The punishments which our poet has assigned to sinners in the infernal regions, are most probably founded on the fictions of the monks, who, not content with the infliction of mere fire as a source of torment, condemn the damned to suffer the alternations of heat and cold; to experience the cravings of extreme hunger and thirst, and to be driven by whirlwinds through the immensity of space. In correspondence with these legendary horrors, are the descriptions attributed to Claudio in Measure for Measure, and to the Ghost in Hamlet:—

Imagery somewhat similar to this may be found in the vulgar Latin version of Job xxiv. 19.[379:C], and in the Inferno and Purgatorio of Dante[379:D]; but Shakspeare had sufficient authorities in his own language. An old homily, quoted by Dr. Farmer, speaking of the pains of hell, says "the fyrste is fyre that ever brenneth, and never gyveth lighte; the seconde is passying cold, that yf a greate hylle of fyre were cast therein, it shold torne to yce[379:E];" and Chaucer, in his Assemblie of Foules, describing the situation of souls in hell, declares that

The same doctrine is taught in that once popular and curious old work The Shepherd's Calendar, which so frequently issued from the presses of Wynkyn De Worde, Pynson, and Julian Notary. Among the torments of the damned, the first enumerated

and Lazarus, describing the punishment of the Envious, says,—"I have seen in hell a flood frozen as ice, wherein the envious men and women were plunged unto the navel; and then suddenly came over them a right cold and a great wind, that grieved and pained them right sore, and when they would evite and eschew the wonderful blasts of the wind, they plunged into water with great shouts and cries, lamentable to hear[380:A];" and again in the eighteenth chapter of the same work, it is related, as the reward of them that keep the ten commandments of the Devil, that

In the Songes and Sonnets, also, by Lord Surrey, and others, which were first published in 1557, the pains of hell are depicted as partaking of the like vicissitude:—

Hunger and thirst, as forming part of the sufferings of the damned, are alluded to by Chaucer in his Parson's Tale[381:A], and by Nash in one of his numerous pamphlets: "Whether," says he, speaking of hell, "it be a place of horror, stench, and darkness, where men see meat, but can get none, and are ever thirsty."[381:B]

Heywood in his Hierarchie of Angels[381:C], and Milton in his Paradise Lost, have adopted Claudio's description of the infernal abode with regard to the interchange of heat and cold; the picture which the latter has drawn completely fills up the outline of Shakspeare:—

The Platonic doctrine or superstition relative to the harmony of the spheres, and of the human soul, was a favourite embellishment, both in prose and poetry, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Spenser, Shakspeare, Hooker, Milton, have all adopted it as a mode of illustration, and it forms, in the works of our great Dramatist, one of his most splendid and beautiful passages:

The opinion of Plato, as expressed in the tenth book of his Republic[382:B] and in his Timæus, represents the music of the spheres as so rapid, sweet, and variously inflected, as to exceed all power in the human ear to measure its proportions, and consequently it is not to be heard of man, while resident in this fleshly mould. The same species of harmony is averred by Hooker[382:C] and Shakspeare to reside in the human soul; but, says the latter, "whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close this musick in, we cannot hear it:" that is, whilst the soul is immured in the body, it is neither conscious of its own harmony, nor of that existing in the spheres; but no sooner shall it be freed from this incumbrance, and become a pure spirit, than it shall be sensible both to its own concord of sweet sounds, and to that diapason or concentus which is addressed by the nine muses or syrens to the Supreme Being,

Of the various superstitions relative to the Moon, which prevailed in the days of Shakspeare, a few are still retained. The most common is that founded on the idea of a human creature being imprisoned in this beautiful planet. The culprit was generally supposed to be the sinner recorded in Numbers, chap. xv. v. 32., who was found gathering sticks upon the sabbath day; a crime to which Chaucer has added the iniquity of theft; for he describes this singular inhabitant as

The Italians, however, appropriate this luminary for the residence of Cain, and one of their early poets even speaks of the planet under the term of Caino e le spine.[383:B] Shakspeare, with his usual attention to propriety of character, attributes a belief in this superstition to the monster Caliban:

The influence of the moon over diseases bodily and intellectual; its virtue in all magical rites; its appearances as predictive of evil and good, and its power over the weather and over many of the minor concerns of life, such as the gathering of herbs, the killing of animals for the table, &c. &c. were much more firmly and universally accredited in the sixteenth century than at present; although we must admit, that traces of all these credulities may still be found; and that in medical science, the doctrine of lunar influence still, and to a certain extent, perhaps with probability, exists.

