Citation
Tales from Shakspeare

Material Information

Title:
Tales from Shakspeare designed for the use of young people
Alternate title:
Tales from Shakespeare
Cover title:
Lamb's tales from Shakspeare
Creator:
Lamb, Charles, 1775-1834
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616
Lamb, Mary, 1764-1847 ( Author )
Gilbert, John, 1817-1897 ( Illustrator )
George Routledge and Sons ( Publisher )
Bradbury, Agnew and Co ( Printer )
Dalziel Brothers ( Engraver )
Bone & Son ( Binder )
Place of Publication:
London ;
New York
Publisher:
George Routledge and Sons
Manufacturer:
Bradbury, Agnew & Co.
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
xiii, 371, [6] p., [8] leaves of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 19 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1875 ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1875 ( rbgenr )
W. Bone & Son -- Binders' tickets (Binding) -- 1875 ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1875
Genre:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements ( rbgenr )
Binders' tickets (Binding) ( rbbin )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
United States -- New York -- New York
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
By Charles and Mary Lamb.
General Note:
Date of publication based on binding indicating publication in the 1870's.
General Note:
Illustrations engraved by Dalziel.
General Note:
Bound by W. Bone & Son.
General Note:
Publisher's advertisements follow text.
Funding:
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
Statement of Responsibility:
by Charles Lamb ; with illustrations by John Gilbert.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026716183 ( ALEPH )
ALG7625 ( NOTIS )
70919659 ( OCLC )

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Full Text




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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

DESIGNED

for the Ase of Young People

By CHARLES LAMB

WITH IELUSTRATIONS BY SIR FORN GILBERT, R.A.

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK; 416 BROOME STREET



Rrra tne ut

SHAKESPEARE.

SHAKSPERE’S COMPLETE WORKS.
Edited by CHArtEs Knicur. With Illustrations
by Sir Jonn Givgert, R.A. Price 3s. 6d. cloth
gilt edges.



DODD'S BEAUTIES OF SHAKSPERE,
Illustrated by Sir Jonn GitBert, R.A. Cloth,
gilt edges, 3s. 6d.

THE MIND OF SHAKESPEARE AS EX-
HIBITED IN HIS WORKS. By the Rev. A.A,
Morcan. With Illustrations by Sir Joun Giiperr,
R.A. Cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. a

SHAKSPERE GEMS: A Collection of the
most admired extracts from the Works of Shakspere.
Cloth, gilt edges 3s. 6a.





PREFACE.

THE following Tales are meant to be stibmitted
to the young reader as an introduction to the study
of Shakspeare, for which purpose his words are used
whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in
whatever has been added to give them the regular
form of a connected story, diligent care has been
taken to select such words as might least iriterrupt
the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he
wrote : therefore words introduced into our language
since his time have been as far as possible avoided.

In those Tales which have been taken from the
Tragedies, as my young readers will perceive when
they come to see the source from which these stories
are derived, Shakspeare’s own words, with little al-
teration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well
as in the dialogue; but in those made from the
Comedies I found myself scarcely ever able to turn
his words into the narrative form: therefore I fear in
them I have made use of dialogue too frequently for



iv Lresace.

young people not used to the dramatic form of writing,
But this fault, if it be as I fear a fault, has been caused
by my earnest wish to give as much of Shakspeare’s
own words as possible: and if the “He said,” and
“ She said,” the question and the reply, should some-
lines seem tedious to their young ears, they must
pardon it, because it was the only way I knew of, in
which I could give them a few hints and little fore-
tastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in their
elder years, when they come to the rich treasures from
which these small and valueless coins are extracted ;
pretending to no other merit than as faint and imper-
fect stamps of Shakspeare’s matchless image. Faint
and imperfect images they must be called, because
the beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed
by the necessity of changing many of his excellent
words into words far less expressive of his true sense,
to make it read something like prose ;-and even in
some places, where his blank verse is given unaltered,
as hoping from its simple plainness to cheat the young
readers into the belief that they are reading prose, yet
still his language being transplanted from its own
natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much
of its native beauty.

