British Literature I: Revised University Syllabus BA English (Sem 1)

BRITISH LITERATURE I (CORE COURSE)

Unit 1: Introduction

 The Renaissance and its impact on England

It is difficult to date or define the Renaissance. Etymologically the term, which was first used in England only as late as the nineteenth century, means "re-birth". Broadly speaking, the Renaissance implies that re-awakening of learning which came to Europe in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

The English Renaissance was a cultural and artistic movement in England dating from the late 15th to the early 17th century. It is associated with the pan-European Renaissance that is usually regarded as beginning in Italy in the late 14th century. As in most of the rest of northern Europe, England saw little of these developments until more than a century later. The beginning of the English Renaissance is often taken, as a convenience, to be 1485, when the Battle of Bosworth ended the Wars of the Roses and inaugurated the Tudor Dynasty. Renaissance style and ideas, however, were slow to penetrate England, and the Elizabethan era in the second half of the 16th century is usually regarded as the height of the English Renaissance.

The English Renaissance is different from the Italian Renaissance in several ways. The dominant art forms of the English Renaissance were literature and music. Visual arts in the English Renaissance were much less significant than in the Italian Renaissance. The English period began far later than the Italian, which was moving into Mannerism and the Baroque by the 1550s or earlier. In contrast, the English Renaissance can only truly be said to begin, shakily, in the 1520s, and it continued until perhaps 1620.

The Renaissance was not only English but a European phenomenon; and basically considered, it signalized a thorough substitution of the medieval habits of thought by new attitudes. The dawn of the Renaissance came first to Italy and a little later to France. To England it came much later, roughly about the beginning of the sixteenth century. As we have said at the outset, it is difficult to date the Renaissance; however, it may be mentioned that in Italy the impact of Greek learning was first felt when after the Turkish conquest of Constantinople the Greek scholars fled and took refuge in Italy carrying with them a vast treasure of ancient Greek literature in manuscript. The study of this literature fired the soul and imagination of the Italy of that time and created a new kind of intellectual and aesthetic culture quite different from that of the Middle Ages. The light of the Renaissance came very slowly to the isolated island of England, so that when it did come in all its brilliance in the sixteenth century, the Renaissance in Italy had already become a spent force.

The following are the implications of the Renaissance in England:

(a)                 First, the Renaissance meant the death of mediaeval
scholasticism which had for long been keeping human thought in bondage. The schoolmen got themselves entangled in useless controversies and tried to apply the principles of Aristotelian. philosophy to the doctrines of Christianity, thus giving birth to a vast literature characterized by polemics, casuistry, and sophistry which did not advance man in any way.

(b)                 Secondly, it signalized a revolt against spiritual authority-the authority of the Pope. The Reformation, though not part of the revival of learning, was yet a companion movement in England. This defiance of spiritual authority went hand in hand with that of intellectual authority. Renaissance intellectuals distinguished themselves by their flagrant anti-authoritarianism.

(c)                 Thirdly, the Renaissance implied a greater perception of beauty and polish in the Greek and Latin scholars. This beauty and this polish were sought by Renaissance men of letters to be incorporated in their native literature. Further, it meant the birth of a kind of imitative
tendency implied in the term "classicism."

(d)        Lastly, the Renaissance marked a change from the theocentric to the homocentric conception of the universe. Human life, pursuits, and even body came to be glorified. "Human life", as G. H. Mair observes, "which the mediaeval Church had taught them [the people] to regard but as a threshold and stepping-stone to eternity, acquired suddenly a new momentousness and value.".The "otherworldliness" gave place to "this-worldliness". Human values came to be recognised as permanent values, and they were sought to be enriched and illumined by the heritage of antiquity. This bred a new kind of paganism and marked the rise of humanism as also, by implication, materialism.

The impact of the Renaissance on English literature

Non-creative Literature:

Naturally enough, the first impact of the Renaissance in England was registered by the universities, being the repositories of all learning. Some English scholars, becoming aware of the revival of learning in Italy, went to that country to benefit by it and to examine personally the manuscripts brought there by the fleeing Greek scholars of Constantinople. Prominent among these scholars were William Grocyn (14467-1519), Thomas Linacre (1460-1524), and John Colet (14677-1519). After returning from Italy they organised the teaching of Greek in Oxford. They were such learned and reputed scholars of Greek that Erasmus came all the way from Holland to learn Greek from them. Apart from scholars, the impact of the Renaissance is also; in a measure, to be seen on the work of the educationists of the age. Sir Thomas Elyot (14907-1546) wrote the Governour (1531) which is a treatise on moral philosophy modelled on Italian works and full of the spirit of Roman antiquity. Other educationists were Sir John Cheke (1514-57), Sir Thomas Wilson (1525-81), and Sir Roger Ascham (1515-68). Out of all the educationists the last named is the most important, on account of his Scholemaster published two years after his death. Therein he puts forward his views on the teaching of the classics. His own style is too obviously based upon the ancient Roman writers. "By turns", remarks Legouis, "he imitates Cicero's periods and Seneca's nervous conciseness". In addition to these well-known educationists must be mentioned the sizable number of now obscure ones—"those many unacknowledged, unknown guides who, in school and University, were teaching men to admire and imitate the masterpieces of antiquity" (Legouis).

Prose:

The most important prose writers who exhibit well the influence of the Renaissance on English prose are Erasmus, Sir Thomas More, Lyly, and Sidney. The first named was a Dutchman who, as we have already said, came to Oxford to learn Greek. His chief work was The Praise of Folly which is the English translation of his most important work-written in England. It is, according to Tucker Brook, "the best expression in literature of the attack that the Oxford reformers were making upon the medieval system." Erasmus wrote this work in 1510 at the house of his friend Sir Thomas More who was executed at the bidding of Henry VIII for his refusal to give up his allegiance to the ' Pope. More's famous prose romance Utopia was, in the words of Legouis, "true prologue to the Renaissance.'" It was the first book written by an Englishman which achieved European fame; but it was written in Latin (1516) and only later (1555) was translated into English. Curiously enough, the next work by an English man again to acquire European fame-Bacon's Novum Organwn-was also written originally in Latin. The word "Utopia" is from Greek "ou topos" meaning "no place". More's Utopia is an imaginary island which is the habitat of an ideal republic. By the picture of the ideal state is implied a kind of social criticism of contemporary England. More's indebtedness to Plato's Republic is quite obvious. However, More seems also to be indebted to the then recent discoveries of the explorers and navigators-like Columbus and Vasco da Gama who were mostly of Spanish and Portuguese nationalities. In Utopia, More discredits mediaevalism in all its implications and exalts the ancient Greek culture. Legouis observes about this work : "The Utopians are in revolt against the spirit of chivalry : they hate warfare and despise soldiers. Communism is the law of the land; all are workers for only a limited number of hours. Life should be pleasant for all; asceticism is condemned. More relies on the goodness of human nature, and intones a hymn to the glory of the senses which reveal nature's wonders. In Utopia all religions are authorized, and tolerance is the law. Scholasticism is scoffed at, and Greek philosophy preferred to that of Rome. From one end to the other of the book More reverses medieval beliefs." More's Utopia created a new genre in which can be classed such works as Bacon's The New Atlantis (1626), Samuel Butler's Erewhon (1872), W. H. Mallock's The New Republic (1877), Richard Jefferies' After London (1885), W. H. Hudson's The Crystal Age (1887), William Morris" News from Nowhere, and H. G. Well's A Modern Utopia (1905).

Passing on to the prose writers of the Elizabethan age-the age of the flowering of the Renaissance-we find them markedly influenced both in their style and thought-content by the revival of the antique classical learning. Sidney in Arcadia, Lyly in Euphues, and Hooker in The Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity wrote an English essay which is away from the language of common speech, and is either too heavily laden—as in the case of Sidney and Lyly-with bits of classical finery, or modelled on Latin syntax, as in the case of Hooker. Cicero seemed to these writers a verv obvious and respectable model. Bacon, however, in his sententiousness and cogency comes near Tacitus and turns away from the prolixity, diffuseness, and ornamentation associated with Ciceronian prose. Further, in his own career and his Essays, Bacon stands as a representative of the materialistic, Machiavellian facet of the Renaissance, particularly of Renaissance Italy. He combines in himself the dispassionate pursuit of truth and the keen desire for material advance.

Poetry:

Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-42) and the Earl of Surrey (15177-47) were pioneers of the new poetry in England. After Chaucer the spirit of English poetry had slumbered for upward of a century. The change in pronunciation in the fifteenth century had created a lot of confusion in prosody which in the practice of such important poets as Lydgate and Skelton had been reduced to a mockery. "The revival", as Legoius says, "was an uphill task; verse had to be drawn from the languor to which it had sunk in Stephen Hawes, and from the disorder in which a Skelton had plunged it; all had to be done anew". It was Wyatt and Surrey who came forward to do it.

As Mair puts it, it is with "these two courtiers that the modern English poetry begins." Though they wrote much earlier, it was only in 1557, a year before Elizabeth's coronation, that their work was published in Tottel's Miscellany which is, according to G. H. Mair, "one of the landmarks of English literature." Of the two, Wyatt had travelled extensively in Italy and France and had come under the spell of Italian Renaissance. It must be remembered that the work of Wyatt and Surrey does not reflect the impact of the Rome of antiquity alone,. but also that of modern Italy. So far as versification is concerned, Wyatt and Surrey imported into England various new Italian metrical patterns. Moreover, they gave English poetry a new sense of grace, dignity, delicacy, and harmony which was found by them lacking iil the works of Chaucer and the Chaucerians alike. Further, they Were highly influenced by the love poetry of Petrarch and they did their best to imitate it. Petrarch's love poetry is of the courtly kind, in which the pining lover is shown as a "servant" of his mistress with his heart tempest-tossed by her neglect and his mood varying according to her absence or presence. There is much of idealism, if not downright artificiality, in this kind of love poetry.