Shakspeare addresses the moon as the "sovereign mistress of true melancholy[383:D];" tells us, that when "she comes more near to the earth than she was wont," she "makes men mad[383:E];" and that, when she is "pale in her anger—rheumatic diseases do abound."[384:A] He tells us, also, through the medium of Hecate, that

of power to compel the obedience of infernal spirits[384:B]; and that its eclipses[384:C], its sanguine colour[384:D], and its apparent multiplication[384:E], are certain prognostics of disaster.

To kill hogs, to collect herbs, and to sow seed, when the moon was increasing, was deemed a most essential observance; the bacon was better, the plants more effective, and the crops more abundant in consequence of this attention. Implicit confidence was also placed in the new moon as a prognosticator of the weather, according to its position, or the curvature of its horns; and it was hailed by blessings and supplications; the women especially, both in England and Scotland, were accustomed to curtesy to the new moon, and on the first night of its appearance the unmarried part of the sex would frequently, sitting astride on a gate or stile, invoke its influence in the following curious terms:—

The credulity of the country was particularly directed at this period, including the close of the sixteenth century, and the beginning of the seventeenth century, towards the numerous relations of the existence of MONSTERS of various kinds; and Shakspeare, who more than any other poet, availed himself of the superstitious follies of his time, hath repeatedly both introduced, and satirized, these objects, as articles of, and exciters of the popular belief. His Caliban, a monster of his own creation, and, poetically considered, one of the most striking products of his imagination, will be noticed at length in another place, and we shall here confine ourselves to his description of the monsters which, as objects of historical record, had lately become the theme of credulous wonder, and general speculation.

Othello, in his speech before the senators, familiarly alludes to

and Gonzaga, in the Tempest, exclaims:

These monsters, and many others, which had been described in the editions of Maundeville's Travels, published by Wynkyn De Worde and Pynson in 1499-1503, &c. were revived, with fresh claims to belief, by the voyagers and natural historians of the poet's age. In 1581, Professor Batman printed his "Doome, warning all men to the judgemente," in which not only the Anthropophagi, who eat man's flesh, are mentioned, but various other races, such as the Œthiopes with four eyes, the Hippopodes, with their nether parts like horses, the Arimaspi with one eye in the forehead, &c. &c., and to these he adds "men called Monopoli, who have no head, but a face in their breaste."[385:C] In 1596 these marvels were corroborated by Sir Walter Ralegh's Discoverie of Guiana[385:D], an empire, which, he affirms, was productive of a similar generation; and Hackluyt, in 1598, tells us that, "on that branch which is called Caora, are a nation of a people whose heades appeare not above their shoulders: they are reported to have their eyes in their shoulders, and their mouthes in the middle of their breasts."

With the mere English scholar, classical authority was given to these tales by Philemon Holland's Translation of Pliny's Natural History in 1601, where are the following descriptions both of the Anthropophagi and of the men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders:—"The Anthropophagi or eaters of man's flesh whom we have placed about the North pole, tenne daies journey by land above the river Borysthenes, use to drinke out of the sculs of men's heads, and to weare the scalpes, haire and all, in steed of mandellions or stomachers before their breasts."[386:A] "The Blemmyi, by report, have no heads, but mouth and eies both in their breast[386:B];" and again, "beyond these westward, some there bee without heads standing upon their neckes, who carrie eies in their shoulders."[386:C]