Ihave wished to make these Tales easy reading fat
very young children. To the utmost of my ability
I have constantly kept this in my mind ; but the sub-
jects of most of them made this a very difficult task,
It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and
vomen in terms familiar to the apprehension of a very



Lrep ue. v

young mind. Fo: young ladies too it has been my
intention chiefly to write, because boys are generally
permitted the use of their fathers’ libraries at a much
earlier age than girls are; they frequently have the
best scenes of Shakspeare by heart, before their sisters
are permitted to look into this manly book; and,
therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to the
perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so
much better in the originals, I must rather beg their
kind assistance in explaining to their sisters such parts
as are hardest for them to understand ; and when they
have helped them to get over the difficulties, then
perhaps they will read to them (carefully selecting
what is proper for a young sister’s ear) some passage
which has pleased them in one of these stories, in the
very words of the scene from which it is taken ; and
T trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, the
select passages, they may choose to give their sisters
in this way, will be much better relished and under-
stood from their having some notion of the general
story from one of these imperfect abridgments; which
if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightfu: to
any of you, my young readers, I hope will have no
worse effect upon you, than to make you wish your-
selves a little older, that you may be allowed to read
the plays at full length (such a wish will be neither
peevish nor irrational). When time and leave of judi-
cious friends shall put them into your hands, you will
discover in such of them as are here abridged (not to
mention almost as many more which are left un



vi Preface,

touched) many surprising events and turns of fortune,
which for their infinite variety could not be contained
in this little book, besides a world of sprightly and
cheerful characters, both men and women, the humour
of which I was fearful of losing if I attempted to
reduce the length of them,

What these tales have been to you in childhood,
that and much more it is my wish that the true plays
of Shakspeare may prove to you in older: years—
enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a with-
drawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a
lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and
actions, td teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity,
humanity : for of examples, teaching these virtues, his
pages are full.



CONTEN

4
w

ROMEO AND JULIET ® e ° . e

4
wt

KING LEAR. * . 8 e > e . » 23.
OTHELLO rr) . 2 + 8 eee QR
TIMON OF ATHENS . / ee 8 . ’ » 59
MACBETH . . . . . . oo. . 976
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE _ . . - 90
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. . . . . » 07
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK «3 6 « « -I28
THE TEMPEST . . . . > oo. » 145
AS YOU LIKE IT . oe 8 * 6 «6 159
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . . . > «© 179
\ MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM . 4 : . - 1905

MEASURE FOR BEASURE * . . ° . » 210



viil Contents,

PAGE
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW ww gs 229
TWELFTH NIGHT, OR WHAT YOU WILL so , 243,
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE . . eg 2 + 260
THE WINTER’S TALE, 2 . ‘ 6 , . 281

ALUS WELL TIAT ENDS WELL 2 ee un 208

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . ° , 7 . 3II
CYMBELINE . . , . . « e ° + 328
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . . e e » 344

CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF SHAKSPEARE’S DRAMAS . 369



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

THE two chief families in Verona were the rich
Capulets and the Mountagues. There had been an
old quarrel between these families, which was grown
to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity
between them, that it extended to the remotest kin-
dred, to the followers and retainers of both sides,
insomuch that a servant of the house of Mountague
could not meet aservant of the house of Capulet, nor
a Capulet encounter with a Mountague by chance,
but fierce words and sometimes bloodshed ensued ;
and frequent were the brawls from such accidental
meetings, which disturbed the happy quiet of
Verona’s estate.

