down at his boots, like a man in shame. "Ay," says he, brows down, voice gone low an' timid. "Congratulate me, does you? Sure. That's proper-maybe.' ""Nineteenth o' the month," says I. ""That's God's truth, Tumm."

666

"An' I'm come, ecod," says I, "t' celebrate the first birthday o' Tobias Tumm Mull!"

""First birthday," says he. "That's God's truth."

""Is n't there goin' t' be no celebration?"

""Oh, sure!" says he. "Oh, my, yes! Been gettin' ready for days. An' I've orders t' fetch you straightway t' the house. Supper's laid, Tumm. Four places at the board the night."

"I'll get my gifts," says I; "an' then-"

'He put a hand on my arm. gifts?" says he.

666

"What

""Is you gone mad, Tim Mull?”

""For the child?" says he. "Oh, sure! Mm-m!" He looked down at the deck. "I hopes, Tumm," says he, "that they was n't so very- expensive."

""I'll spend what I likes," says I, 'on my own godson."

""Sure, you will!" says he. "But I wish that

"Then no more. He stuttered- an' gulped-an' give a sigh-an' went for'ard. An' so I fetched the spoon an' the mug from below, in a sweat o' wonder an' fear, an' we went ashore in Tim's punt, with Tim as glum as a rainy day in the fall o' the year.'

'An' now you may think that Mary Mull was woe-begone, too. But she was not. Brown, plump, an' rosy! How she bloomed! She shone with health; she twinkled with good spirits. There was no sign o'shame upon her no more. Her big brown eyes was clean o' tears. Her voice was soft with content. A sweet woman, she was, ever, an' tender

with happiness, now, when she met us at the threshold. I marveled that a gift like Toby Mull could work such a change in a woman. 'T is queer how we thrives when we haves what we wants. She thanked me for the mug an' the spoon in a way that made me fair pity the joy that the little things give her.

""For Toby!" says she. "For wee Toby! Ah, Tumm, Tumm, - how wonderful thoughtful Toby's godfather is!"

She wiped her eyes, then; an' I wondered that she should shed tears upon such an' occasion-ay, wondered, an' could make nothin' of it at all.

"""T is a great thing," says she, "t' be the mother of a son. I lost my pride, Tumm, as you knows, afore we moved down the Labrador. But now, Tumm,

now, lad, — I'm jus' like other women. I'm jus' as much a woman, Tumm," says she, "as any woman o' Tinkle Tickle!"

With that she patted my shoulder an' smiled an' rippled with sweet laughter an' fled t' the kitchen t' spread Toby Mull's first birthday party.

"Tim," says I, "she've done well since Toby come.'

"Mm-m?" says he. "Ay!" - an' smoked on.

""Ecod!" says I; "she's blithe as a maid o' sixteen."

""She's able t' hold her head up,' says he. "Is n't afeared she'll be laughed at by the women no more. That's why. "T is simple."

""You've lost heart yourself, Tim." ""Me? Oh, no!" says he. "I'm a bit off my feed. Nothin' more. An' I'm steadily improvin'. Steadily, Tumm, - improvin' steadily.

""You've trouble, Tim?”

'He gripped his pipe with his teeth an' puffed hard. "Ay," says he, after a bit. "I've trouble, Tumm. You got it right, lad.”

'Jus' then Mary Mull called t' supper. There was no time t' learn more o' this trouble. But I was bound an' determined, believe me, t' have Tim Mull aboard my craft, that night, an' fathom his woe. 'T was a thousand pities that trouble should have un downcast when joy had come over the rim of his world like a new day.'

'Places for four, ecod! Tim Mull was right. "T was a celebration. A place for Tim-an' a place for Mary -an' a place for me. An' there, too, was a place for Tobias Tumm Mull, a high chair, drawed close to his mother's side, with arms waitin' t' clutch an' hold the little nipper so soon as they fetched un in. I wished they'd not delay. 'T was a strain on the patience. I'd long wanted — an' I'd come far t' see my godson. But bein' a bachelorman I held my tongue for a bit: for, thinks I, they're washin' an' curlin' the child, an' they'll fetch un in when they're ready t' do so, all spick-an'-span an' polished like a door-knob, an' crowin', too, the little rooster! "T was a fair sight t' see Mary Mull smilin' beyond the tea-pot. 'T was good t' see what she had provided. Cod's-tongues an' bacon with new greens an' potatoes an' capillaire-berry pie an' bake-apple jelly. "T was pretty, too, t' see the way she had arrayed the table. There was flowers from the hills flung about on the cloth. An' in the midst of all — fair in the middle o' the blossoms an' leaves an' toothsome plenty was a white cake with one wee white taper burnin' as bright an' bold as ever a candle twice the size could manage.

666

"That's queer!" says she. "What you've come t' see?”

""Woman," cries I, "fetch in that baby!"

'Never a word. Never a sound. Mary Mull drawed back a step-an' stared at me with her eyes growin' wider an' wider. An' Tim Mull was lookin' out o' the window. An' I was much amazed by all this. An' then Mary Mull turned t' Tim. "Tim," says she, her voice slow an' low, "did you not write Tumm a letter?"

"Tim faced about. "No, Mary," says he. "I-I had n't no timet' waste with writin'." "That's queer, Tim." ""I-I-I forgot." ""I'm sorry - Tim."

""Oh, Mary, I did n't want to!" says Tim. "That's the truth of it, dear. I-I hated — t' do it.”

""An' you said never a word comin' up the hill?"

""God's sake!” cries Tim, like a man beggin' mercy, "I could n't say a word like that!"

'Mary turned then t' me. "Tumm," says she, "little Toby is dead." "Dead, Mary!"

""We did n't get much more than - jus' one good look at the little fellow-afore he left us.”