It is, also, very probable that the attention of Shakspeare was still further drawn to these headless monsters by the labours of the engraver; for in Este's edition of Maundeville's Travels, an attempt is made to delineate one of these deformities, who is represented with the eyes, nose, and mouth situated on the breast and stomach; and in a translation of Ralegh's Guiana into Latin, by Hulse, in 1599, a similar plate is given.[386:D]

That our author viewed this partiality in the public mind for wonders and strange spectacles, with a smile of contempt, and was willing to seize an opportunity for ridiculing the mania, appears evident from a passage in his Tempest, where Trinculo, discovering Caliban extended on the ground, supposes him to be a species of fish, and observes, "Were I in England now (as once I was) and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian."[387:A]

Wild Indians, curious fishes, and crocodiles, seem to have been singularly numerous in London at this epoch, having been brought thither by several of our enterprising navigators; and by those who crowded from every part of the country to view them, many superstitious marvels were connected with their natural history. Of three or four savages which Frobisher took in his first voyage, one, we are told, "for very choler and disdain bit his tong in twaine within his mouth: notwithstanding he died not thereof, but lived untill he came in Englande, and then he died of colde, which he had taken at sea[387:B];" the survivors, there is every reason to suppose, were exhibited; for in the year 1577, there was entered on the books of the Stationers' Company, "A description of the portrayture and shape of those strange kinde of people which the worthie Mr. Martin Fourbosier brought into England in Ao 1576[387:C];" and Mr. Chalmers relates, that "Lord Southampton, and Sir Francis Gorges, engaging in voyages of discovery, sent out, in 1611, two vessels under the command of Harlie, and Nicolas, who sailed along the New England coast, where they were sometimes well, and often ill, received, by the natives; and returned to England, in the same year, with five savages, on board. In 1614, Captain Smith carried out to New England one of those savages, named Tantum; Captains Harlie and Hopson transported, in the same year, two others of those savages, called Epenow, and Manawet; one of those savages adventured to the European continent; and the fifth Indian, of whom no account is given, we may easily suppose died in London, and was exhibited for a show."[387:D]

We learn from a publication of Churchyard's in 1578, that Frobisher's crew found a "straunge fish dead, that had been caste from the sea on the shore, who had a boane in his head like an Unicorne, which they brought awaye, and presented to our Prince, when thei came home[388:A];" and from the Stationers' Books, that, in 1604, an account was printed "of a monstrous fish, that appeared in the form of a woman from her waist upward, seene in the sea."[388:B] That the credulity of the public in Elizabeth's days was remarkably great in swallowing the most marvellous details in natural history, is proved by a curious scene in the "City Match" of Jasper Mayne, which, though first acted in 1639, refers to the age of Elizabeth, as to a period fertile in these wondrous exhibitions. A set of knaves are described as hanging out the picture of a strange fish, which they affirm is the fifth they have shown; and the following dialogue takes place relative to the inscription on the place which included the monster:—

A boy is then introduced, who sings a song upon the fish, commencing with these lines:

which again alludes to the monster-loving propensities of good Queen Bess's subjects; for Batman in his work upon Bartholome, published in 1582, says,—"Of late years there hath been brought into England, the cases or skinnes of such crocodiles, to be seene, and much money given for the sight thereof; the policy of strangers," he adds, in the spirit of Shakspeare, "laugh at our folly, either that we are too wealthy, or else that we know not how to bestow our money[389:B];" and Bullokar, in his English Expositor of 1616, confirms the charge by telling us, that a dead crocodile, "but in perfect forme," and nine feet long, had lately been exhibited in London, a fact to which he annexes the following tradition:—"It is written," he remarks, "that he will weep over a man's head when he hath devoured the body, and then he will eat up the head too. Wherefore—crocodiles tears signifie such tears as are fained, and spent only with intent to deceive or doe harme."[389:C] Of this superstition Shakspeare has made a poetical use in two of his dramas: Margaret in Henry VI. Part 2. complains that Gloucester beguiles the king,

and Othello, execrating the supposed duplicity of Desdemona, exclaims,

Many superstitions relative to the Dying, existed at this time, among all ranks of people, and a few of these have been preserved by our poet. One of the most general was built on the belief, that Satan, or some of his infernal host, watched the death-bed of every individual, and, if impenitence or irreligion appeared, immediately took possession of the soul. The death-scene of Cardinal Beaufort is an admirable exemplification of this appalling idea; Henry is appealing to the Almighty in behalf of the agonised sinner, and utters the following pious petition:—

