The Miscellany Consisted Entirely Of The
Productions Of Canterbury Writers, And Among The Contributors Were
Dean Jacobs, Canon Cottrell, And James Edward FitzGerald, The Founder
Of The PRESS.
When Prince Ferdinand was wrecked on the island Miranda was fifteen
years old.
We can hardly suppose that she had ever seen Ariel, and
Caliban was a detestable object whom her father took good care to
keep as much out of her way as possible. Caliban was like the man
cook on a back-country run. "'Tis a villain, sir," says Miranda. "I
do not love to look on." "But as 'tis," returns Prospero, "we cannot
miss him; he does make our fire, fetch in our wood, and serve in
offices that profit us." Hands were scarce, and Prospero was obliged
to put up with Caliban in spite of the many drawbacks with which his
services were attended; in fact, no one on the island could have
liked him, for Ariel owed him a grudge on the score of the cruelty
with which he had been treated by Sycorax, and we have already heard
what Miranda and Prospero had to say about him. He may therefore
pass for nobody. Prospero was an old man, or at any rate in all
probability some forty years of age; therefore it is no wonder that
when Miranda saw Prince Ferdinand she should have fallen violently in
love with him. "Nothing ill," according to her view, "could dwell in
such a temple - if the ill Spirit have so fair an house, good things
will strive to dwell with 't." A very natural sentiment for a girl
in Miranda's circumstances, but nevertheless one which betrayed a
charming inexperience of the ways of the world and of the real value
of good looks. What surprises us, however, is this, namely the
remarkable celerity with which Miranda in a few hours became so
thoroughly wide awake to the exigencies of the occasion in
consequence of her love for the Prince. Prospero has set Ferdinand
to hump firewood out of the bush, and to pile it up for the use of
the cave. Ferdinand is for the present a sort of cadet, a youth of
good family, without cash and unaccustomed to manual labour; his
unlucky stars have landed him on the island, and now it seems that he
"must remove some thousands of these logs and pile them up, upon a
sore injunction." Poor fellow! Miranda's heart bleeds for him. Her
"affections were most humble"; she had been content to take Ferdinand
on speculation. On first seeing him she had exclaimed, "I have no
ambition to see a goodlier man"; and it makes her blood boil to see
this divine creature compelled to such an ignominious and painful
labour. What is the family consumption of firewood to her? Let
Caliban do it; let Prospero do it; or make Ariel do it; let her do it
herself; or let the lightning come down and "burn up those logs you
are enjoined to pile"; - the logs themselves, while burning, would
weep for having wearied him.
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