And in the same play (act ii. sc. 3, l. 11, vol. v. p. 32), when the Countess of Auvergne is visited by the dreaded Englishman, the announcement is made,—
Whitney, 1586.
Five or six instances may be found in which Shakespeare introduces the word “lottery;” and, historically, the word is deserving of notice,—for it was in his boyhood that the first public lottery was set on foot in England; and judging from the nature of the prizes, he appears to have made allusion to them. There were 40,000 chances,—according to Bohn’s Standard Library Cyclopædia, vol. iii. p. 279,—sold at ten shillings each: “The prizes consisted of articles of plate, and the profit was employed for the repair of certain harbours.” The drawing took place at the west door of St. Paul’s Cathedral; it began “23rd January, 1569, and continued incessantly drawing, day and night, till the 6th of May following.”[115] How such an event should find its record in a Book of Emblems may at first be accounted strange; but in addition to her other mottoes, Queen Elizabeth had, on this occasion of the lottery, chosen a special motto, which Whitney (p. 61) attaches to the device,—
which, after six stanzas, he closes with the lines,—
Lines from Ovid, 2 Trist., are in the margin,—
Silence, also, was represented by the image of the goddess Ageniora. In an Emblem-book by Peter Costalius, Pegma, edition Lyons, 1555, p. 109, he refers to her example, and concludes his stanza with the words, Si sapis à nostra disce tacere dea,—“If thou art wise, learn from our goddess to be silent.”
That Casket Scene in the Merchant of Venice (act i. sc. 2, l. 24),—from which we have already made long extracts,—contains a reference to lotteries quite in character with the prizes, “articles of plate and rich jewelry.” Portia is deeming it hard, that according to her father’s will, she “may neither choose whom she would, nor refuse whom she disliked.” “Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?”
“Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men, at their death, have good inspirations: therefore, the lottery, that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead,—whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you—will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly, but one who shall rightly love.”
The Prince of Morocco (act ii. sc. 1, l. 11) affirms to Portia,—
and Portia answers,—
The prevalence of lotteries, too, seems to be intimated by the Clown in All’s Well that Ends Well (act i. sc. 3, l. 73, vol. iii. p. 123), when he repeats the song,—
and the Countess reproving him says,—
“What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.
Clo. One good woman in ten, madam; which is a purifying o’ the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we’d find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson: one in ten, quoth a’! an’ we might have a good woman born but one every blazing star, or at an earthquake, ’twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere a’ pluck one.”
Shakespeare’s words will receive a not inapt illustration from the sermon of a contemporary prelate, Dr. Chatterton, Bishop of Chester from 1579 to 1595, and to whom Whitney dedicated the Emblem on p. 120, Vigilantia et custodia,—“Watchfulness and guardianship.”[118] He was preaching a wedding sermon in Cambridge, and Ormerod, i. p. 146, quoting King’s Vale Royal, tells us,—
“He used this merry comparison. The choice of a wife is full of hazard, not unlike to a man groping for one fish in a barrel full of serpents: if he escape harm of the snakes, and light on the fish, he may be thought fortunate; yet let him not boast, for perhaps it may be but an eel.”
That “good woman” “to mend the lottery well,” that “one fish in a barrel full of serpents,” came, however, to the chance of one of Cæsar’s friends. Even when Antony (Antony and Cleopatra, act ii. sc. 2, l. 245, vol. ix. p. 40) was under the witchery of the “rare Egyptian queen,” that “did make defect, perfection,” the dramatist says,—
The Emblems applicable to Shakespeare’s historical characters are only a few among the numbers that occur in the Emblem writers, as Alciat, Cousteau, Giovio, Symeoni, &c.: but our choice is limited, and there would be no pertinency in selecting devices to which in the dramas of our author there are no corresponding expressions of thought, though there may be parallelisms of subject.
Section II.
HERALDIC EMBLEMS, OR EMBLEMS APPLIED TO HERALDRY.
KNOTTED together as are Emblems and the very language of Heraldry, we must expect to find Emblem writers devoting some at least of their inventions to heraldic purposes. This has been done to a very considerable extent by the Italians, especially by Paolo Giovio, Domenichi, Ruscelli, and Symeoni; but in several other authors also there occur heraldic devices among their more general emblems. These are not full coats of arms and the complete emblazonnes of “the gentleman’s science,” but rather cognizances, or badges, by which persons and families of note may be distinguished. In this respect Shakespeare entirely agrees with the Emblem writers; neither he nor they give us the quarterings complete, but they single out for honourable mention some prominent mark or sign.
