TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. [Clock strikes.] BRUTUS. Peace! count the clock. CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. 'Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom'd terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers May hold him from the Capitol to-day. DECIUS. Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray'd with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers: But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humor the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost? CINNA. Be that the uttermost; and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey: I wonder none of you have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. CASSIUS. The morning comes upon 's. We'll leave you, Brutus;-- And, friends, disperse yourselves, but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans. BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy: And so, good morrow to you every one.-- [Exeunt all but Brutus.] Boy! Lucius!--Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. [Enter Portia.] PORTIA. Brutus, my lord! BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk'd about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And, when I ask'd you what the matter was, You stared upon me with ungentle looks: I urged you further; then you scratch'd your head, And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot: Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not; But, with an angry wafture of your hand, Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did; Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem'd too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And, could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail'd on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all. PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus sick? and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offense within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charge you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men to-night Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation,-- To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honorable wife; As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife: I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato's daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father'd and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband's secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife! [Knocking within.] Hark, hark, one knocks: Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart: All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. [Exit Portia.] --Lucius, who's that knocks? [Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius.] LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.-- Boy, stand aside.--Caius Ligarius,--how? LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honorable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible; Yea, get the better of them. What's to do? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick? BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going, To whom it must be done. LIGARIUS. Set on your foot; And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what: but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. BRUTUS. Follow me then. [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 2, SCENE 2--------- SCENE II. A room in Caesar's palace. [Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown.] CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight: Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, "Help, ho! They murder Caesar!"--Who's within? [Enter a Servant.] SERVANT. My lord? CAESAR. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success. SERVANT. I will, my lord. [Exit.] [Enter Calpurnia.] CALPURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house to-day. CAESAR. Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten me Ne'er look but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. CALPURNIA. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets; And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds, In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan; And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar,these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them! CAESAR. What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar. CALPURNIA. When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.-- [Re-enter Servant.] What say the augurers? SERVANT. They would not have you to stir forth to-day. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within the beast. CAESAR. The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart, If he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not: danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he: We are two lions litter'd in one day, And I the elder and more terrible; And Caesar shall go forth. CALPURNIA. Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consumed in confidence! Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear That keeps you in the house, and not your own. We'll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house, And he shall say you are not well to-day: Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And, for thy humor, I will stay at home. [Enter Decius.] Here's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar: I come to fetch you to the Senate-house. CAESAR. And you are come in very happy time To bear my greeting to the Senators, And tell them that I will not come to-day. Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser: I will not come to-day. Tell them so, Decius. CALPURNIA. Say he is sick. CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far, To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth?-- Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. DECIUS. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so. CAESAR. The cause is in my will; I will not come: That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But, for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let you know: Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home: She dreamt to-night she saw my statua, Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans Came smiling and did bathe their hands in it: And these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent; and on her knee Hath begg'd that I will stay at home to-day. DECIUS. This dream is all amiss interpreted: It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bathed, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood; and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calpurnia's dream is signified. CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it. DECIUS. I have, when you have heard what I can say; And know it now: The Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render'd, for someone to say "Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams." If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper "Lo, Caesar is afraid"? Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this; And reason to my love is liable. CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. [Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna.] And look where Publius is come to fetch me. PUBLIUS. Good morrow, Caesar. CAESAR. Welcome, Publius.-- What, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too?-- Good morrow, Casca.--Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean.-- What is't o'clock? BRUTUS. Caesar, 'tis strucken eight. CAESAR. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. [Enter Antony.] See! Antony, that revels long o'nights, Is notwithstanding up.--Good morrow, Antony. ANTONY. So to most noble Caesar. CAESAR. Bid them prepare within: I am to blame to be thus waited for.-- Now, Cinna;--now, Metellus;--what, Trebonius! I have an hour's talk in store for you: Remember that you call on me to-day; Be near me, that I may remember you. TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [Aside.] and so near will I be, That your best friends shall wish I had been further. CAESAR. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me; And we, like friends, will straightway go together. BRUTUS. [Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon! [Exeunt.] ----------ACT 2, SCENE 3--------- SCENE III. A street near the Capitol. [Enter Artemidorus, reading paper.] ARTEMIDORUS. "Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wrong'd Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou be'st not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus." Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation.-- If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayest live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. [Exit.] ----------ACT 2, SCENE 4--------- SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. [Enter Portia and Lucius.] PORTIA. I pr'ythee, boy, run to the Senate-house; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay? LUCIUS. To know my errand, madam. PORTIA. I would have had thee there, and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there.-- [Aside.] O constancy, be strong upon my side! Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! I have a man's mind, but a woman's might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel!-- Art thou here yet? LUCIUS. Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else? PORTIA. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy! what noise is that? LUCIUS. I hear none, madam. PORTIA. Pr'ythee, listen well: I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol. LUCIUS. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. [Enter Artemidorus.] PORTIA. Come hither, fellow: Which way hast thou been? ARTEMIDORUS. At mine own house, good lady. PORTIA. What is't o'clock? ARTEMIDORUS. About the ninth hour, lady. PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? ARTEMIDORUS. Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand To see him pass on to the Capitol. PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not? ARTEMIDORUS. That I have, lady: if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. PORTIA. Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him? ARTEMIDORUS. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you.--Here the street is narrow: The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of Senators, of Praetors, common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: I'll get me to a place more void, and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. [Exit.] PORTIA. I must go in.--[Aside.] Ah me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is!--O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!-- Sure, the boy heard me.--Brutus hath a suit That Caesar will not grant.--O, I grow faint.-- Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry: come to me again, And bring me word what he doth say to thee. [Exeunt.]