The powerful delineation of this scene from the pencil of Sir Joshua Reynolds, in which the "meddling fiend" is personified in all his terrors, must be considered in strict accordance with the credulity of the age; for "in an ancient manuscript book of devotions," relates Mr. Douce, "written in the reign of Henry VI., there is a prayer addressed to Saint George, with the following very singular passage: 'Judge for me whan the moste hedyous and damnable dragons of helle shall be redy to take my poore soule and engloute it in to theyr infernall belyes'[390:B];" and the books on demonology and spirits, written in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, clearly prove that this relic of popish superstition was still a portion of the popular creed.

Another singular conception was, that it was necessary in the agonies of death, to

in order that they might die the easier; a practice founded on the ridiculous supposition that, if pigeons' feathers formed a part of the materials of the pillow, it was impossible the sufferer should expire but in great misery, and that he would probably continue to struggle for a prodigious length of time in exquisite torture.

It was common at this period, and the practice, indeed, continued until the middle of the last century, to consider Wells and Fountains as peculiarly sacred and holy, and to visit them as a species of pilgrimage, or for the healing virtues which superstition had fondly attributed to them. Many of these wells, which had been much frequented in London, during the days of Fitzstephen, were closed, or neglected, when Stowe wrote[391:A]; but in the country the habit of resorting to such springs, and for purposes similar to those which existed in papal times, was generally preserved. Bourne, who published in 1725, speaks in language peculiarly descriptive of this superstitious regard for wells and fountains, not only as it was observed in ancient times, but at the period in which he lived. "In the dark ages of popery," he says, "it was a custom, if any well had an awful situation, and was seated in some lonely melancholy vale; if its water was clear and limpid, and beautifully margin'd with the tender grass; or if it was look'd upon, as having a medicinal quality; to gift it to some Saint, and honour it with his name. Hence it is that we have at this day wells and fountains called, some St. John's, St. Mary Magdalen's, St. Mary's Well, &c.

"To these kind of wells, the common people are accustomed to go, on a summer's evening, to refresh themselves with a walk after the toil of the day, to drink the water of the fountain, and enjoy the pleasing prospect of shade and stream.

"Now this custom (though, at this time of day, very commendable, and harmless, and innocent) seems to be the remains of that superstitious practice of the Papists, of paying adoration to wells and fountains; for they imagined there was some holiness and sanctity in them, and so worshipped them."[392:A]

It was in the north especially, where Mr. Bourne resided, that wells of this description were most frequently to be found, possessing the advantages of a romantic situation, and preserved with care through the influence of the traditionary legends of the neighbouring village; for these retreats were supposed to be the haunts of fairies and good spirits who were accustomed to meet

At these wells offerings were frequently made, either owing to the conceived sanctity of the place, or from gratitude for imagined benefit received through the waters of the spring; and as those who had recourse to these fountains were usually of the lower class, small pieces of money were given, or even rags suspended on the trees or bushes which overhung the stream; whence these fountains in many places obtained the name of Rag-wells. One thus termed is mentioned, by Mr. Brand, as still exhibiting these tributary shreds at the village of Benton near Newcastle; Mr. Pennant records two at Spey and Drachaldy in Scotland; and Mr. Shaw tells us, that in the province of Moray pilgrimages to wells are not yet obsolete.[393:A] In many places in the North, indeed, there are wells still remaining which were manifestly intended for the refreshment of the way-worn traveller, and are yet held in veneration. We have seen some of these with ladles of brass affixed to the stone-work by a chain, a convenience probably as ancient as the Anglo-Saxon era.