I attempt not to arrange the subject according to the Rules of the Art, but to exhibit instances in which Shakespeare and the Emblematists agree, of Poetic Heraldry, the Heraldry of Reward for Heroic Achievements, and the Heraldry of Imaginative Devices.
Of Poetic Heraldry the chief type is that bird of renown, which was a favourite with Shakespeare, and from which he has been named by general consent, “the Swan of Avon.” A white swan upon a shield occurs both in Alciat and in Whitney, and is expressly named Insignia Poetarum,—“The poets’ ensigns.”
The swan, in fact, was sacred to Apollo and the Muses; and hence was supposed to be musical. Æschylus, in his Agamemnon, makes Cassandra speak of the fable, when the Chorus bewail her sad destiny (vv. 1322, 3),—
i.e.,—“Yet once again I wish for her to speak forth prophecy or lamentation, even my own,”—and Clytæmnēstra mentions the singing of the swan at the point of death (vv. 1444–7),—
Which is to this effect: that when she has sung the last mortal lamentation, according to the custom of the swan, she lies down as a lover, and offers to me the solace of the bed of my joy.
Horapollo, ed. 1551.
This notion of the singing of the swan is to be traced even to the hieroglyphics of Egypt. In answer to the question, “Πῶς γέροντα μουσικόν·”—how to represent “an old man musical?”—Horapollo, edition Paris, 1551, p. 136, replies,—
“Ιἐροντα μουσικὸν βουλόμενοι σημῇναι, κύκνον ζωγραφοῦσιν. οὑ~τος γαρ ἡδύτατον μέλος ᾅδει γηράσκων.”
i.e.—“Wishing to signify an old man musical, they paint a swan; for this bird sings its sweetest melody when growing old.” Virgil frequently speaks of swans, both as melodious and as shrill voiced. Thus in the Æneid, vii. 700–3; xi. 457,—
i.e.—“When they return from feeding, and through their long necks give forth melodious measures; the river resounds and the Asian marsh from far.”
i.e.—“Or on the fish-abounding river Po the hoarse swans give forth a sound through the murmuring pools.”
Horace, Carm. iv. 2. 25, names Pindar Dircæum cycnum,—“the Dircæan swan;” and Carm. ii. 20. 10, likens himself to an album alitem,—“a white-winged creature;” which a few lines further on he terms a canorus ales,—“a melodious bird,”—and speaks of his apotheosis to immortal fame.[120]
Anacreon is called by Antipater of Sidon, Anthol. Græc. Carm. 76, κύκνος Τηϊος,—“the Teïan swan.”
Poets, too, after death, were fancifully supposed to assume the form of swans. It was believed also that swans foresaw their own death, and previously sang their own elegy. Thus in Ovid, Metam. xiv. 430,—
Very beautifully does Plato advert to this fiction in his account of the conversation of Socrates with his friends on the day of his execution. (See Phædon, Francfort edition, 1602, p. 77, 64A.) They were fearful of causing him trouble and vexation; but he reminds them they should not think him inferior in foresight to the swans; for these,—
“Fall a singing, as soon as they perceive that they are about to die, and sing far more sweetly than at any former time, being glad that they are about to go away to the God whose servants they are.... They possess the power of prophesying, and foreseeing the blessings of Hades they sing and rejoice exceedingly. Now I imagine that I am also a fellow-servant with the Swans and sacred to the same God, and that I have received from the same Master a power of foresight not inferior to theirs, so that I could depart from life itself with a mind no more cast down.”
Thus the melodious dirge of the swan was attributed to the same kind of prescience which enables good men to look forward with delight to that time “when this mortal shall put on immortality.”
The “Picta Poesis,” p. 28, adopts the same fancy of the swan singing at the end of life, but makes it the emblem of “old age eloquent.” Thus,—
i.e.—“At the end of life tuneful is the bird, the white swan, into which the painted tablet teaches that men are changed, for swans are illustrious from hoariness and the sweet singing, old men illustrious for virtue and for eloquence. Old wine is sweet; of an old man sweet is the speech; sweeter, for this very cause, the wiser it is.”
Shakespeare himself adopts this notion in the Merchant of Venice (act i. sc. 2, l. 24, vol. ii. p. 286), when he says, “Holy men at their death have good inspirations.”
