"Tales from Shakespeare"
Charles and Mary Lamb
LEAR, king of Britain, had three daughters;
Goneril, wife to the duke of Albany; Regan, wife to the duke of Cornwall;
and Cordelia, a young maid, for whose love the king of France and duke of
Burgundy were joint suitors, and were at this time making stay for that
purpose in the court of Lear. |
The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of
government, he being more than fourscore years old, determined to take no
further part in state affairs, but to leave the management to younger
strengths, that he might have time to prepare for death, which must at no
long period ensue. With this intent he called his three daughters to him,
to know from their own lips which of them loved him best, that he might
part his kingdom among them in such proportions as their affection for him
should seem to deserve. |
Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more
than words could give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of her
own eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such professing
stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, only a
few fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that case. The
king, delighted to hear from her own mouth this assurance of her love, and
thinking truly that her heart went with it, in a ht of fatherly fondness
bestowed upon her and her husband one-third of his ample kingdom. |
Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what
she had to say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as her
sister, was not a whit behind in her profession, but rather declared that
what her sister had spoken came short of the love which she professed to
bear for his highness; insomuch that she found all other joys dead, in
comparison with the pleasure which she took in the love of her dear king
and father. |
Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, as he
thought; and could do no less, after the handsome assurances which Regan
had made, than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her husband,
equal in size to that which he had already given away to Goneril. |
Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he
called his joy, he asked what she had to say, thinking no doubt that she
would glad his ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters had
uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so much stronger than
theirs, as she had always been his darling, and favoured by him above
either of them. |
But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of her sisters,
whose hearts she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all their
coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle the old king out of his
dominions, that they and their husbands might reign in his lifetime, made
no other reply but this,—that she loved his majesty according to her
duty, neither more nor less. |
The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his
favourite child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her
speech, lest it should mar her fortunes. |
Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that
he had given her breeding, and loved her; that she returned those duties
back as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him. But
that she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her sisters
had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. Why had her
sisters husbands, if, as they said, they had no love for anything but
their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom she
gave her hand would want half her love, half of her care and duty; she
should never marry like her sisters, to love her father all. |
Cordelia. who in earnest loved her old father even almost as
extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly told him
so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving terms, and without
these qualifications, which did indeed sound a little ungracious; but
after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters, which she had seen
drawn such extravagant rewards, she thought the handsomest thing she could
do was to love and be silent. This put her affection out of suspicion of
mercenary ends, and showed that she loved, but not for gain; and that her
professions, the less ostentatious they were, had so much the more of
truth and sincerity than her sisters’. |
This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so
enraged the old monarch—who in his best of times always showed much of
spleen and rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age had so
clouded over his reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery,
nor a gay painted speech from words that came from the heart—that in a
fury of resentment he retracted the third part of his kingdom, which yet
remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away from
her, sharing it equally between her two sisters and their husbands, the
dukes of Albany and Cornwall; whom he now called to him, and in presence
of all his courtiers bestowing a coronet between them, invested them
jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution of government, only
retaining to himself the name of king; all the rest of royalty he
resigned; with this reservation, that himself, with a hundred knights for
his attendants, was to be maintained by monthly course in each of his
daughters’ palaces in turn. |
So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided
by reason, and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with
astonishment and sorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose
between this incensed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was
beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the passionate Lear on
pain of death commanded him to desist; but the good Kent was not so to be
repelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured as a king,
loved as a father, followed as a master; and he had never esteemed his
life further than as a pawn to wage against his royal master’s enemies,
nor feared to lose it when Lear’s safety was the motive; nor now that
Lear was most his own enemy, did this faithful servant of the king forget
his old principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do Lear good; and was
unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He had been a most faithful
counsellor in times past to the king, and he besought him now, that he
would see with his eyes (as he had done in many weighty matters), and go
by his advice still; and in his best consideration recall this hideous
rashness: for he would answer with his life, his judgment that Lear’s
youngest daughter did not love him least, nor were those empty-hearted
whose low sound gave no token of hollowness. When power bowed to flattery,
honour was bound to plainness. For Lear’s threats, what could he do to
him, whose life was already at his service? That should not hinder duty
from speaking. |
The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only stirred up
the king’s wrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his
physician, and loves his mortal disease, he banished this true servant,
and allotted him but five days to make his preparations for departure; but
if on the sixth his hated person was found within the realm of Britain,
that moment was to be his death. And Kent bade farewell to the king, and
said, that since he chose to show himself in such fashion, it was but
banishment to stay there; and before he went, he recommended Cordelia to
the protection of the gods, the maid who had so rightly thought, and so
discreetly spoken; and only wished that her sisters’ large speeches
might be answered with deeds of love; and then he went, as he said, to
shape his old course to a new country. |
The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in
to hear the determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know
whether they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she
was under her father’s displeasure, and had no fortune but her own
person to recommend her: and the duke of Burgundy declined the match, and