It goes to the credit of Wyatt to have introduced the sonnet into English literature, and of Surrey to have first written blank verse. Both the sonnet and blank verse were later to be practised by a vast number of the best English poets. According to David Daiches.

"Wyatt's sonnets represent one of the most interesting movements toward metrical discipline to be found in English literary history." Though in his sonnets he did not employ regular iambic pentameters yet he created a sense of discipline among the poets of his times who had forgotten the lesson and example of Chaucer and, like Skelton, were writing "ragged" and "jagged" lines which jarred so unpleasantly upon the ear. As Tillyard puts it, Wyatt "let the Renaissance into English verse" by importing Italian and French patterns of sentiment as well as versification. He wrote in all thirty-two sonnets out of which seventeen are adaptations of Petrarch. Most of them (twenty-eight) have the rhyme-scheme of Petarch's sonnets; that is, each has the octave a bbaabba and twenty-six out of these twenty-eight have the c d d c e e sestet. Only in the last three he comes near what is called the Shakespearean formula, that is, three quatrains and a couplet. In the thirtieth sonnet he exactly produced it; this sonnet rhymes a b a b, a b a b, a b a b, c c. Surrey wrote about fifteen or sixteen sonnets out of which ten use the Shakespearean formula which was. to enjoy the greatest popularity among the sonneteers of the sixteenth century. Surrey's work is characterized by exquisite grace and tenderness which we find missing from that of Wyatt. Moreover, he is a better craftsman and gives greater harmony to his poetry. Surrey employed blank verse in his translation of the fourth book of The Aeneid, the work which was first translated into English verse by Gavin Douglas a generation earlier, but in heroic couplets.

Drama:

The revival of ancient classical learning scored its first clear impact on English drama in the middle of the sixteenth century. Previous to this impact there had been a pretty vigorous native tradition of drama, particularly comedy. This tradition had its origin in the liturgical drama and had progressed through the miracle and the mystery, and later the morality, to the interlude. John Heywood had written quite a few vigorous interludes, but they were altogether different in tone, spirit, and purpose from the Greek and Roman drama of antiquity. The first English regular tragedy Gorboduc (written by Sackville and Norton, and first acted in 1562) and comedy Ralph Roister Doister (written about 1550 by Nicholas Udall) were very much imitations of classical tragedy and comedy. It is interesting to note that English dramatists came not under the spell of the ancient Greek dramatists "(Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, the tragedy writers, and Aristophanes, the comedy writer) but the Roman dramatists (Seneca, the tragedy writer, and Plautus and. Terence! the comedv writers). It was indeed unfortunate, as Greek drama is vastly superior to Roman drama. Gpfboduc is a s'avish imitation of Senecan tragedy and has all its features without much of its life. Like Senecan tragedy it has revenge as the tragic —otive, has most of its important incidents (mostly murders) narrated on the -stage by messengers, has much of rhetoric and verbose declamation, has a ghost among its dramatis personae, and so forth. '.". is indeed a good instance of the "blood and thunder" kind' of tragedy. Ralph Roister Doister is modelled upon Plautus and Terence. It is based on the stupid endeavours of the hero for winning the love of a married woman. There is the cunning, merry slave-Matthew Merrygreek-a descendant of the Plautine slave who serves as the motive power which keeps the play going.

Later on, the "University Wits" struck a note of independence in their dramatic work. They refused to copy Roman drama as slavishly as the writers of Gorboduc and Roister Doister. Even so, their plays are not free from the impact of the Renaissance; rather they show it as amply, though not in the same way. In their imagination they were all fired by the new literature which showed them new dimensions of human capability. They were humanists through and through. All of them—Lyly, Greene, Peele, Nashe, Lodge, Marlowe, and Kyd-show in their dramatic work not, of course, a slavish tendency to ape the ancients but a chemical action of Renaissance learning on the native genius fired by the enthusiasm of discovery and aspiration so typical of the Elizabethan age. In this respect Marlowe stands in the fore-front of the University Wits. Rightly has he been called "the true child of the Renaissance"

THE REFORMATION – CAUSES

The Reformation was the greatest religious movement in the early church. It was a revival of Biblical and New Testament theology. The Reformation officially began in 1517 when Martin Luther challenged the Roman Church on the matter of Indulgences. While Luther had no idea of the impact this would make on the German society and the world, this event changed the course of history.

The English Reformation was a series of events in 16th-century England by which the Church of England broke away from the authority of the Pope and the Roman Catholic Church. These events were, in part, associated with the wider process of the European Protestant Reformation, a religious and political movement that affected the practice of Christianity across all of Europe during this period. Many factors contributed to the process: the decline of feudalism and the rise of nationalism, the rise of the common law, the invention of the printing press and increased circulation of the Bible, the transmission of new knowledge and ideas among scholars, the upper and middle classes and readers in general. However, the various phases of the English Reformation, which also covered Wales and Ireland, were largely driven by changes in government policy, to which public opinion gradually accommodated itself.

Based on Henry VIII's desire for an annulment of his marriage (first requested of Pope Clement VII in 1527), the English Reformation was at the outset more of a political affair than a theological dispute. The reality of political differences between Rome and England allowed growing theological disputes to come to the fore.^[1] Until the break with Rome, it was the Pope and general councils of the Church that decided doctrine. Church law was governed by the code of canon law with final jurisdiction in Rome. Church taxes were paid straight to Rome, and the Pope had the final word in the appointment of bishops.

The break with Rome was affected by a series of acts of Parliament passed between 1532 and 1534, among them the 1534 Act of Supremacy which declared that Henry was the "Supreme Head on earth of the Church of England". Final authority in doctrinal and legal disputes now rested with the monarch, and the papacy was deprived of revenue and the final say on the appointment of bishops.

The theology and liturgy of the Church of England became markedly Protestant and  was a matter of fierce dispute during the reign of Henry's son Edward VI. The violent aspect of these disputes, manifested in the English Civil Wars, ended when the last Roman Catholic monarch, James II, was deposed, and Parliament asked William and Mary to rule jointly in conjunction with the English Bill of Rights in 1688 (in the "Glorious Revolution").  

 “There are two leading aspects in which the Reformation, viewed as a whole, may be regarded; the one more external and negative, and the other more intrinsic and positive. In the first aspect it was a great revolt against the see of Rome, and against the authority of the church and of churchmen in religious matters, combined with an assertion of the exclusive authority of the Bible, and of the right of all men to examine and interpret it for themselves. In the second and more important and positive aspect, the Reformation was the proclamation and inculcation, upon the alleged authority of Scripture, of certain views in regard to the substance of Christianity or the way of salvation, and in regard to the organization and ordinances of the Christian church” (William Cunningham, The Reformers and the Theology of the Reformation).

THE RESULTS OF THE REFORMATION

1. It is impossible to understand modern history apart from the Reformation. We cannot understand the history of Europe, England or America without studying the Reformation. For example, in America there would never have been Pilgrim Fathers if there had not first been a Protestant Reformation.
2. The Reformation has profoundly affected the modern view of politics and law. Prior to the Reformation the Church governed politics; she controlled emperors and kings and governed the law of lands.
3. The meaning of much western literature is really quite meaningless apart from an understanding of the Reformation. Moreover, for all practical purposes Martin Luther stabilized the German language.
4. In the realm of science, it is generally granted by modern historians that there never would have been modern science were it not for the Reformation. All scientific investigation and endeavor prior to that had been controlled by the church. Only through sheer ignorance of history do many modern scientists believe that Protestantism, the true evangelical faith, opposes true science.
5. The Reformation laid down once and for all the right and obligation of the individual conscience, and the right to follow the dictates of that individual conscience. Many men who talk lightly and glibly about “liberty” neither know nor realize that they owe their liberty to this event.

The Commonwealth of Nations

After the execution of King Charles I, a republican government in London attempts to govern the entire British Isles—until thrown out by Oliver Cromwell. After the purge carried out by elements of the New Model Army in 1648, the Long Parliament was left with a small number of MPs approved by the radicals. This later became known as the Rump Parliament. Members of the Rump set up the High Court of Justice, which presided over the trial and execution of King Charles in January 1649. After the King's execution, the Rump abolished the monarchy and the House of Lords. The Council of State was appointed as an executive body, which was subordinate to the legislative House of Commons. England was declared a republican "Commonwealth and Free State" in May 1649.

During the early 1650s, attempts were made to incorporate Scotland and Ireland into the Commonwealth with England so that the three nations were ruled by a central government for the first time in British history. After the subjugation of the British Isles, the Commonwealth government adopted an aggressive foreign policy based upon naval power which forced reluctant European nations to recognise the legitimacy of the Commonwealth.

The Commonwealth relied upon the Army to maintain its authority at home, but tensions developed between senior officers led by Oliver Cromwell and civilian politicians led by Sir Henry Vane over the form the government should take. In April 1653, Cromwell led a body of soldiers to forcibly expel MPs of the Rump Parliament from the House of Commons. The Rump was replaced by the short-lived Nominated Assembly, which split into opposing factions and voluntarily surrendered its powers to Cromwell in December 1653.

RESTORATION

Restoration, in English history, is the re establishment of the monarchy on the accession (1660) of Charles II after the collapse of the Commonwealth  and the Protectorate. The term is often used to refer to the entire period from 1660 to the fall of James II in 1688, and in English literature the Restoration period (often called the age of Dryden) is commonly viewed as extending from 1660 to the death of John Dryden in 1700.