'When I took Tim Mull aboard the Call Again that night,' the tale ran on, "t was all clear above. What fog had been hangin' about had gone off with a little wind from the warm inland

lights gleamed all round about Black hills: still water in the lee o' the rocks. The tinkle of a bell fell down from the slope o' Lookout; an' a maid's laugh - sweet as the bell itself

'CONJECTURAL criticism,' observes Dr. Johnson, 'demands more than humanity possesses, and he that exercises it with most praise has very frequent need of indulgence. Let us now be told no more of the dull duty of an editor.'

With these words of soberness ringing in his ears, Dr. Furness began more than forty years ago the vast labor which has placed him at the head of Shakespearean scholars, and has made the student world his debtor. He brought to bear upon his task qualities essential to its completion: patience, balance, a wide acquaintance with Elizabethan literature and phraseology, the keenness of a greyhound on the track, an incorruptible sense of proportion, and an appreciation, equally just and generous, of his predecessors' work. Leisure and that rarest of fortune's gifts, the command of solitude, made possible the industry of his life. Above all, a noble enthusiasm sustained him through years of incredible drudgery. "The dull duty of an editor'! Well may Dr. Johnson heap scorn upon the words. When one is fitted by nature to enjoy the pleasure which perfection in literary art can give, one does not find it dull to live face to face with vital conceptions of humanity, embalmed in imperishable verse.

The first volume of the new Variorum, Romeo and Juliet, was published in 1871. Dr. Furness confessed that he chose the play because he loved it, and because he thought it probable that he would never edit another, an anticipation happily unfulfilled. As

he worked, he saw more and more clearly the imperative nature of his task; and, in his preface to Romeo and Juliet, while giving ample praise to Boswell's Variorum of 1821, he states simply and seriously the causes which make it inadequate to-day. Even the Cambridge edition of 1863, which Dr. Furness held to have created an era in Shakespearean literature, and to have put all students of Shakespearean text in debt to the learned and laborious editors, lacks one important detail. There is no word to note the adoption or rejection of contested readings by various students and commentators. This Dr. Furness considered a grave omission. 'In disputed passages,' he wrote, 'it is of great interest to see at a glance on which side lies the weight of authority.'

To read the fourteen prefaces which have enriched the fourteen plays included in the new Variorum, is to follow delicately and surely the intellectual life of a great scholar. There was an expansion of spirit as the work advanced. From being absolutely impersonal, an unseen editor, arranging and codifying the notes of others, sifting evidence and recording verdicts, Dr. Furness emerged gradually into the broad light of day. In the later volumes, every note dealing with a disputed point closes with a judgment, or dismisses the dispute as futile. A shrewd humor, held well in check, illuminates the dusty paths of learning. To distinction of style has been added the magnetic grace of personality. If

we cannot say of the Preface, 'With this key Dr. Furness unlocked his heart,' we can at least learn from it how much of his heart he gave smilingly away to a lady of such doubtful merit (what is the worth of merit in a bad world!) as Cleopatra.

For the five first plays, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Hamlet, King Lear, and Othello, Dr. Furness formed his own text. The remaining nine were reprinted from the First Folio.

'Who am I,' observes the conservative editor, in justification of this change of plan, 'that I should thrust myself in between the student and the text, as though in me resided the power to restore Shakespeare's own words?' This instinct of conservatism strengthened in Dr. Furness with every year of work, until it became a guiding principle, making for vigilance and lucidity. "Those who know the most,' he was wont to say, 'venture the least'; and his own ventures are so carefully considered as to lose all chance of hazard. Upon internal evidence, 'which is of imagination all compact,' he looked forever askance. Hypothetical allusions to historic personages and events (we like to think that there are half-a-dozen such crowded into a score of Oberon's lines), he dismissed as unworthy of critical consideration. Even when points of resemblance came as close as do the affectations of speech in Love's Labour's Lost to the weary euphuisms of Lyly, Dr. Furness stoutly refused to trace a dim connection. An undecipherable word or phrase never presented itself to his level judgment as a species of riddle, to be guessed at frantically until the end of time. If he did not know what the word or the phrase meant, he said so, and went on his way rejoicing. Who can forget his avowal of utter, invincible ignorance' as to the mysterious 'scamels' which Cali

VOL. 110 - NO. 5

ban finds on the rock, and his determination to retain the word as it stands. 'From the very beginning of the Play,' he reminds us, we know that the scene lies in an enchanted island. Is this to be forgotten? Since the air is full of sweet sounds, why may not the rocks be inhabited by unknown birds of gay plumage, or by vague animals of a grateful and appetizing plumpness? Let the picture remain of the dashing rocks, the stealthy, freckled whelp, and, in the clutch of his long nails, a young and tender scamel.'

So, too, with Mark Antony's 'Arme-gaunt Steede,' which, since the publication of the First Folio, has supplied abundant matter for conjecture:

he nodded,

And soberly did mount an Arme-gaunt Steede. Dr. Furness prints conscientiously two solid pages of notes anent this mysterious epithet, giving us every suggestion that has been proffered and discarded concerning its possible significance; at the close of which exhaustive survey he adds serenely: 'In view of the formidable, not to say appalling combination of equine qualities and armourer's art which has been detected in this adjective, Antony would have been more than mortal had he not approached his steed with extreme caution, and mounted it "soberly.'

Far more remarkable is the incurious attitude preserved by Dr. Furness in regard to the chronology of Shakespeare's plays, his indifference to dates which have cost other commentators years of study and speculation. Many and stern were the reproaches hurled at him for this indifference, but he remained indifferent still. Indeed it was his most noteworthy characteristic that, while regarding his own work with a steadfast and sane humility, he was wholly unvexed and unmoved by criticism. Immaculately free from what Dr. Johnson terms 'the acrimony of