would not take her to wife upon such conditions; but the king of France,
understanding what the nature of the fault had been which had lost her the
love of her father, that it was only a tardiness of speech, and the not
being able to frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this
young maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry above a
kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her sisters and of her father,
though he had been unkind, and she should go with him, and be queen of him
and of fair France, and reign over fairer possessions than her sisters:
and he called the duke of Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke, because
his love for this young maid had in a moment run all away like water. |
Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters,
and besought them to love their father well, and make good their
professions: and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for they
knew their duty; but to strive to content her husband, who had taken her
(as they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune’s alms. And Cordelia with a
heavy heart departed, for she knew the cunning of her sisters, and she
wished her father in better hands than she was about to leave him in. |
Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions
of her sisters began to show themselves in their true colours. Even before
the expiration of the first month, which Lear was to spend by agreement
with his eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out the
difference between promises and performances. This wretch having got from
her father all that he had to bestow, even to the giving away of the crown
from off his head, began to grudge even those small remnants of royalty
which the old man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy with the
idea of being still a king. She could not bear to see him and his hundred
knights. Every time she met her father, she put on a frowning countenance;
and when the old man wanted to speak with her, she would feign sickness,
or anything to get rid of the sight of him; for it was plain that she
esteemed his old age a useless burden, and his attendants an unnecessary
expense: not only she herself slackened in her expressions of duty to the
king, but by her example, and (it is to be feared) not without her private
instructions, her very servants affected to treat him with neglect, and
would either refuse to obey his orders, or still more contemptuously
pretend not to hear them. Lear could not but perceive this alteration in
the behaviour of his daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as
he could, as people commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant
consequences which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon
them. |
True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by ill,
than falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated by good,
usage. This eminently appears in the instance of the good earl of
Kent, who, though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were
found in Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long as
there was a chance of his being useful to the king his master. See to what
mean shifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced to submit sometimes; yet
it counts nothing base or unworthy, so as it can but do service where it
owes an obligation! In the disguise of a serving man, all his greatness
and pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered his services to the king,
who, not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a
certain plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers, which the earl put
on (so different from that smooth oily flattery which he had so much
reason to be sick of, having found the effects not answerable in his
daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into his
service by the name of Caius, as he called himself, never suspecting him
to be his once great favourite, the high and mighty earl of Kent. |
This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity and love
to his royal master: for Goneril’s steward that same day behaving in a
disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language, as
no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius, not
enduring to hear so open an affront put upon his majesty, made no more ado
but presently tripped up his heels, and laid the unmannerly slave in the
kennel; for which friendly service Lear became more and more attached to
him. |
Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as
far as so insignificant a personage could show his love, the poor fool, or
jester, that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was the
custom of kings and great personages at that time to keep a fool (as he
was called) to make them sport after serious business: this poor fool
clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and by his witty sayings
would keep up his good humour, though he could not refrain sometimes from
jeering at his master for his imprudence in uncrowning himself, and giving
all away to his daughters; at which time, as he rhymingly expressed it,
these daughters
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For sudden joy did weep, |
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And he for sorrow sung, |
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That such a king should play bo-peep, |
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And go the fools among. |
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And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of which he
had plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart even in the
presence of Goneril herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which cut to
the quick: such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the
young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then has its head bit
off for its pains; and saying, that an ass may know when the cart draws
the horse (meaning that Lear’s daughters, that ought to go behind, now
ranked before their father); and that Lear was no longer Lear, but the
shadow of Lear: for which free speeches he was once or twice threatened to
be whipped. |
The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun
to perceive, were not all which this foolish fond father was to suffer
from his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his staying in
her palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up an
establishment of a hundred knights; that this establishment was useless
and expensive, and only served to kill her court with riot and feasting;
and she prayed him that he would lessen their number, and keep none but
old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age. |
Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that
it was his daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she
who had received a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, and
grudge him the respect due to his old age. But she persisting in her
undutiful demand, the old man’s rage was so excited, that he called her
a detested kite, and said that she spoke an untruth; and so indeed she
did, for the hundred knights were all men of choice behaviour and sobriety
of manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not given to rioting
or feasting, as she said. And he bid his horses to be prepared, for he
would go to his other daughter, Regan, he and his hundred knights; and he
spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted devil, and showed
more hideous in a child than the sea-monster. And he cursed his eldest
daughter Goneril so as was terrible to hear; praying that she might never
have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return that scorn and
contempt upon her which she had shown to him that she might feel how
sharper than a serpent’s tooth it was to have a thankless child. And
Goneril’s husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself for
any share which Lear might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear would
not hear him out, but in a rage ordered his horses to be saddled, and set