Several traditions of a peculiarly superstitious hue, have been cherished in this country with regard to the bird-tribe, and most of them have been introduced by our great poet as accessory either to the terrible, or the pathetic. The ominous croaking of the raven and the crow have been already mentioned, and we shall therefore, under the present head, merely advert to a few additional notices relative to the owl and the ruddock, the former the supposed herald of horror and disaster, the latter the romantic minister of charity and pity.

To the fearful bodings of the clamorous owl, which we have already introduced when treating of omens, may now be added a superstition which formerly rendered this unlucky bird the peculiar dread of mothers and nurses. It was firmly believed, that the screech-owl was in the habit of destroying infants by sucking out their blood and breath as they laid in the cradle. "Lamiæ," observes Lavaterus, "are things that make children afrayde. Lamiæ are also called Striges. Striges (as they saye) are unluckie-birds, whiche sucke out the blood of infants lying in their cradles. And hereof some men will have witches take their name, who also are called [393:B]Volaticæ." This credulity relative to the Strix or screech-owl may be traced to Ovid[394:A], and is alluded to by Shakspeare in the following lines:—

Another strange legend in the history of the owl is put into the mouth of the hapless Ophelia:—

a metamorphosis of which Mr. Douce has given us the origin; he tells us that it is yet a common story among the vulgar in Gloucestershire, and is thus related:—"Our Saviour went into a baker's shop where they were baking, and asked for some bread to eat. The mistress of the shop immediately put a piece of dough into the oven to bake for him; but was reprimanded by her daughter, who insisting that the piece of dough was too large, reduced it to a very small size. The dough, however, immediately afterwards began to swell, and presently became of a most enormous size. Whereupon the baker's daughter cried out 'Heugh, heugh, heugh,' which owl-like noise, probably induced our Saviour for her wickedness to transform her into that bird." He adds that this story was often related to children, in order to deter them from such illiberal behaviour to poor people.[394:D]

The partiality shown to the ruddock or red-breast seems to have been founded on the popular ballad of The Children in the Wood, and the play of Cymbeline. The charitable office, however, which these productions have ascribed to Robin, has an earlier origin than their date; for in Thomas Johnson's Cornucopia, 4to. 1596, it is related that "the robin redbrest if he find a man or woman dead, will cover all his face with mosse, and some thinke that if the body should remaine unburied that he would cover the whole body also."[395:A] It is highly probable that this anecdote might give birth to the burial of the babes, whom no one heeded,

for, according to Dr. Percy[395:B], this pathetic narrative was built upon a play published by Rob. Yarrington in 1601. It is likewise possible that the same passage occasioned the beautiful lines in the play of Cymbeline, performed about 1606, where Arviragus, mourning over Imogen, exclaims—

These interesting pictures of the red-breast would alone be sufficient to create an affectionate feeling for him; the attachment however has been ever since kept alive by delineations of a similar kind. In our author's time Drayton, Webster, and Dekker, have all alluded to this pleasing tradition: the first in his Owl 1604—

the second in his Tragedy, called The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona, 1612—

and the third in one of his pamphlets printed in 1616—"They that cheere up a prisoner but with their sight, are Robin red-breasts that bring strawes in their bils to cover a dead man in extremitie."[396:B]

Some wonderful properties relative to an imaginary gem, called a carbuncle, formed likewise a part of the popular creed. It was supposed to be the most transparent of all the precious stones, and to possess a native intrinsic lustre so powerful as to illuminate the atmosphere to a considerable distance around it. It was, therefore, very appositely adopted by the writers of romance, as an ornament and source of light for their subterranean palaces, and almost all our elder poets have gifted it with a similar brilliancy; thus Chaucer, in his Romaunt of the Rose[396:C]; Gower, in his Confessio Amantis[396:D]; Lydgate, in his Description of King Priam's Palace[396:E]; and Stephen Hawes, in his Pastime of Pleasure[396:F], have all celebrated it as a kind of second sun, and the most valuable of earthly products. Chaucer, more particularly, mentions it as so clear and bright,—