After the death of Oliver Cromwell in Sept., 1658, the English republican experiment soon faltered. Cromwell's son and successor, Richard, was an ineffectual leader, and power quickly fell into the hands of the generals, chief among whom was George Monck, leader of the army of occupation in Scotland. In England a strong reaction had set in against Puritan supremacy and military control. When Monck marched on London with his army, opinion had already crystallized in favor of recalling the exiled king.

Monck recalled to the Rump Parliament the members who had been excluded by Pride's Purge in 1648; the reconvened body voted its own dissolution. The newly elected Convention Parliament, which met in the spring of 1660, was overtly royalist in sympathy. An emissary was sent to the Netherlands, and Charles was easily persuaded to issue the document known as the Declaration of Breda, promising an amnesty to the former enemies of the house of Stuart and guaranteeing religious toleration and payment of arrears in salary to the army. Charles accepted the subsequent invitation to return to England and landed at Dover on May 25, 1660, entering London amid rejoicing four days later.

Politics under Charles II and James II

Control of policy fell to Charles's inner circle of old Cavalier supporters, notably to Edward Hyde, 1st earl of Clarendon, who was eventually superseded by a group known as the Cabal. The last remnants of military republicanism, as exemplified in the Fifth Monarchy Men, were violently suppressed, and persecution spread to include the Quakers. The Cavalier Parliament, which assembled in 1661, restored a militant Anglicanism (see Clarendon Code), and Charles attempted, although cautiously, to reassert the old absolutist position of the earlier Stuarts.

The crown, however, was still dependent upon Parliament for its finances. The unwillingness of Charles and his successor, James II, to accept the implications of this dependency had some part in bringing about the deposition (1688) of James II, who was hated as a Roman Catholic as well as a suspected absolutist. The Glorious Revolution gave the throne to William III and Mary II.

England during the Restoration

The Restoration period was marked by an advance in colonization and overseas trade, by the Dutch Wars, by the great plague (1665) and the great fire of London (1666), by the birth of the Whig and Tory parties, and by the Popish Plot and other manifestations of anti-Catholicism. In literature perhaps the most outstanding result of the Restoration was the reopening of the theaters, which had been closed since 1642, and a consequent great revival of the drama (see English literature). The drama of the period was marked by brilliance of wit and by licentiousness, which may have been a reflection of the freeness of court manners. The last and greatest works of John Milton fall within the period but are not typical of it; the same is true of John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress (1678). The age is vividly brought to life in the diaries of Samuel Pepys and John Evelyn, and in poetry the Restoration is distinguished by the work of John Dryden and a number of other poets.

COFFEE HOUSES AND THEIR SOCIAL RELEVANCE

The coffeehouse is an important and distinctive social and cultural institution deeply embedded in modern notions of public opinion and civil society. A coffeehouse is a business that sells prepared coffee as a hot beverage. After originating in the Ottoman Empire in the 16th century, the first coffeehouses opened in Europe in the mid-17th century, in London first, and later in continental Europe and the American colonies. They quickly gained popularity through the peculiar flavor of the hot drink, with its habit-forming properties, but also through the distinctive sociability of the coffee room. This sociability was predicated on discussion and conversation on matters of political and cultural significance, and was supported by the provision of news and literary productions in both manuscript and print. Coffeehouses were recognized as centers of the new urbanism of the 18th and 19th centuries and were in this way associated especially with the Enlightenment and with political reform, although individual coffeehouses varied considerably in their philosophical and political allegiance. While in the Anglophone world coffeehouses lost some of their cultural significance in the 19th century, it was in this period that European iterations of the idea (in the café, caffè, or Kaffeehaus) gained special prominence. In the mid-20th century, the coffeehouse was self-consciously rehabilitated by the espresso bar trend, and it has found a new expression within postmodern culture in the much-noted ubiquity of anodyne branded coffeehouse chains

In 17th and 18th century England, coffeehouses were popular places for people from all walks of life to go and meet, chat, gossip and have fun, whilst enjoying the latest fashion, a drink newly arrived in Europe from Turkey – coffee.Whilst the taste of 17th century coffee was not very palatable - indeed, it tasted quite disgusting according to accounts of the time -  the caffeine in it and the ‘buzz’ it provided, proved quite addictive. 

The first coffeehouse in England was opened in Oxford in 1652.  In London, the first one was opened later that same year in at St Michael’s Alley, Cornhill, by an eccentric Greek named Pasqua Roseé. Soon they were commonplace. The new coffeehouses became fashionable places for the chattering classes to meet, conduct business, gossip, exchange ideas and debate the news of the day. Unlike public houses, no alcohol was served and women were excluded. Each coffeehouse had a particular clientele, usually defined by occupation, interest or attitude, such as Tories and Whigs, traders and merchants, poets and authors, and men of fashion and leisure.

Polite conversation led to reasoned and sober debate on matters of politics, science, literature and poetry, commerce and religion, so much so that London coffeehouses became known as ‘penny universities’, as that was the price of a cup of coffee. Influential patrons included Samuel Pepys, John Dryden, Alexander Pope and Isaac Newton. Anyone of any social class could frequent the coffeehouses, and so they became associated with equality and republicanism. So much so that in 1675 an attempt to ban them was made by Charles II, which caused such a public outcry that it was withdrawn.

Several great British institutions can trace their roots back to these humble coffeehouses. The London Stock Exchange had its beginnings in Jonathan’s Coffee House in 1698 where gentlemen met to set stock and commodity prices. Auctions in salesrooms attached to coffee houses were the beginnings of the great auction houses of Sotheby’s and Christies. Lloyd's of London had its origins in Lloyds Coffee House on Lombard Street, run by Edward Lloyd, where merchants, shippers and underwriters of ship insurance met to do business. By 1739, there were over 550 coffeehouses in London. However the coffee house fell out of favour towards the end of the 18th century as the new fashion for tea replaced coffee. They gave way to, and largely influenced, the exclusive gentleman’s club of the late 18th century. Revived in the Victorian era and run by the Temperance Movement, coffeehouses were set up as alternatives to public houses where the working classes could meet and socialise.

Unit 2: Prose

1. On Revenge – Francis Bacon

REVENGE is a kind of wild justice; which the more man’ s nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out. For as for the first wrong, it doth but offend the law; but the revenge of that wrong, putteth the law out of office. Certainly, in taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior; for it is a prince’s part to pardon. And Solomon, I am sure, saith, It is the glory of a man, to pass by an offence. That which is past is gone, and irrevocable; and wise men have enough to do, with things present and to come; therefore they do but trifle with themselves, that labor in past matters. There is no man doth a wrong, for the wrong’s sake; but thereby to purchase himself profit, or pleasure, or honor, or the like. Therefore why should I be angry with a man, for loving himself better than me? And if any man should do wrong, merely out of ill-nature, why, yet it is but like the thorn or briar, which prick and scratch, because they can do no other. The most tolerable sort of revenge, is for those wrongs which there is no law to remedy; but then let a man take heed, the revenge be such as there is no law to punish; else a man’s enemy is still before hand, and it is two for one. Some, when they take revenge, are desirous, the party should know, whence it cometh. This is the more generous. For the delight seemeth to be, not so much in doing the hurt, as in making the party repent. But base and crafty cowards, are like the arrow that flieth in the dark. Cosmus, duke of Florence, had a desperate saying against perfidious or neglecting friends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable; You shall read (saith he) that we are commanded to forgive our enemies; but you never read, that we are commanded to forgive our friends. But yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune: Shall we (saith he) take good at God’s hands, and not be content to take evil also? And so of friends in a proportion. This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge, keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal, and do well. Public revenges are for the most part fortunate; as that for the death of Caesar; for the death of Pertinax; for the death of Henry the Third of France; and many more. But in private revenges, it is not so. Nay rather, vindictive persons live the life of witches; who, as they are mischievous, so end they infortunate. Sir Roger de Coverley at the Theatre (Spectator, NO. 335.)

By Joseph Addison (1672–1719)