Reusner, however, luxuriating in every variety of silvery and snowy whiteness, represents the swan as especially the symbol of the pure simplicity of truth. (Emblemata, lib. ii. 31, pp. 91, 92, ed. 1581.)
Reusner, 1581.
i.e.—“Than a white swan what is brighter,—than silver, snow, the lily, the privet? Bright faith and bright morals,—and the bright mind of a bright companion. That thou of good morals, O Schedius Melissus, dost possess snow-like faith, and the bright mind of an uncorrupted companion;—that (thou art) more fair than the snowy privet,—more blessed than the snowy silver,—more fragrant than the white lilies,—more comely than the little bright swans,—the snowy swan on thy arms doth teach: a swan handsome with white lilies, encircled as to its features with the laurel of Phœbus; a swan brighter than the white privet,—more precious than the blessed silver; to which cannot be equalled the comeliness of ivory, or of gold; nor the worth and the splendour of a beautiful gem: and if in the world there is any thing more beautiful still.”
To a short, but very learned dissertation on the subject, and to the device of a swan on a tomb, in his work, De Volatilibus, edition 1595, Emb. 23, Joachim Camerarius affixes the motto, “Sibi canit et orbi,”—It sings for itself and for the world,—
i.e.—“The mind conscious of good celebrates its own death for itself; as the swan is accustomed to do on the banks of the grassy Eridanus.”[121]
Shakespeare’s expressions, however, as to the swan, correspond more closely with the stanzas of Alciat (edition Lyons, 1551, p. 197) which are contained in the woodcut on next page.
Whitney (p. 126) adopts the same ideas, but enlarges upon them, and brings out a clearer moral interpretation, fortifying himself with quotations from Ovid, Reusner, and Horace,—
Alciat, Lugd. 1551, p. 197.
In the very spirit of these Emblems of the Swan, the great dramatist fashions some of his poetical images and most tender descriptions. Thus in King John (act v. sc. 7, lines 1–24, vol. iv. p. 91), in the Orchard Scene at Swinstead Abbey, the king being in his mortal sickness, Prince Henry demands, “Doth he still rage?” And Pembroke replies,—
To the same purport, in Henry VIII. (act iv. sc. 2, l. 77, vol. vi. p. 88), are the words of Queen Katharine, though she does not name the poet’s bird,—
And in the Casket Scene, so often alluded to (Merchant of Venice, act iii. sc. 2, l. 41, vol. ii. p. 325), when Bassanio is about to try his fortune, Portia thus addresses him,—
In the sad ending, too, of the Moor of Venice (act v. sc. 2, l. 146, vol. viii. p. 581), after Othello had said of Desdemona,—
and the full proof of innocence having been brought forward, Emilia desires to be laid by her dead “Mistress’ side,” and inquires mournfully (l. 249, p. 586),—
After this long dissertation anent swans, there may be readers who will press hard upon me with the couplet from Coleridge,—
From Heraldry itself the Midsummer Night’s Dream (act iii. sc. 2, l. 201, vol. ii. p. 239) borrows one of its most beautiful comparisons; it is in the passage where Helena so passionately reproaches Hermia for supposed treachery,—
In speaking of the Heraldry of Heroic Achievements, we may refer to the “wreath of chivalry” (p. 168), already described from the Pericles. There were, however, other wreaths which the Romans bestowed as the rewards of great and noble exploits. Several of these are set forth by the Emblem writers; we will select one from Whitney (p. 115), Fortiter & feliciter,—“Bravely and happily.”
Whitney, 1586.
To this device of an armed hand grasping a spear, on which are hanging four garlands or crowns of victory, the stanzas are,—
Of such honours, like poets generally, Shakespeare often tells. After the triumph at Barnet (3 Henry VI., act v. sc. 3, l. 1, vol. v. p. 324), King Edward says to his friends,—
Wreaths of honour and of victory are figured by Joachim Camerarius, “Ex Re Herbaria,” edition 1590, in the 99th Emblem. The laurel, the oak, and the olive garlands are ringed together; the motto being, “His ornari avt mori,”—With these to be adorned or to die,—
Among other illustrations are quoted the words of the Iliad, which are applied to Hector, τεθνάτω, οὔ οἱ ἀεικὲς ἀμυνομένω περὶ πάτρης,—“Let death come, it is not unbecoming to him who dies defending his country.”