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which
many fair ladies and many noble guests were invited.
All the admired beauties of Verona were present,
and all comers were made welcome if they were
not of the house of Mountague. At this feast of
Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the old
lord Mountague, was present; and though it was
dangerous for a Mountague to be seen in this assem-

B



2 Tales from Shakspeare.

bly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the
young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise
of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and seeing
her, compare her with some choice beauties of Verona,
who (he said) would make him think his swan a crow.
Romeo had small faith in Benvolio’s words ; never-
theless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded
to go. For Romeo was a sincere and passionate
lover, and one that lost his sleep for love, and fled
society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline, who dis-
dained him, and never requited his love with the least
show of courtesy or affection; and Benyolio wished
to cure his friend of this love by showing him
diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of
Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their
friend Mercutio went masked. Old Capulet bid
them welcome, and told them that ladies who had
their toes unplagued with corns would dance with
them. And the old man was light-hearted and merry,
and said that he had worn a mask when he was
young, and could have told a whispering tale in a
fair lady’s ear. And they fell to dancing, and Romeo
was suddenly struck with the exceeding beauty of a
lady that danced there, who seemed to him to teach
the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by
night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor : beauty
‘00 rich for use, too dear for earth! like a snowy
love trooping with crows (he said), so richly did her
beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her
companions. While he uttered these praises, he was
overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of lord Capulet, who
knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And _ this
Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, could
net endure that a Mountague should come under



Romeo and Juliet. 3

cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) at
their solemnities. And he stormed and raged exceed
ingly, and would have struck young Romeo dead.
But his uncle, the old lord Capulet, would not suffer
him to do any injury at that time, both out of respect
to his guests, and because Romeo had borne himself
like a gentleman, and all tongues in Verona bragged
of him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth,
Tybalt, forced to be patient against his will, restrained
himself, but swore that this vile Mountague should at
another time dearly pay for his intrusion:

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place
where the lady stood; and under favour of his mask-
ing habit, which might seem to excuse in part the
liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take
her by the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he pro-
faned by touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and
would kiss it for atonement. “Good pilgrim,” an-
swered the lady, “your devotion shows by far too
mannerly and too courtly: saints have hands, which
pilgrims may touch, but kiss not.” “ Have not saints
lips, and pilgrims too?” said Romeo. “ Ay,” ‘said
the lady, “lips which they must use in prayer.” “OQ
then, my dear saint,” said Romeo, “hear my prayer
and grant it, lest I despair.” In such like allusions
and loving conceits they were engaged, when the lady
was called away to her mother. And Romeo inquiring
who her mother was, discovered that the lady whose
peerless beauty he was so much struck with, was
young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet,
the great enemy of the Mountagues; and that he
had unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This
troubled him, but it could not dissuade him from
loving, As little rest had Juliet, when she found that

B2



4 Tales from Shakspeare.

the gentleman that she had been talking with was
Romeo and a Mountague, for she had been suddenly
smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion
for Romeo, which he had conceived for her; anda
prodigious birth of love it seemed to her, that she
must love her enemy, and that her affections should
settle there, where family considerations should in-
duce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Rormeo with his companions de
parted ; but they soon missed him, for unable to stay
away from the house where he had left his heart, he
leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back
of Juliet’s house. Here he had not remained long,
ruminating on his new love, when Juliet appeared
above at a window, through which her exceeding
beauty seemed to break like the light of the sun in
the east; and the moon, which shone in the orchard
with a faint light, appeared to Romeo as if sick and
pale with grief at the superior lustre of this new sun.
And she leaning her hand upon her cheek, he pas-
sionately wished himself a glove upon that hand, that
he might touch her cheek. She all this while thinking
herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed,
“ Ah me!” Romeo was enraptured to hear her speak,
and said softly, unheard by her, “O speak again,
bright angel, for such you appear, being over my
head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom
mortals fall back to gaze upon.” She, unconscious of
being overheard, and full of the new passion which
that night’s adventure had given birth to, called upon
her lover by name (whom she supposed absent): “O
Romeo, Romeo!” said she, “wherefore art thor
Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name, for
my sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love,