MY friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met together at the club, told me, that he had a great mind to see the new tragedy with me, assuring me at the same time, that he had not been at a play these twenty years. The last I saw, said Sir Roger, was theCommittee which I should not have gone to neither, had not I been told beforehand that it was a good Church-of-England comedy. He then proceeded to enquire of me who this distrest mother was; and upon hearing that she was Hector’s widow, he told me that her husband was a brave man, and that when he was a school-boy he had read his life at the end of the dictionary. My friend asked me, in the next place, if there would not be some danger in coming home late, in case the Mohocks should be abroad. I assure you, says he, I thought I had fallen into their hands last night; for I observed two or three lusty black men that followed me half way up Fleet Street, and mended their pace behind me, in proportion as I put on to get away from them. You must know, continued the knight with a smile, I fancied they had a mind to hunt me; for I remember an honest gentleman in my neighbourhood, who was served such a trick in King Charles the Second’s time; for which reason he has not ventured himself in town ever since. I might have shown them very good sport, had this been their design; for as I am an old fox-hunter, I should have turned and dodged, and have played them a thousand tricks they had never seen in their lives before. Sir Roger added, that if these gentlemen had any such intention, they did not succeed very well in it: for I threw them out, says he, at the end of Norfolk Street, where I doubled the corner, and got shelter in my lodgings before they could imagine what was become of me. However, says the knight, if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night, and if you will both of you call upon me about four a-clock, that we may be at the house before it is full, I will have my own coach in readiness to attend you, for John tells me he has got the fore-wheels mended.	1
The Captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the appointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he had put on the same sword which he made use of at the battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger’s servants, and among the rest my old friend the butler, had, I found, provided themselves with good oaken plants, to attend their master upon this occasion. When we had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left-hand, the captain before him, and his butler at the head of his footmen in the rear, we convoy’d him in safety to the play-house, where, after having marched up the entry in good order, the captain and I went in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. As soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted, my old friend stood up and looked about him with that pleasure, which a mind seasoned with humanity naturally feels in its self, at the sight of a multitude of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake of the same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper center to a tragick audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the knight told me, that he did not believe the King of France himself had a better strut. I was indeed very attentive to my old friend’s remarks, because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism, and was well pleased to hear him at the conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and a little while after as much for Hermione: and he was extremely puzzled to think what would become of Pyrrhus.	2
When Sir Roger saw Adromache’s obstinate refusal to her lover’s importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was sure she would never have him; to which he added with a more than ordinary vehemence, you can’t imagine, sir, what ’tis to have to do with a widow. Upon Pyrrhus his threatening afterwards to leave her, the knight shook his head, and muttered to himself, ay, do if you can. This part dwelt so much upon my friend’s imagination, that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered in my ear, these widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. But pray, says he, you that are a critick, is this play according to your dramatick rules, as you call them? Should your people in tragedy always talk to be understood? Why, there is not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning of.	3
The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give the old gentleman an answer: Well, says the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, I suppose we are now to see Hector’s ghost. He then renewed his attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her pages, whom at his first entering, he took for Astyanax; but he quickly set himself right in that particular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been very glad to have seen the little boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him. Upon Hermione’s going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap; to which Sir Roger added, On my word, a notable young baggage!	4
As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in the audience during the whole action, it was natural for them to take the opportunity of these intervals between the acts, to express their opinion of the players, and of their respective parts. Sir Roger hearing a cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them, that he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible man; as they were afterwards applauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time; and let me tell you, says he, though he speaks but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them. Captain Sentry seeing two or three wags who sat near us, lean with an attentive ear towards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered something in his ear, that lasted till the opening of the fifth act. The knight was wonderfully attentive to the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus his death, and at the conclusion of it, told me it was such a bloody piece of work, that he was glad it was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his raving fit, he grew more than ordinary serious, and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an evil conscience, adding, that Orestes, in his madness, looked as if he saw something.	5
As we were the first that came into the house, so we were the last that went out of it; being resolved to have a clear passage for our old friend, whom we did not care to venture among the justling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his entertainment, and we guarded him to his lodgings in the same manner that we brought him to the play-house; being highly pleased, for my own part, not only with the performance of the excellent piece which had been presented, but with the satisfaction which it had given to the good old man \A City Night-piece From The Bee By Oliver Goldsmith (1730–1774) THE CLOCK has struck two, the expiring taper rises and sinks in the socket, the watchman forgets the hour in slumber, the laborious and the happy are at rest, and nothing now wakes but guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl, the robber walks his midnight round, and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person.   1   Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity, or the sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, ever changing, but a few hours past, walked before me—where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own importunities.   2   What a gloom hangs all around! The dying lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is forgotten, and this hour may well display the emptiness of human vanity.   3   There may come a time when this temporary solitude may be made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away and leave a desert in its room.   4   What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence; had their victories as great as ours; joy as just, and as unbounded as we; and, with short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality. Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some: the sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others; and as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary possession.   5   Here stood their citadel, but now grown over with weeds; there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile; temples and theatres stood there, now only an undistinguished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for luxury and avarice first made them feeble. The rewards of the state were conferred on amusing and not on useful members of society. Thus true virtue languished, their riches and opulence invited the plunderer, who, though once repulsed, returned again, and at last swept the defendants into undistinguished destruction.   6   How few appear in those streets which but some few hours ago were crowded; and those who appear, no longer now wear their daily mask, nor attempt to hide their lewdness or their misery.   7   But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? These are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances are too humble to expect redress, and their distresses too great even for pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and others emaciated with disease; the world seems to have disclaimed them; society turns its back upon their distress, and has given them up to nakedness and hunger. These poor, shivering females have once seen happier days, and been flattered into beauty. They have been prostituted to the gay, luxurious villain, and are now turned out to meet the severity of winter in the streets. Perhaps, now lying at the doors of their betrayers, they sue to wretches whose hearts are insensible to calamity, or debauchees who may curse, but will not relieve them.   8   Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the sufferings I cannot relieve! Poor houseless creatures! the world will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. The slightest misfortunes, the most imaginary uneasiness of the rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and engage our attention; while you weep unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of tyranny, and finding enmity in every law.   9   Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility! or why was not my fortune adapted to its impulse! Tenderness, without a capacity for relieving, only makes the heart that feels it, more wretched than the object which sues for assistance.	6

UNIT-3 POETRY

I.                    Prothalamion

By EDMUND SPENSER

CALM was the day, and through the trembling air 

Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, 

A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 

Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair; 

When I whose sullen care, 

Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 

In prince's court, and expectation vain 

Of idle hopes, which still do fly away 

Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain, 

Walked forth to ease my pain 

Along the shore of silver streaming Thames, 

Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, 

Was painted all with variable flowers, 

And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, 

Fit to deck maidens' bowers, 

And crown their paramours, 

Against the bridal day, which is not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

There, in a meadow, by the river's side, 

A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, 

All lovely daughters of the flood thereby, 

With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied, 

As each had been a bride; 

And each one had a little wicker basket, 

Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously, 

In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, 

And with fine fingers cropt full featously 

The tender stalks on high. 

Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, 

They gathered some; the violet pallid blue, 

The little daisy, that at evening closes, 

The virgin lily, and the primrose true, 

With store of vermeil roses, 

To deck their bridegrooms' posies 

Against the bridal day, which was not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

With that, I saw two swans of goodly hue 

Come softly swimming down along the Lee; 

Two fairer birds I yet did never see. 

The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew, 

Did never whiter shew, 

Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be 

For love of Leda, whiter did appear:

Yet Leda was they say as white as he, 

Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near. 

So purely white they were, 

That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, 

Seemed foul to them, and bade his billows spare 

To wet their silken feathers, lest they might 

Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair, 

And mar their beauties bright, 

That shone as heaven's light, 

Against their bridal day, which was not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill, 

Ran all in haste, to see that silver brood, 

As they came floating on the crystal flood. 

Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still, 

Their wondering eyes to fill. 

Them seemed they never saw a sight so fair, 

Of fowls so lovely, that they sure did deem 

Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair 

Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team; 

For sure they did not seem 

To be begot of any earthly seed, 

But rather angels, or of angels' breed: 

Yet were they bred of Somers-heat they say, 

In sweetest season, when each flower and weed 

The earth did fresh array, 

So fresh they seemed as day, 

Even as their bridal day, which was not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew 

Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, 

That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, 

All which upon those goodly birds they threw, 

And all the waves did strew, 

That like old Peneus' waters they did seem, 

When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore, 

Scattered with flowers, through Thessaly they stream, 

That they appear through lilies' plenteous store, 

Like a bride's chamber floor. 

Two of those nymphs meanwhile, two garlands bound, 

Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found, 

The which presenting all in trim array, 

Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crowned, 

Whilst one did sing this lay, 

Prepared against that day, 

Against their bridal day, which was not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

'Ye gentle birds, the world's fair ornament, 

And heaven's glory, whom this happy hour 

Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, 

Joy may you have and gentle heart's content 

Of your love's complement: 

And let fair Venus, that is queen of love, 

With her heart-quelling son upon you smile, 

Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove 

All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile 

For ever to assoil. 

Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord, 

And blessed plenty wait upon your board, 

And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound, 

That fruitful issue may to you afford, 

Which may your foes confound, 

And make your joys redound 

Upon your bridal day, which is not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.' 

So ended she; and all the rest around 

To her redoubled that her undersong, 

Which said their bridal day should not be long. 

And gentle echo from the neighbour ground 

Their accents did resound. 

So forth those joyous birds did pass along, 

Adown the Lee, that to them murmured low, 

As he would speak, but that he lacked a tongue, 

Yet did by signs his glad affection show, 

Making his stream run slow. 

And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell 

Gan flock about these twain, that did excel 

The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend 

The lesser stars. So they, enranged well, 

Did on those two attend, 

And their best service lend, 

Against their wedding day, which was not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

At length they all to merry London came, 

To merry London, my most kindly nurse, 

That to me gave this life's first native source; 

Though from another place I take my name, 

An house of ancient fame. 

There when they came, whereas those bricky towers, 

The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride, 

Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers 

There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide, 

Till they decayed through pride: 

Next whereunto there stands a stately place, 

Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace 

Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell, 

Whose want too well now feels my friendless case. 

But ah, here fits not well 

Old woes but joys to tell 

Against the bridal day, which is not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 

Great England's glory, and the world's wide wonder, 

Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder, 

And Hercules' two pillars standing near 

Did make to quake and fear: 

Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry, 

That fillest England with thy triumph's fame, 

Joy have thou of thy noble victory, 

And endless happiness of thine own name 

That promiseth the same: 

That through thy prowess and victorious arms, 

Thy country may be freed from foreign harms; 

And great Elisa's glorious name may ring 

Through all the world, filled with thy wide alarms, 

Which some brave Muse may sing 

To ages following, 

Upon the bridal day, which is not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 

From those high towers this noble lord issuing, 

Like radiant Hesper when his golden hair 

In th'Ocean billows he hath bathed fair, 

Descended to the river's open viewing, 

With a great train ensuing. 

Above the rest were goodly to be seen 

Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature 

Beseeming well the bower of any queen, 

With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature, 

Fit for so goodly stature; 

That like the twins of Jove they seemed in sight, 

Which deck the baldric of the heavens bright. 

They two forth pacing to the river's side, 

Received those two fair birds, their love's delight; 

Which, at th' appointed tide, 

Each one did make his bride 

Against their bridal day, which is not long: 

      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

 

II.    Shall I compare  thee  to a summer’s day? (Sonnet 18)

 

By William Shakespeare, 1564 - 1616

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.