Of the three crowns two are named (3 Henry VI., act iv. sc. 6, l. 32, vol. v. p. 309), when Warwick rather blames the king for preferring him to Clarence, and Clarence replies,—
The introduction to King Richard III. (act i. sc. 1, l. 1, vol. v. p. 473) opens suddenly with Gloster’s declaration,—
“Sun of York” is a direct allusion to the heraldic cognizance which Edward IV. adopted, “in memory,” we are told, “of the three suns,” which are said to have appeared at the battle which he gained over the Lancastrians at Mortimer’s Cross. Richard then adds,—
We meet, too, in the Pericles (act ii. sc. 3, l. 9, vol. ix. p. 345) with the words of Thaisa to the victor,—
But in the pure Roman manner, and according to the usage of Emblematists, Shakespeare also tells of “victors’ crowns;” following, as would appear, “Les Devises Heroiqves” of Paradin, edition Anvers, 1562, f. 147 verso, which contains several instances of garlands for noble brows. Of these, one is entitled, Seruati gratia ciuis,—“For sake of a citizen saved.”
The garland is thus described in Paradin’s French,—
“La Courõne, apellee Ciuique, eſtoit dõnee par le Citoyẽ, au Citoyẽ qu’il auoit ſauué en guerre: en repreſentatiõ de vie ſauuee. Et eſtoit cete Courõne, tiſſue de fueilles, ou petis rameaus de Cheſne: pour autãt qu’au Cheſne, la vielle antiquité, ſouloit prẽdre ſa ſubſtãce, ſõ mãger, ou sa nourriture.”
i.e.—“The crown called Civic was given by the Citizen to the Citizen[122] whom he had saved in war; in testimony of life saved. And this Crown was an inweaving of leaves or small branches of Oak; inasmuch as from the Oak, old antiquity was accustomed to take its subsistence, its food, or its nourishment.”
“Among the rewards” for the Roman soldiery, remarks Eschenburg (Manual of Classical Literature, p. 274), “golden or gilded crowns were particularly common; as, the corona castrensis, or vallaris, to him who first entered the enemy’s entrenchments; corona muralis, to him who first scaled the enemy’s walls; and corona navalis, for seizing a vessel of the enemy in a sea-fight; also wreaths and crowns formed of leaves and blossoms; as the corona civica, of oak leaves, conferred for freeing a citizen from death or captivity at the hands of the enemy; the corona obsidionalis, of grass, for delivering a besieged city; and the corona triumphalis, of laurel, worn by a triumphing general.”
Shakespeare’s acquaintance with these Roman customs we find, where we should expect it to be, in the Coriolanus and in the Julius Cæsar. Let us take the instances; first, from the Coriolanus, act i. sc. 9, l. 58, vol. vi. p. 304; act i. sc. 3, l. 7, p. 287; act ii. sc. 2, l. 84, p. 323; and act ii. sc. 1, l. 109, p. 312. Cominius thanks the gods that “our Rome hath such a soldier” as Caius Marcius, and declares (act i. sc. 9, l. 58),—
With most motherly pride Volumnia rehearses the brave deed to Virgilia, her son’s wife (act i. sc. 3, l. 7),—
“When, for a day of kings’ entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; I, considering how honour would become such a person; that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made it not stir, was pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him; from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.”
And the gaining of that early renown is most graphically drawn by Cominius, the consul (act ii. sc. 2, l. 84),—
The successful general is expected in Rome, and this dialogue is held between Menenius, Virgilia, and Volumnia (act ii. sc. 1, l. 109, p. 312),—
“Men. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.
Vir. O, no, no, no.
Vol. O, he is wounded; I thank the gods for’t.
Men. So do I too, if it be not too much: brings a’ victory in his pocket? The wounds become him.
Vol. On’s brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.”
Next, we have an instance from the Julius Cæsar (act v. sc. 3, l. 80, vol. vii. p. 409), on the field of Philippi, when “in his red blood Cassius’ day is set,” Titanius asks,—
The heraldry of honours from sovereign princes, as testified to, both by Paradin in his “Devises Heroiqves,” edition Antwerp, 1562, folio 12v, and 25, 26, and by Shakespeare, embraces but two or three instances, and is comprised in the magniloquent lines (1 Henry VI., act iv. sc. 7, l. 60, vol. v. p. 80) in which Sir William Lucy inquires,—