Rome ana Juliet. 5

and I no longer will be a Capulet.” Romeo, having
this encouragement, would fain have spoken, but he
was desirous of hearing more; and the lady con-
tinued her passionate discourse with herself (as she
thought), still chiding Romeo for being Romeo and
a Mountague, and wishing him some other name, or
that he would put away the hated name, and for that
name, which was no part of himself, he should take
all herself. At this loving word Romeo could no
longer refrain, but taking up the dialogue as if her
words had been addressed to him personally, and
not merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love, or
by whatever other name she pleased, for he was no
longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her.
Juliet, alarmed to hear a man’s voice in the garden,
did not at first know who it was, that by favour of
the night and darkness had thus stumbled upon the
discovery of her secret; but when he spoke again,
though her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words
of that tongue’s uttering, yet so nice is a lover's
hearing, that she immediately knew him to be young
Romeo, and she expostulated with him on the danger
to which he had exposed himself by climbing the
orchard walis, for if any of her kinsmen should find
him there, it would be death to him, being a Mount-
ague. “ Alack,” said Romeo, “there is more peril m
your eye, than in twenty of their swords. Do you
but look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof against
their enmity. Better my life should be ended by
their hate, than that hated life should be prolonged,
to live without your love.” “How came you into
this place,” said Juliet, “and by whose direction ?”
“Love directed me,” answered Romeo: “I am no
pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that vast



0 Tales from Shakspeare.

shore which is washed with the farthest sea, I should
adventure for such merchandise.” A crimson blush
came over the face of Juliet, yet unseen by Fomeo
by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the
discovery which she had made, yet not meaning ta
make it, of her love to Romeo. She would fain hav
recalled her words, but that was impossible: fair.
would she have stood upon form, and have kept her
lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is,
to frown and be perverse, and give their suitors harsh
denials at first; to stand off, and affect a coyness ot
indifference, where they most love, that their lovers
may not think them too lightly or too easily won : for
the difficulty of attainment increases the value of the
object. But there was no room in her case for denials,
or puttings off, or any of the customary arts of delay
and protractive courtship. Romeo had heard from
her own tongue, when she did not dream that he was
near her, aconfession of her love. So with an honest
frankness, which the novelty of her situation excused,
she confirmed the truth of what he had before heard,
and addressing him by the name of fair Mountague
(love can sweeten a sour name), she begged him not
to impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy
mind; but that he must lay tic fault of it (if it were a
fault) upon the accident of the night which had so
strangely discovered her thoughts. And she added,
that though her behaviour to him might not be suffi-
ciently prudent, measured by the custom of her sex,
yet that she would prove more true than many whose
prudence was dissembling, and their modesty artificial
cunning.

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to wit-
ness, that nothing was farther from his thoughts than



Romeo and Jutiet. 7

to impute a shadow of dishonour to such an honoured
lady, when she stopped him, begged him not to
swear: for although she joyed in him, yet she had
no joy of that night’s contract; it was too rash, too
unadvised, too sudden. But he being urgent with
her to exchange a vow of love with her that night, she
said that she already had given him hers before he
requested it; meaning, when he overheard her con-
fession; but she would retract what she then be-
stowed, for the pleasure of giving it again, for her
bounty was as infinite as the sea, and her love as
deep. From this loving conference she was called
away by her nurse, who slept with her, and thought
it time for her to be in bed, for it was near to day-
break ; but hastily returning, she said three or four
words more to Romeo, the purport of which was, that
if his love was indeed honourable, and his purpose
marriage, she would send a messenger to him to-
motrow, to appoint a time for their marriage, when
she would lay’all her fortunes at his feet, and follow
him as her lord through the world. While they were
settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by
her nurse, and went in and returned, and went and
returned again, for she seemed as jealous of Romee
going from her, as a young girl of her bird, which she
will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it back
with a silken thread ; and Romeo was as loath to part
as she: for the sweetest music to lovers is the sound
of each other’s tongues at night. But at last they
parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest for that
night,

The day was breaking when they parted, and
Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of his mistress
and that blessed meeting to allow him to sleep, in-