     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

III.             A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

By JOHN DONNE

As virtuous men pass mildly away, 

   And whisper to their souls to go, 

Whilst some of their sad friends do say 

   The breath goes now, and some say, No: 

So let us melt, and make no noise, 

   No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 

'Twere profanation of our joys 

   To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, 

   Men reckon what it did, and meant; 

But trepidation of the spheres, 

   Though greater far, is innocent. 

Dull sublunary lovers' love 

   (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 

Absence, because it doth remove 

   Those things which elemented it. 

But we by a love so much refined, 

   That our selves know not what it is, 

Inter-assured of the mind, 

   Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 

Our two souls therefore, which are one, 

   Though I must go, endure not yet 

A breach, but an expansion, 

   Like gold to airy thinness beat. 

If they be two, they are two so 

   As stiff twin compasses are two; 

Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show 

   To move, but doth, if the other do. 

And though it in the center sit, 

   Yet when the other far doth roam, 

It leans and hearkens after it, 

   And grows erect, as that comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must, 

   Like th' other foot, obliquely run; 

Thy firmness makes my circle just, 

   And makes me end where I begun. 

IV.              Paradise Lost (Book IX, Lines 795-833)

By JOHN MILTON

O Sovran, vertuous, precious of all Trees [ 795 ]
In Paradise, of operation blest
To Sapience, hitherto obscur'd, infam'd,
And thy fair Fruit let hang, as to no end
Created; but henceforth my early care,
Not without Song, each Morning, and due praise [ 800 ]
Shall tend thee, and the fertil burden ease
Of thy full branches offer'd free to all;
Till dieted by thee I grow mature
In knowledge, as the Gods who all things know;
Though others envie what they cannot give; [ 805 ]
For had the gift bin theirs, it had not here
Thus grown. Experience, next to thee I owe,
Best guide; not following thee, I had remaind
In ignorance, thou op'nst Wisdoms way,
And giv'st access, though secret she retire. [ 810 ]
And I perhaps am secret; Heav'n is high,
High and remote to see from thence distinct
Each thing on Earth; and other care perhaps
May have diverted from continual watch
Our great Forbidder, safe with all his Spies [ 815 ]
About him. But to Adam in what sort
Shall I appeer? shall I to him make known
As yet my change, and give him to partake
Full happiness with mee, or rather not,
But keep the odds of Knowledge in my power [ 820 ]
Without Copartner? so to add what wants
In Femal Sex, the more to draw his Love,
And render me more equal, and perhaps,
A thing not undesireable, somtime
Superior: for inferior who is free? [ 825 ]
This may be well: but what if God have seen
And Death ensue? then I shall be no more,
And Adam wedded to another Eve,
Shall live with her enjoying, I extinct;
A death to think. Confirm'd then I resolve, [ 830 ]
Adam shall share with me in bliss or woe:
So dear I love him, that with him all deaths
I could endure, without him live no life.

V.                The Rape of the Lock: Canto 2

By Alexander Pope

Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain,

The sun first rises o'er the purpled main,

Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams

Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames.

Fair nymphs, and well-dress'd youths around her shone,

But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,

Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:

Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;

Oft she rejects, but never once offends.

Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,

And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,

Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide:

If to her share some female errors fall,

Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

       This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,

Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind

In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck

With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck.

Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,

And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.

With hairy springes we the birds betray,

Slight lines of hair surprise the finney prey,

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,

And beauty draws us with a single hair.

       Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admir'd;

He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd.

Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way,

By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;

For when success a lover's toil attends,

Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends.

       For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implor'd

Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd,

But chiefly love—to love an altar built,

Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt.

There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves;

And all the trophies of his former loves;

With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,

And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire.

Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes

Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize:

The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r,

The rest, the winds dispers'd in empty air.

       But now secure the painted vessel glides,

The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides,

While melting music steals upon the sky,

And soften'd sounds along the waters die.

Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play,

Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay.

All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts opprest,

Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.

He summons strait his denizens of air;

The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:

Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe,

That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath.

Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold,

Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold.

Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight,

Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light,

Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,

Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew;

Dipp'd in the richest tincture of the skies,

Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes,

While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings,

Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings.

Amid the circle, on the gilded mast,

Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd;

His purple pinions op'ning to the sun,

He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun.

       "Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear!

Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear!

Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd

By laws eternal to th' aerial kind.

Some in the fields of purest æther play,

And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.

Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high,

Or roll the planets through the boundless sky.

Some less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light

Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night,

Or suck the mists in grosser air below,

Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,

Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main,

Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain.

Others on earth o'er human race preside,

Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:

Of these the chief the care of nations own,

And guard with arms divine the British throne.

       "Our humbler province is to tend the fair,

Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care.

To save the powder from too rude a gale,

Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale,

To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs,

To steal from rainbows e'er they drop in show'rs

A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,

Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;

Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,

To change a flounce, or add a furbelow.

       "This day, black omens threat the brightest fair

That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care;

Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight,

But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night.

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw;

Or stain her honour, or her new brocade,

Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade;

Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;

Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall.

Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:

The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care;

The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign;

And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;

Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock;

Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.

       "To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note,

We trust th' important charge, the petticoat:

Oft have we known that sev'n-fold fence to fail,

Though stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale.

Form a strong line about the silver bound,

And guard the wide circumference around.

       "Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,

His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,

Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins,

Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins;

Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie,

Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye:

Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,

While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain;

Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r

Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flow'r.

Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel

The giddy motion of the whirling mill,

In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow,

And tremble at the sea that froths below!"

       He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;

Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend,

Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair,

Some hang upon the pendants of her ear;

With beating hearts the dire event they wait,

Anxious, and trembling for the birth of fate.

UNIT IV: DRAMA

DR.  FAUSTUS

Christopher Marlowe: Born in Canterbury in 1564, the same year as William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe was an actor, poet, and playwright during the reign of Britain’s Queen Elizabeth I (ruled 1558–1603). He produced seven plays, all of which were immensely popular. Among the most well-known of his plays are Tamburlaine, The Jew of Malta, and Doctor Faustus. In his writing, he pioneered the use of blank verse, non-rhyming lines of iambic pentameter, which many of his contemporaries, including William Shakespeare, later adopted.

Doctor Faustus was probably written in 1592, although the exact date of its composition is uncertain, since it was not published until a decade later. The idea of an individual selling his or her soul to the devil for knowledge is an old motif in Christian folklore, one that had become attached to the historical persona of Johannes Faustus, a disreputable astrologer who lived in Germany sometime in the early 1500s.

Doctor Faustus, a well-respected German scholar, grows dissatisfied with the limits of traditional forms of knowledge-logic, medicine, law, and religion and decides that he wants to learn to practice magic. He has his servant Wagner summon Valdes and Cornelius, two German experts in magic. Faustus tells them that he has decided to experiment in necromancy and needs them to teach him some of the fundamentals.

When he is alone in his study, Faustus begins experimenting with magical incantations, and suddenly Mephistophilis appears, in the form of an ugly devil. Faustus sends him away, telling him to reappear in the form of a friar. Faustus discovers that it is not his conjuring which brings forth Mephistophilis but, instead, that when anyone curses the trinity, devils automatically appear. Faustus sends Mephistophilis back to hell with the bargain that if Faustus is given twenty-four years of absolute power, he will then sell his soul to Lucifer. Later, in his study, when Faustus begins to despair, a Good Angel and a Bad Angel appear to him; each encourages Faustus to follow his advice. Mephistophilis appears and Faust agrees to sign a contract in blood with the devil even though several omens appear which warn him not to make this bond.

Faustus begins to repent of his bargain as the voice of the Good Angel continues to urge him to repent. To divert Faustus, Mephistophilis and Lucifer both appear and parade the seven deadly sins before Faustus. After this, Mephistophilis takes Faustus to Rome and leads him into the pope's private chambers, where the two become invisible and play pranks on the pope and some unsuspecting friars.  After this episode, Faustus and Mephistophilis go to the German emperor's court, where they conjure up Alexander the Great. At this time, Faustus also makes a pair of horns suddenly appear on one of the knights who had been sceptical about Faustus' powers. After this episode, Faustus is next seen selling his horse to a horse-courser with the advice that the man must not ride the horse into the water. Later, the horse-courser enters Faustus' study and accuses Faustus of false dealings because the horse had turned into a bundle of hay in the middle of a pond.

After performing other magical tricks such as bringing forth fresh grapes in the dead of winter, Faustus returns to his study, where at the request of his fellow scholars, he conjures up the apparition of Helen of Troy. An old man appears and tries to get Faustus to hope for salvation and yet Faustus cannot. He knows it is now too late to turn away from the evil and ask for forgiveness. When the scholars leave, the clock strikes eleven and Faustus realizes that he must give up his soul within an hour. As the clock marks each passing segment of time, Faustus sinks deeper and deeper into despair. When the clock strikes twelve, devils appear amid thunder and lightning and carry Faustus off to his eternal damnation.

Prologue: The Chorus, a single actor, enters and introduces the plot of the play. It will involve neither love nor war, he tells us, but instead will trace the “form of Faustus’ fortunes” (Prologue.8). The Chorus chronicles how Faustus was born to lowly parents in the small town of Rhode, how he came to the town of Wittenberg to live with his kinsmen, and how he was educated at Wittenberg, a famous German university. After earning the title of doctor of divinity, Faustus became famous for his ability to discuss theological matters. The Chorus adds that Faustus is “swollen with cunning” and has begun to practice necromancy, or black magic (Prologue.20). The Prologue concludes by stating that Faustus is seated in his study.