out with his followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter. And
Lear thought to himself how small the fault of Cordelia (if it was a
fault) now appeared, in comparison with her sister’s, and he wept; and
then he was ashamed that such a creature as Goneril should have so much
power over his manhood as to make him weep. |
Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp
and state at their palace; and Lear despatched his servant Caius with
letters to his daughter, that she might be prepared for his reception,
while he and his train followed after. But it seems that Goneril had been
beforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing her father of
waywardness and ill-humours, and advising her not to receive so great a
train as he was bringing with him. This messenger arrived at the same time
with Caius, and Caius and he met: and who should it be but Caius’s old
enemy the steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by the heels for his
saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the fellow’s look, and
suspecting what he came for, began to revile him, and challenged him to
fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat
him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and carrier of wicked messages
deserved; which coming to the ears of Regan and her husband, they ordered
Caius to be put in the stocks, though he was a messenger from the king her
father, and in that character demanded the highest respect; so that the
first thing the king saw when he entered the castle, was his faithful
servant Caius sitting in that disgraceful situation. |
This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to
expect; but a worse followed, when, upon inquiry for his daughter and her
husband, he was told they were weary with travelling all night, and could
not see him; and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry
manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in their
company but the hated Goneril, who had come to tell her own story, and set
her sister against the king her father! |
This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see
Regan take her by the hand; and he asked Goneril if she was not ashamed to
look upon his old white beard. And Regan advised him to go home again with
Goneril, and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his attendants,
and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old and wanted discretion, and must
be ruled and led by persons that had more discretion than himself. And
Lear showed how preposterous that would sound, if he were to go down on
his knees, and beg of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he argued
against such an unnatural dependence, declaring his resolution never to
return with her, but to stay where he was with Regan, he and his hundred
knights; for he said that she had not forgot the half of the kingdom which
he had endowed her with, and that her eyes were not fierce like
Goneril’s, but mild and kind. And he said that rather than return to
Goneril, with half his train cut off, he would go over to France, and beg
a wretched pension of the king there, who had married his youngest
daughter without a portion. |
But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Regan
than he had experienced from her sister Goneril. As if willing to outdo
her sister in unequal behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty
knights too many to wait upon him: that five-and-twenty were enough. Then
Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Goneril and said that he would go back
with her, for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and so her love was twice
as much as Regan’s. But Goneril excused herself, and said, what need of
so many as five-and-twenty? or even ten? or five? when he might be waited
upon by her servants, or her sister’s servants? So these two wicked
daughters, as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their old
father, who had been so good to them, by little and little would have
abated him of all his train, all respect (little enough for him that once
commanded a kingdom), which was left him to show that he had once been a
king! Not that a splendid train is essential to happiness, but from a king
to a beggar is a hard change, from commanding millions to be without one
attendant; and it was the ingratitude in his daughter’s denying it, more
than what he would suffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king
to the heart; insomuch, that with this double ill-usage, a vexation for
having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled,
and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge against those
unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should be a terror to
the earth! |
While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could
never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning
with rain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolution not to
admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather to
encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay under the same
roof with these ungrateful daughters: and they, saying that the injuries
which wilful men procure to themselves are their just punishment, suffered
him to go in that condition and shut their doors upon him. |
The wind were high, and the rain and storm increased, when
the old man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than his
daughters’ unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce a bush; and
there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark night, did
king Lear wander out, and defy the winds and the thunder; and he bid the
winds to blow the earth into the sea, or swell the waves of the sea till
they drowned the earth, that no token might remain of any such ungrateful
animal as man. The old king was now left with no other companion than the
poor fool, who still abided with him, with his merry conceits striving to
outjest misfortune, saying it was but a naughty night to swim in, and
truly the king had better go in and ask his daughter’s blessing:
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But he that has a little tiny wit, |
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With heigh ho, the wind and the rain! |
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Must make content with his fortunes fit, |
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Though the rain it raineth every day; |
and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady’s pride. |
Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch was found
by his ever-faithful servant the good earl of Kent, now transformed to
Caius, who ever followed close at his side, though the king did not know
him to be the earl; and he said, “Alas! sir, are you here? creatures
that love night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful storm has
driven the beasts to their hiding places. Man’s nature cannot endure the
affliction or the fear.” And Lear rebuked him and said, these lesser
evils were not felt, where a greater malady was taxed. When the mind is at
ease, the body has leisure to be delicate, but the temper in his mind did
take all feeling else from his senses, but of that which beat at his
heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was all one as if
the mouth should tear the hand for lifting food to it; for parents were
hands and food and everything to children. |
But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that
the king would not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to
enter a little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool
first entering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a
spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing more than a
poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted hovel for shelter,
and with his talk about devils frighted the fool, one of those poor
lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be so, the better to extort
charity from the compassionate country people, who go about the country,