8 Tales from Shakspeare.

stead of going home, bent his course to a monastery
hard by, to find friar Lawrence. The good friar was
already up at his devotions, but seeing young Romeo
abroad so early, he conjectured rightly that he had
not been abed that night, but that some distemper
of youthful affection had kept him waking. He was
right in imputing the cause of Romeo’s wakefulness
to love, but he made a wrong guess at the object, for
he thought that his love for Rosaline had kept him
waking. But when Romeo revealed his new passion
for Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar to
marry them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyes
and hands in a sort of wonder at the sudden change
in Romeo’s affections, for he had been privy to all
Roineo’s love for Rosaline, and his many complaints
of her disdain ; and he said that young men’s love
lay not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But
Romeo replying that he himself had often chidden
him for doting on Rosaline, who could not love him
again, whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved
by him, the friar assented in some measure to his
reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial alliance
between young Juliet and Romeo might happily be
the means of making up the long breach between the
Capulets and the Mountagues ; which no one more
lamented than this good friar, who was a friend to
both the families, and had often interposed his medi-
ation to make up the quarrel without effect; partly
moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for
young Romeo, to whom he could deny nothing, the
old man consented to join their hands in marriage.
Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who
knew his intent from a messenger which she had
dispatched according to promise, did not fail to be



Romeo ana Juliet. 9

early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands
were joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying
the heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union
of this young Mountague and young Capulet to bury
the old strife and long dissensions of their families.

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home,
where she staid impatient for the coming of night, at
which time Romeo promised to come and meet her in
the orchard, where they had met the night before ;
and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the
night before some great festival seems to an impatient
child, that has got new finery which it may not put on
till the morning.

That same day about noon, Romeo’s friends, Ben-
volio and Mercutio, walking through the streets of
Verona, were met by a party of the Capulets with the
impetuous Tybalt at their head. This was the same
angry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo at
old lord Capulet’s feast. He seeing Mercutio, ac-
cused him bluntly of associating with Romeo, a
Mountague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and
youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied to this
accusation with some sharpness; and in spite of all
Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel
was beginning, when Romeo himself passing that way,
the fierce Tybalt turned from Mercutio to Romeo,
and gave him the disgraceful appellation of villain.
Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above
all men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and
much beloved by her ; besides, this young Mountague
had never thoroughly entered into the family quarrel,
being by nature wise and gentle, and the name of a
Capulet, which was his dear lady’s name, was now
rather a charm to allay resentment than a watchword



IO Tales from Shakspeare.

to excite fury. So he tried to reason with Tybalt,
whom he saluted mildly by the name of good Capulet,
as if he, though a Mountague, had some secret plea-
sure in uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all
Mountagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason,
but drew his weapon ; and. Mercutio, who knew not
of Romeo’s secret motive for desiring peace with
Tybalt, but looked upon his present forbearance as
a sort of calm dishonourable submission, with many
disdainful words provoked Tybalt to the prosecution
of his first quarrel with him; and Tybalt and Mer:
cutio fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving his death’s
wound while Romeo and Benvolio were vainly en-
deavouring to part the combatants. Mercutio being
dead, Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned
the scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt had
given him ; and they fought till Tybalt was slain by
Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the midst of
Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly brought
a crowd of citizens to the spot, and among them the
old lords Capulet and Mountague, with their wives ;
and soon after arrived the prince himself, who being
related to Mercutio, whom: Tybalt had slain, and
having had the peace of his government often dis-
turbed by these brawls of Mountagues and Capulets,
came determined to put the law in strictest force
against those who should be found to be offenders.
Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the fray, was
commanded by the prince to relate the origin of it,
which he did, keeping as near to the truth as he could
without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the
part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet,
whose extreme grief for the loss of her kinsman
Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her revenge,



Romec and Juliet, iI

exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his mur-
derer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio’s repre
sentation, who being Romeo’s friend, and a Mountague,
spoke partially. Thus she pleaded against her new
son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was her son-
in-law, and Juliet’s husband. On the other hand was
to be seen lady Mountague pleading for her child’s
life, and arguing with some justice that Romeo had
done nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life
of Tybalt, which was already forfeited to the law by
his having slain Mercutio. The prince, unmoved by
the passionate exclamations of these women, on a
careful examination of the facts, pronounced his sen-
tence, and by that sentencé Romeo was banished
from Verona.