Scene 1: In a long soliloquy, Faustus reflects on the most rewarding type of scholarship. He first considers logic, quoting the Greek philosopher Aristotle, but notes that disputing well seems to be the only goal of logic, and, since Faustus’s debating skills are already good, logic is not scholarly enough for him. He considers medicine, quoting the Greek physician Galen, and decides that medicine, with its possibility of achieving miraculous cures, is the most fruitful pursuit yet he notes that he has achieved great renown as a doctor already and that this fame has not brought him satisfaction. He considers law, quoting the Byzantine emperor Justinian, but dismisses law as too petty, dealing with trivial matters rather than larger ones. Divinity, the study of religion and theology, seems to offer wider vistas, but he quotes from St. Jerome’s Bible that all men sin and finds the Bible’s assertion that “the reward of sin is death” an unacceptable doctrine. He then dismisses religion and fixes his mind on magic, which, when properly pursued, he believes will make him “a mighty god” (1.62).

Wagner, Faustus’s servant, enters as his master finishes speaking. Faustus asks Wagner to bring Valdes and Cornelius, Faustus’s friends, to help him learn the art of magic. While they are on their way, a good angel and an evil angel visit Faustus. The good angel urges him to set aside his book of magic and read the Scriptures instead; the evil angel encourages him to go forward in his pursuit of the black arts. After they vanish, it is clear that Faustus is going to heed the evil spirit, since he exults at the great powers that the magical arts will bring him. Faustus imagines sending spirits to the end of the world to fetch him jewels and delicacies, having them teach him secret knowledge, and using magic to make himself king of all Germany. Valdes and Cornelius appear, and Faustus greets them, declaring that he has set aside all other forms of learning in favour of magic. They agree to teach Faustus the principles of the dark arts and describe the wondrous powers that will be his if he remains committed during his quest to learn magic. Cornelius tells him that “the miracles that magic will perform / Will make thee vow to study nothing else” (1.136–137). Valdes lists a number of texts that Faustus should read, and the two friends promise to help him become better at magic than even they are. Faustus invites them to dine with him, and they exit.

Scene 2: Two scholars come to see Faustus. Wagner makes jokes at their expense and then tells them that Faustus is meeting with Valdes and Cornelius. Aware that Valdes and Cornelius are infamous for their involvement in the black arts, the scholars leave with heavy hearts, fearing that Faustus may also be falling into “that damned art” as well (2.29).

Scene 3: That night, Faustus stands in a magical circle marked with various signs and words, and he chants in Latin. Four devils and Lucifer, the ruler of hell, watch him from the shadows. Faustus renounces heaven and God, swears allegiance to hell, and demands that Mephastophilis rise to serve him. The devil Mephastophilis then appears before Faustus, who commands him to depart and return dressed as a Franciscan friar, since “that holy shape becomes a devil best” (3.26). Mephastophilis vanishes, and Faustus remarks on his obedience. Mephastophilis then reappears, dressed as a monk, and asks Faustus what he desires. Faustus demands his obedience, but Mephastophilis says that he is Lucifer’s servant and can obey only Lucifer. He adds that he came because he heard Faustus deny obedience to God and hoped to capture his soul.

Faustus quizzes Mephastophilis about Lucifer and hell and learns that Lucifer and all his devils were once angels who rebelled against God and have been damned to hell forever. Faustus points out that Mephastophilis is not in hell now but on earth; Mephastophilis insists, however, that he and his fellow demons are always in hell, even when they are on earth, because being deprived of the presence of God, which they once enjoyed, is hell enough. Faustus dismisses this sentiment as a lack of fortitude on Mephastophilis’s part and then declares that he will offer his soul to Lucifer in return for twenty-four years of Mephastophilis’s service. Mephastophilis agrees to take this offer to his master and departs. Left alone, Faustus remarks that if he had “as many souls as there be stars,” he would offer them all to hell in return for the kind of power that Mephastophilis offers him (3.102). He eagerly awaits Mephastophilis’s return.

Scene 4: Wagner converses with a clown and tries to persuade him to become his servant for seven years. The clown is poor, and Wagner jokes that he would probably sell his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton; the clown answers that it would have to be well-seasoned mutton. After first agreeing to be Wagner’s servant, however, the clown abruptly changes his mind. Wagner threatens to cast a spell on him, and he then conjures up two devils, who he says will carry the clown away to hell unless he becomes Wagner’s servant. Seeing the devils, the clown becomes terrified and agrees to Wagner’s demands. After Wagner dismisses the devils, the clown asks his new master if he can learn to conjure as well, and Wagner promises to teach him how to turn himself into any kind of animal but he insists on being called “Master Wagner.”

Scene 5:Faustus begins to waver in his conviction to sell his soul. The good angel tells him to abandon his plan and “think of heaven, and heavenly things,” but he dismisses the good angel’s words, saying that God does not love him (5.20). The good and evil angels make another appearance, with the good one again urging Faustus to think of heaven, but the evil angel convinces him that the wealth he can gain through his deal with the devil is worth the cost. Faustus then calls back Mephastophilis, who tells him that Lucifer has accepted his offer of his soul in exchange for twenty-four years of service. Faustus asks Mephastophilis why Lucifer wants his soul, and Mephastophilis tells him that Lucifer seeks to enlarge his kingdom and make humans suffer even as he suffers.

Faustus decides to make the bargain, and he stabs his arm in order to write the deed in blood. However, when he tries to write the deed his blood congeals, making writing impossible. Mephastophilis goes to fetch fire in order to loosen the blood, and, while he is gone, Faustus endures another bout of indecision, as he wonders if his own blood is attempting to warn him not to sell his soul. When Mephastophilis returns, Faustus signs the deed and then discovers an inscription on his arm that reads “Homo fuge,” Latin for “O man, fly” (5.77). While Faustus wonders where he should fly,Mephastophilis presents a group of devils, who cover Faustus with crowns and rich garments. Faustus puts aside his doubts. He hands over the deed, which promises his body and soul to Lucifer in exchange for twenty-four years of constant service from Mephastophilis.

After he turns in the deed, Faustus asks his new servant where hell is located, and Mephastophilis says that it has no exact location but exists everywhere. He continues explaining, saying that hell is everywhere that the damned are cut off from God eternally. Faustus remarks that he thinks hell is a myth. At Faustus’s request for a wife, Mephastophilis offers Faustus a she-devil, but Faustus refuses. Mephastophilis then gives him a book of magic spells and tells him to read it carefully.

Faustus once again wavers and leans toward repentance as he contemplates the wonders of heaven from which he has cut himself off. The good and evil angels appear again, and Faustus realizes that “my heart’s so hardened I cannot repent!” (5.196). He then begins to ask Mephastophilis questions about the planets and the heavens. Mephastophilis answers all his queries willingly, until Faustus asks who made the world. Mephastophilis refuses to reply because the answer is “against our kingdom”; when Faustus presses him, Mephastophilis departs angrily (5.247). Faustus then turns his mind to God, and again he wonders if it is too late for him to repent. The good and evil angels enter once more, and the good angel says it is never too late for Faustus to repent. Faustus begins to appeal to Christ for mercy, but then Lucifer, Belzebub (another devil), and Mephastophilis enter. They tell Faustus to stop thinking of God and then present a show of the Seven Deadly Sins. Each sin that is Pride, Covetousness, Envy, Wrath, Gluttony, Sloth, and finally Lechery appear before Faustus and makes a brief speech. The sight of the sins delights Faustus’s soul, and he asks to see hell. Lucifer promises to take him there that night. For the meantime he gives Faustus a book that teaches him how to change his shape.

Scene 6:  Meanwhile, Robin, a stable hand, has found one of Faustus’s conjuring books, and he is trying to learn the spells. He calls in an innkeeper named Rafe, and the two go to a bar together, where Robin promises to conjure up any kind of wine that Rafe desires.

Chorus 2: Wagner takes the stage and describes how Faustus traveled through the heavens on a chariot pulled by dragons in order to learn the secrets of astronomy. Wagner tells us that Faustus is now traveling to measure the coasts and kingdoms of the world and that his travels will take him to Rome.

Scene 7: Faustus appears, recounting to Mephastophilis his travels throughout Europe, first from Germany to France and then on to Italy. He asks Mephastophilis if they have arrived in Rome, whose monuments he greatly desires to see, and Mephastophilis replies that they are in the pope’s privy chamber. It is a day of feasting in Rome, to celebrate the pope’s victories, and Faustus and Mephastophilis agree to use their powers to play tricks on the pope.

Scene 8: Robin the ostler, or stablehand, and his friend Rafe have stolen a cup from a tavern. They are pursued by a vintner (or wine-maker), who demands that they return the cup. They claim not to have it, and then Robin conjures up Mephastophilis, which makes the vintner flee. Mephastophilis is not pleased to have been summoned for a prank, and he threatens to turn the two into an ape and a dog. The two friends treat what they have done as a joke, and Mephastophilis leaves in a fury, saying that he will go to join Faustus in Turkey.

Chorus 3: The Chorus enters to inform us that Faustus has returned home to Germany and developed his fame by explaining what he learned during the course of his journey. The German emperor, Charles V, has heard of Faustus and invited him to his palace, where we next encounter him.

Scene 9: At the court of the emperor, two gentlemen, Martino and Frederick, discuss the imminent arrival of Bruno and Faustus. Martino remarks that Faustus has promised to conjure up Alexander the Great, the famous conqueror. The two of them wake another gentleman, Benvolio, and tell him to come down and see the new arrivals, but Benvolio declares that he would rather watch the action from his window, because he has a hangover.Faustus comes before the emperor, who thanks him for having freed Bruno from the clutches of the pope. Faustus acknowledges the gratitude and then says that he stands ready to fulfil any wish that the emperor might have. Benvolio, watching from above, remarks to himself that, Faustus looks nothing like what he would expect a conjurer to look like.