calling themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, saying, “Who gives
anything to poor Tom?” sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary
into their arms to make them bleed; and with such horrible actions, partly
by prayers, and partly with lunatic curses, they move or terrify the
ignorant country-folks into giving them alms. This poor fellow was such a
one; and the king seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing but a
blanket about his loins to cover his nakedness, could not be persuaded but
that the fellow was some father who had given all away to his daughters,
and brought himself to that pass: for nothing he thought could bring a man
to such wretchedness but the having unkind daughters. |
And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered,
the good Caius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but
that his daughters’ ill usage had really made him go mad. And now the
loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essential
services than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform. For with the
assistance of some of the king’s attendants who remained loyal, he had
the person of his royal master removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover,
where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay; and
himself embarking for France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and did
there in such moving terms represent the pitiful condition of her royal
father, and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of her sisters,
that this good and loving child with many tears besought the king her
husband that he would give her leave to embark for England, with a
sufficient power to subdue these cruel daughters and their husbands, and
restore the old king her father to his throne; which being granted, she
set forth, and with a royal army landed at Dover. |
Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which
the good earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his lunacy,
was found by some of Cordelia’s train, wandering about the fields near
Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and singing aloud to himself
with a crown upon his head which he had made of straw, and nettles, and
other wild weeds that he had picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice
of the physicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her
father, was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till by sleep and the
operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be restored to greater
composure. By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia
promised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old king, Lear
was soon in a condition to see his daughter. |
A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father
and daughter; to see the struggles between the joy of this poor old king
at beholding again his once darling child, and the shame at receiving such
filial kindness from her whom he had cast off for so small a fault in his
displeasure; both these passions struggling with the remains of his
malady, which in his half-crazed brain sometimes made him that he scarce
remembered where he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke
to him; and then he would beg the standers-by not to laugh at him, if he
were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his daughter Cordelia! And then
to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon of his child; and she, good
lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of him, and telling him
that it did not become him to kneel, but it was her duty, for she was his
child, his true and very child Cordial! and she kissed him (as she said)
to kiss away all her sisters’ unkindness, and said that they might be
ashamed of themselves, to turn their old kind father with his white beard
out into the cold air, when her enemy’s dog, though it had bit her (as
she prettily expressed it), should have stayed by her fire such a night as
that, and warmed himself. And she told her father how she had come from
France with purpose to bring him assistance; and he said that she must
forget and forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not know what he
did, but that to be sure she had great cause not to love him, but her
sisters had none. And Cordelia said that she had no cause, no more than
they had. |
So we will leave this old king in the protection of his
dutiful and loving child, where, by the help of sleep and medicine, she
and her physicians at length succeeded in winding up the untuned and
jarring senses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so violently
shaken. Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel daughters. |
These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to
their old father, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their
own husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appearance of duty
and affection, and in an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon
another. It happened that the object of their guilty loves was the same.
It was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl of Gloucester, who by his
treacheries had succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful
heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked practices was now earl himself;
a wicked man, and a fit object for the love of such wicked creatures as
Goneril and Regan. It falling out about this time that the duke of
Cornwall, Regan’s husband, died, Regan immediately declared her
intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the jealousy
of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan this wicked earl had at sundry
times professed love, Goneril found means to make away with her sister by
poison; but being detected in her practices, and imprisoned by her
husband, the duke of Albany, for this deed, and for her guilty passion for
the earl which had come to his ears, she, in a ht of disappointed love and
rage, shortly put an end to her own life. Thus, the justice of Heaven at
last overtook these wicked daughters. |
While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the
justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly
taken off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the same
power in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the lady
Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate
conclusion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are not
always successful in this world. The forces which Goneril and Regan had
sent out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester were victorious,
and Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked earl, who did not like that
any should stand between him and the throne, ended her life in prison.
Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her young years, after
showing her to the world an illustrious example of filial duty. Lear did
not long survive this kind child. |
Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still
attended his old master’s steps from the first of his daughters’ ill
usage to this sad period of his decay, tried to make him understand that
it was he who had followed him under the name of Caius; but Lear’s
care-crazed brain at that time could not comprehend how that could be, or
how Kent and Caius could be the same person: so Kent thought it needless
to trouble him with explanations at such a time; and Lear soon after
expiring, this faithful servant to the king, between age and grief for his
old master’s vexations, soon followed him to the grave. |
How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of
Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, and himself slain in single
combat with his brother, the lawful earl; and how Goneril’s husband, the
duke of Albany, who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never
encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against her father, ascended
the throne of Britain after the death of Lear, is needless here to
narrate; Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, whose adventures alone
concern our story. |