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a
few hours a bride, and now by this decree seemed
everlastingly divorced! When the tidings reached
her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo, who
had slain her dear cousin: she called him a beautiful
tyrant, a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with
a wolf’s nature, a serpent-heart hid with a flowering
face, and other like contradictory names, which de-
noted the struggles in her mind between her love and
her resentment : but in the end love got the mastery,
and the tears which she shed for grief that Romeo had
slain her cousin, turned to drops of joy that her hus-
band lived whom Tybalt would have slain. Then
came fresh tears, and they were altogether of grief
for Romeo’s banishment. That word was more ter-
rible to her than the death of many Tybalts.

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar
Lawrence’s cell, where he was first made acquainted
with the prince’s sentence, which seemed to him fa.



12 Lales from Shakspeare.

more terrible than death. To him it appeared there

was no world out of Verona’s walls, no living out
of the sight of Juliet. Heaven was there where
Juliet lived, and all beyond was purgatory, torture,
hell, The good friar would have applied the con-
solation of philosophy to his griefs ; but this frantic
young man would hear of none, but like a madman
he tore his hair, and threw himself all along upon the
ground, as he said, to take the measure of his grave.
From this unseemly state he was roused by a message
from his dear lady, which a little revived him, and
then the friar took the advantage to expostulate with
him on the unmanly weakness which he had shown.
He had slain Tybalt, but would he also slay himself,
slay his dear lady who lived but in his life? The
noble form of man, he said, was but a shape of wax,
when it wanted the courage which should keep it firm.
The law had been lenient to him, that instead of
death which he had incurred, had pronounced by the
prince’s mouth only banishment.. He had slain
Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him: there was
a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and
(beyond all hope) had become his dear wife, therein
he was most happy. All these blessings, as the friar
made them out to be, did Romeo put from him like
a sullen misbehaved wench. And the friar bade him
beware, for such as despaired (he said) died miserable.
Then when Romeo was a little calmed, he counselled
him that he should go that night and secretly take his
leave of Juliet, and thence proceed straightways to
Mantua, at which place he should sojourn, till the
friar found a fit occasion to publish his marriage,
which might be a joyful means of reconciling their
families ; and then he did not doubt but. the prince



Romeo and Jutiet, 12

a

would be moved to pardon him, and he wonld return
with twenty times more joy than he went forth with _
grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels
of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lady,
purposing to stay with her that night, and by day-
break pursue his journey alone to Mantua ; to which
place the good friar promised to send him letters
from time to time, acquainting him with the state
of affairs at home.

That night Romeo passed.with his dear wife, gain-
ing secret admission to her chamber from the orchard
in which he had heard her confession of love the
night before. That had been a night of unmixed
joy and rapture ; but the pleasures of this night, and
the delight which these lovers took in each other's
society, were sadly allayed with the prospect of part-
ing, and the fatal adventures of the past day. The
unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, and
when Juliet heard the morning song of the lark, she
would fain have persuaded herself that it was the
nightingale, which sings by night; but it was too
truly the lark which sung, and a discordant and un-
pleasing note it seemed to her; and the streaks of
day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was
time for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave
of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising to write
to her from Mantua every hour in the day, and when
he had descended from her chamber-window, as he
stood below her on the ground, in that sad foreboding
state of mind, in which she was, he appeared to her eyes
as one dead in the bottom of atomb. Romeo’s mind
misgave him in like manner; but now he was forced
hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be found
within the walls of Verona after daybreak,



14 Zales from Shakspeare,

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this
pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been
gone many days, before the old lord Capulet proposed
a match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for
her, not dreaming that she was married already, was
count Paris, a gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
no unworthy suitor to the young Juliet if she had
never seen Romeo.