The emperor tells Faustus that he would like to see Alexander the Great and his lover. Faustus tells him that he cannot produce their actual bodies but can create spirits resembling them. A knight present in the court is sceptical, and asserts that it is as untrue that Faustus can perform this feat as that the goddess Diana has transformed the knight into a stag.

Before the eyes of the court, Faustus creates a vision of Alexander embracing his lover. Faustus conjures a pair of antlers onto the head of the knight. The knight pleads for mercy, and the emperor entreats Faustus to remove the horns. Faustus complies, warning Benvolio to have more respect for scholars in the future.

With his friends Martino and Frederick and a group of soldiers, Benvolio plots an attack against Faustus. His friends try to dissuade him, but he is so furious at the damage done to his reputation that he will not listen to reason. They resolve to ambush Faustus as he leaves the court of the emperor and to take the treasures that the emperor has given Faustus. Frederick goes out with the soldiers to scout and returns with word that Faustus is coming toward them and that he is alone. When Faustus enters, Benvolio stabs him and cuts off his head. He and his friends rejoice, and they plan the further indignities that they will visit on Faustus’s corpse. But then Faustus rises with his head restored. Faustus tells them that they are fools, since his life belongs to Mephastophilis and cannot be taken by anyone else. He summons Mephastophilis, who arrives with a group of lesser devils, and orders the devils to carry his attackers off to hell. Then, reconsidering, he orders them instead to punish Benvolio and his friends by dragging them through thorns and hurling them off of cliffs, so that the world will see what happens to people who attack Faustus. As the men and devils leave, the soldiers come in, and Faustus summons up another clutch of demons to drive them off.

Scene 9: Benvolio, Frederick, and Martino reappear. They are bruised and bloody from having been chased and harried by the devils, and all three of them now have horns sprouting from their heads. They greet one another unhappily, express horror at the fate that has befallen them, and agree to conceal themselves in a castle rather than face the scorn of the world.

Scene 10: Faustus, meanwhile, meets a horse-courser and sells him his horse. Faustus gives the horse-courser a good price but warns him not to ride the horse into the water. Faustus begins to reflect on the pending expiration of his contract with Lucifer and falls asleep. The horse-courser reappears, sopping wet, complaining that when he rode his horse into a stream it turned into a heap of straw. He decides to get his money back and tries to wake Faustus by hollering in his ear. He then pulls on Faustus’s leg when Faustus will not wake. The leg breaks off, and Faustus wakes up, screaming bloody murder. The horse-courser takes the leg and runs off. Meanwhile, Faustus’s leg is immediately restored, and he laughs at the joke that he has played. Wagner then enters and tells Faustus that the Duke of Vanholt has summoned him. Faustus agrees to go, and they depart together.

Robin and Rafe have stopped for a drink in a tavern. They listen as a carter, or wagon-driver and the horse-courser discuss Faustus. The carter explains that Faustus stopped him on the road and asked to buy some hay to eat. The carter agreed to sell him all he could eat for three farthings, and Faustus proceeded to eat the entire wagonload of hay. The horse-courser tells his own story, adding that he took Faustus’s leg as revenge and that he is keeping it at his home. Robin declares that he intends to seek out Faustus, but only after he has a few more drinks.

Scene 11: At the court of the Duke of Vanholt, Faustus’s skill at conjuring up beautiful illusions wins the duke’s favor. Faustus comments that the duchess has not seemed to enjoy the show and asks her what she would like. She tells him she would like a dish of ripe grapes, and Faustus has Mephastophilis bring her some grapes. (In the B text of Doctor Faustus, Robin, Dick, the carter, the horse-courser, and the hostess from the tavern burst in at this moment. They confront Faustus, and the horse-courser begins making jokes about what he assumes is Faustus’s wooden leg. Faustus then shows them his leg, which is whole and healthy, and they are amazed. Each then launches into a complaint about Faustus’s treatment of him, but Faustus uses magical charms to make them silent, and they depart.) The duke and duchess are much pleased with Faustus’s display, and they promise to reward Faustus greatly.

Chorus 4: Wagner announces that Faustus must be about to die because he has given Wagner all of his wealth. But he remains unsure, since Faustus is not acting like a dying man rather; he is out carousing with scholars.

Scene 12: Faustus enters with some of the scholars. One of them asks Faustus if he can produce Helen of Greece (also known as Helen of Troy), who they have decided was “the admirable lady / that ever lived” (12.3–4). Faustus agrees to produce her, and gives the order to Mephastophilis: immediately, Helen herself crosses the stage, to the delight of the scholars.The scholars leave, and an old man enters and tries to persuade Faustus to repent. Faustus becomes distraught, and Mephastophilis hands him a dagger. However, the old man persuades him to appeal to God for mercy, saying, “I see an angel hovers o’er thy head / And with a vial full of precious grace / Offers to pour the same into thy soul!” (12.44–46). Once the old man leaves, Mephastophilis threatens to shred Faustus to pieces if he does not reconfirm his vow to Lucifer. Faustus complies, sealing his vow by once again stabbing his arm and inscribing it in blood. He asks Mephastophilis to punish the old man for trying to dissuade him from continuing in Lucifer’s service; Mephastophilis says that he cannot touch the old man’s soul but that he will scourge his body. Faustus then asks Mephastophilis to let him see Helen again. Helen enters, and Faustus makes a great speech about her beauty and kisses her.

Scene 13: The final night of Faustus’s life has come, and he tells the scholars of the deal he has made with Lucifer. They are horrified and ask what they can do to save him, but he tells them that there is nothing to be done. Reluctantly, they leave to pray for Faustus. A vision of hell opens before Faustus’s horrified eyes as the clock strikes eleven. The last hour passes by quickly, and Faustus exhorts the clocks to slow and time to stop, so that he might live a little longer and have a chance to repent. He then begs God to reduce his time in hell to a thousand years or a hundred thousand years, so long as he is eventually saved. He wishes that he were a beast and would simply cease to exist when he dies instead of face damnation. He curses his parents and himself, and the clock strikes midnight. Devils enter and carry Faustus away as he screams, “Ugly hell gape not! Come not, Lucifer! / I’ll burn my books—ah, Mephastophilis!” (13.112–113).

Epilogue: The final scenes contain some of the most noteworthy speeches in the play, especially Faustus’s speech to Helen and his final soliloquy. His address to Helen begins with the famous line “Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,” referring to the Trojan War, which was fought over Helen, and goes on to list all the great things that Faustus would do to win her love (12.81). He compares himself to the heroes of Greek mythology, who went to war for her hand, and he ends with a lengthy praise of her beauty. In its flowery language and emotional power, the speech marks a return to the eloquence that marks Faustus’s words in earlier scenes, before his language and behaviour become mediocre and petty. Having squandered his powers in pranks and childish entertainments, Faustus regains his eloquence and tragic grandeur in the final scene, as his doom approaches. Still, as impressive as this speech is, Faustus maintains the same blind spots that lead him down his dark road in the first place. Earlier, he seeks transcendence through magic instead of religion. Now, he seeks it through sex and female beauty, as he asks Helen to make him “immortal” by kissing him (12.83). Moreover, it is not even clear that Helen is real, since Faustus’s earlier conjuring of historical figures evokes only illusions and not physical beings. If Helen too is just an illusion, then Faustus is wasting his last hours dallying with a fantasy image, an apt symbol for his entire life.Faustus’s final speech is the most emotionally powerful scene in the play, as his despairing mind rushes from idea to idea. One moment he is begging time to slow down, the next he is imploring Christ for mercy. One moment he is crying out in fear and trying to hide from the wrath of God, the next he is begging to have the eternity of hell lessened somehow. He curses his parents for giving birth to him but then owns up to his responsibility and curses himself. His mind’s various attempts to escape his doom, then, lead inexorably to an understanding of his own guilt.

The passion of the final speech points to the central question in Doctor Faustus of why Faustus does not repent. Early in the play, he deceives himself into believing either that hell is not so bad or that it does not exist. But, by the close, with the gates of hell literally opening before him, he still ignores the warnings of his own conscience and of the old man, a physical embodiment of the conscience that plagues him. Faustus’s loyalty to Lucifer could be explained by the fact that he is afraid of having his body torn apart by Mephastophilis. But he seems almost eager, even in the next-to-last scene, to reseal his vows in blood, and he even goes a step further when he demands that Mephastophilis punish the old man who urges him to repent. Marlowe suggests that Faustus’s self-delusion persists even at the end. Having served Lucifer for so long, he has reached a point at which he cannot imagine breaking free.

In his final speech, Faustus is clearly wracked with remorse, yet he no longer seems to be able to repent. Faustus appears to be calling on Christ, seeking the precious drop of blood that will save his soul. Yet some unseen force whether inside or outside him prevents him from giving himself to God. Ultimately, the ending of Doctor Faustus represents a clash between Christianity, which holds that repentance and salvation are always possible, and the dictates of tragedy, in which some character flaw cannot be corrected, even by appealing to God. The idea of Christian tragedy, then, is paradoxical, as Christianity is ultimately uplifting. People may suffer as Christ himself did but for those who repent, salvation eventually awaits. To make Doctor Faustus a true tragedy, then, Marlowe had to set down a moment beyond which Faustus could no longer repent, so that in the final scene, while still alive, he can be damned and conscious of his damnation.

The unhappy Faustus’s last line returns us to the clash between Renaissance values and medieval values that dominates the early scenes and then recedes as Faustus pursues his mediocre amusements in later scenes. His cry, as he pleads for salvation, that he will burn his books suggests, for the first time since early scenes, that his pact with Lucifer is primarily about a thirst for limitless knowledge a thirst that is presented as incompatible with Christianity.

In the duel between Christendom and the rising modern spirit, Marlowe’s play seems to come down squarely on the side of Christianity. Yet Marlowe, himself notoriously accused of atheism and various other sins, may have had other ideas, and he made his Faustus sympathetic, if not necessarily admirable. While his play shows how the untrammelled pursuit of knowledge and power can be corrupting, it also shows the grandeur of such a quest. Faustus is damned, but the gates that he opens remain standing wide, waiting for others to follow.

UNIT V: FICTION

THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

An essayist, novelist, poet, and playwright, Goldsmith was born in Kilkenny West, County Westmeath, Ireland. He worked as a writer and was friends with the artistic and literary luminaries of the time, including Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Edmund Burke. Goldsmith is author of the essay collection The Citizen of the World (1762), the novel The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), the plays The Good Natured Man (1768) and She Stoops to Conquer (1773), and the poetry collections Traveller, or, a Prospect of Society (1764), An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog (1766), and The Deserted Village: A Poem (1770).

The virtuous, prudent, and intelligent vicar of Wakefield lives happily his family, which consists of his wife Deborah, his sons George, Moses, Bill, and Dick, and his two daughters Olivia and Sophia. They live a cloistered and genteel life, and are preparing for the eldest son George to marry a lovely neighbourhood girl, Miss Arabella Wilmot. Unfortunately, Mr. Wilmot cancels the engagement after the vicar offends him in a philosophical argument about marriage, and after the vicar loses his fortune to a shady merchant who proved to be a thief. Now destitute, the family is forced to move to a more humble area.

In their new neighbourhood, the vicar works as a curate and farmer. The family sends George, who had been educated at Oxford, to London in hopes that he can earn a living there to supplement the family's income. The new area is comfortable and pastoral, but the women in particular find it difficult to acclimate to a lower level of fashion than they are accustomed to. The vicar befriends a handsome, erudite, and poor young man named Mr. Burchell. After Burchell saves Sophia from drowning, it seems clear that she is attracted to him. Meanwhile, the family also hears word of their new landlord, Squire Thornhill, reputed to be a spoiled brat who lives off the generosity of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, while living a reprobate lifestyle.

Eventually, the family meets the much-discussed squire, who proves charming, attractive, and amiable. The vicar quickly forgets his reservations as he notices the squire's interest in Olivia, and the family begins to hope that their fortunes might change. Meanwhile, as he anticipates a new social status, the vicar becomes less pleased with Mr. Burchell's attention to Sophia. He does not want her marrying a man of no fortune. They lose their simple manners and grow more prideful and vain as their hopes for Olivia and the squire increase. However, the more they attempt to present themselves as above their station, the more embarrassments they encounter. For instance, both the vicar and Moses are duped when attempting to sell the family's horses in exchange for more fashionable ones.

The squire introduces the vicar's daughters to two fashionable ladies, who suggest they might find positions for the girls in the city. The family is pleased, but incensed when they discover that Mr. Burchell has written a letter ambiguously threatening the girls' reputations. Because of this letter, the plan to move the girls to town is foiled. Mr. Burchell is banished from the house. Deborah tries to prompt the squire into proposing to Olivia, by vaguely threatening to marry the girl to a neighbour, Father Williams. Though the squire is clearly upset and jealous by the latter's man presence, he makes no effort to propose, and the family prepares to marry Olivia to the farmer.

However, right before the wedding, Olivia flees with Squire Thornhill. This is a heart breaking blow to the family, since it means Olivia has sacrificed her reputation. The vicar sets out after her, hoping to save and forgive her. He finds Squire Thornhill at home, and then suspects Mr. Burchell of the crime. The vicar's journey and anxiety are taxing, and he falls ill while far away from home. He rests for three weeks at an inn, and then heads back towards home, meeting a traveling acting company along the way.   When they arrive at the next town, he meets an intelligent man who invites him to his home for a dinner party. The vicar agrees, and is astonished by the man's magnificent mansion. To his shock, however, he discovers that this man is actually the home's butler when the true master, Mr. Arnold, arrives. It also turns out that Mr. Arnold is uncle to Miss Arabella Wilmot, who is overjoyed to reunite with the vicar. Her love for George has clearly not abated, although there are rumours that she is preparing to marry Squire Thornhill.

The vicar stays with the family for a few days. In an amazing turn of events, they attend the acting company's show to discover that George himself is acting with it. Later, George reunites with his father and Arabella, and tells of his many misadventures since parting with his family. His many missteps ended with him attempting to act, and none of them yielded much fortune. Along the way, he had reunited with an old college friend - who turned out to be Squire Thornhill - but was ruined when he fought a duel for the squire and was then repudiated by Sir William for that base behaviour. The squire soon arrives at the Arnold house, and is surprised to see the vicar and his son there. After some time, noticing the renewed feelings between Arabella and George, the squire procures a job for George in the West Indies. Since he has no money and no one suspects the Squire of ulterior motives, George gladly departs.

The vicar prepares to return home. Along the way, he stops one night in an inn, and coincidentally discovers that Olivia is there as well. They reunite in a tumult of emotion, and Olivia explains how the squire seduced her, married her in a fake ceremony, and then left her in a de facto house of prostitution. She finally escaped his clutches, and has since lived at the mercy of the innkeeper. The vicar brings Olivia home, but leaves her at a nearby inn so he can emotionally prepare the family for her return. Unfortunately, he finds his home engulfed in flames, with the two youngest sons trapped inside. He rushes in and saves them, but terribly injures his arm in the process. This proves a terrible blow to the family, and in light of it, they all easily forgive Olivia, who nevertheless remains broken-hearted.

The family tries to return to normal, even after they hear of the engagement between Arabella and Squire Thornhill. One day, the squire finds them outside, and the vicar insults him. The squire threatens to avenge himself on the vicar, and the next day sends two officers to collect rent the vicar owes on the house. The vicar cannot pay, and is arrested. They travel together to the jail. The ladies take up residence in a nearby inn, while the sons stay with him in his cell. In prison, the vicar makes a friend named Ephraim Jenkinson, who turns out to be the man who swindled the vicar and Moses of their horses. He has since repented for his sinful life, and the vicar forgives him. In prison, the vicar sets out to reform the other prisoners, eventually winning them over with sermons and kindnesses. He tells Jenkinson what has happened to him, and the man resolves to help however he can. They send a letter to Sir William explaining how the man's nephew had wronged the family. Though both Olivia's health and the vicar's own health are fading, he refuses to make peace with Squire Thornhill until Jenkinson brings word that Olivia has died. Anguished, the vicar sends a letter of peace to Squire Thornhill, who refuses to compromise because of the letter the vicar sent to Sir William. The vicar then learns that Sophia has been abducted. Almost immediately afterwards, George is brought to the jail as a prisoner, after having heard of Olivia's shame and then challenging the squire to a duel. The squire's servants beat him instead. Horrified by this succession of misfortunes, the vicar steels himself and delivers a sermon on fortitude to the entire prison.

After the sermon, Moses brings news that Mr. Burchell had rescued Sophia. They arrive, and the vicar apologizes to Burchell for his previous resentments, and offers his daughter's hand to the man despite the latter's poverty. Burchell makes no answer, but orders a great feast which the family enjoys until word arrives that Squire Thornhill has arrived and wishes to see Mr. Burchell. The latter then reveals that he is actually Sir William Thornhill. Sophia describes the man who kidnapped her, and Jenkinson realizes who the scoundrel is. With Sir William's blessing, the jailer gives Jenkinson two men with which to apprehend this criminal. Meanwhile, Sir William realizes who George is, and lectures him about fighting. He comes to understand the behaviour, if not condone it, when he learns what George believed about his nephew.

When Squire Thornhill arrives, he denies everything. The vicar has no hard evidence to support his claims until Jenkinson triumphantly returns with the criminal who kidnapped Sophia at the squire's behest. The plan was for the squire to mock-rescue her so he could then seduce her. Arabella and Mr. Wilmot suddenly arrive at the jail, having learned from one of the young boys that the vicar had been arrested. The new discoveries quickly convince Arabella to end the engagement, but the squire is unfazed - since he had already signed the contract ensuring him Arabella's dowry, he has no need of the actual marriage. Though everyone is dismayed, Arabella and George are mostly overjoyed to be reunited, and plan to marry anyway.

However, many great discoveries save the family. First, it turns out that Olivia is not dead; Jenkinson lied in order to convince the vicar to make peace with the squire. Secondly, Jenkinson, who acted as the priest in what the squire thought was a fake wedding to Olivia, actually and legally married them. It turns out, then, that Olivia and the Squire are legitimately married, and so the squire is not entitled to Arabella's fortune. Squire Thornhill, now completely ruined, begs mercy of his uncle and is granted a small allowance. Once he leaves, Sir William proposes to Sophia, who accepts. In the conclusion, George marries Arabella and Sir William marries Sophia. The squire lives with a melancholy relative far away. The vicar's fortune is restored when the merchant who stole it is caught. Happiness and felicity reign, and the vicar hopes he will be as thankful to God during the good times as he was during the times of adversity.

Questions: 1) How does the vicar change throughout the novel?

2) Discuss the novel's tone, style, and genre. How are each of these complicated throughout the work?

3) The Primrose family is frequently duped throughout the novel. What makes them so susceptible to being fooled?

4) In what way is this novel a satire?

5) How are the events of the novel similar to those of Goldsmith's own life?

6) Why are the stakes so high for Olivia's "abduction" in the novel?

7) How does Sir William fit into the novel's moral themes?

8) What is the significance of the novel's title?

9) One could easily argue that the string of calamities in the novel's second half is exploitative and unrealistic. Defend the extremity of these events.