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her
father’s offer. She pleaded her youth unsuitable to
marriage, the recent death of Tybalt, which had left
her spirits too weak to meet a husband with any face
of joy, and how indecorous it would show for the
family of the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial-
feast, when his funeral solemnities were hardly over :
she pleaded every reason against the match, but the
true one, namely, that she was married already. But
lord Capulet was deaf to all her excuses, and in a
peremptory manner ordered her to get ready, for by
the following Thursday she should be married to
Paris: and having found her a husband rich, young,
and noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona might
joyfully accept, he could not bear that out of an
affected coyness, as he construed her denial, she
should oppose obstacles to her own good fortune.

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar,
always her counsellor in distress, and he asking her -
if she had resolution to undertake a desperate remedy,
and she answering that she would go into the grave
alive, rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband
living ; he directed her to go home, and appear merry,
and give her consent to marry Paris, according to her
father’s desire, and on the next night, which was the
night before the marriage, to drink off the contents of



Romeo and Juliet. 15

a phial which he then gave her, the effect of which
would be, that for two-and-forty hours after drinking
it she should appear cold and lifeless ; that when the
bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning, he
would find her to appearance dead; that then she
would be borne, as the manner in that country was,
uncovered, ona bier, to be buried in the family vault ;
that if she could put off womanish fear, and consent
to this terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing
the liquid (such was its certain operation) she would
be sure to awake, as from a dream; and before she
should awake, he would let her husband know their
drift, and he should come in the night, and bear her
thence to Mantua. Love, and the dread of marrying
Paris, gave young Juliet strength to undertake this
horrible adventure ; and she took the phial of ths
friar, promising to observe his directions.

Going from the monastery, she met the young count
Paris, and modestly dissembling, promised to become
his bride. This was joyful news to the lord Capulet
and his wife.’ It seemed to put youth into the old
man; and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly

‘by her refusal of the count, was his darling again,
now she promised to be obedient. All things in the
house were in a bustle against the approaching nup-
tials. No cost was spared to prepare such festival
rejoicings, as Verona had never before witnessed.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the
potion. She had many misgivings, lest the friar, to
avoid the blame which might be imputed to him for
marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison ; but
then he was always known for a holy man: then lest
she should awake before the time that Romeo was to
come for her; whether the terror of the place, a



6” Zales from Shakspeare,

vault full of dead Capulets’ bones, and where Tybalt,
all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would not be
enough to drive her distracted : again she thought of
all the stories she had heard of spirits haunting the
places where their bodies were bestowed. But then
her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, re-
turned, and she desperately swallowed the draught,
and became insensible.

When young Paris came early in the morning with
music, to awaken his bride, instead of a living Juliet,
her chamber presented the dreary spectacle of a life.
less corse. What death to his hopes! What confu.
sion then reigned through the whole house! Poor
Paris lamenting his bride, whom most detestable
death had beguiled him of, had divorced from him
even before their hands were joined. But still more
piteous it was to hear the mournings of the old lord
and lady Capulet, who having but this one, one poor
loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel death had
snatched her from their sight, just as these careful
parents were on the point of seeing her advanced (as
they thought) by a promising and advantageous match.
Now all things that were ordained for the festival
were turned from their properties to do the office of
a black funeral. The wedding cheer served for a sad
burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed to sullen
dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy bells,
and the flowers that should have been strewed in the
bride’s path, now served but to strew her corse. Now
instead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed
to bury her; and she was borne to church indeed
not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but
to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good,



Romeo and Juliet, 17

now brought the dismal story of his Juliet’s death to
Romeo at Mantua, before the messenger could arrive,
who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprise him that
these were mock funerals only, and but the shadow
and representation of death, and that his dear lady
lay in the tomb but for a short while, expecting when
Romeo should come to release her from that dreary
mansion. Just before, Romeo had been unusually
joyful and lighthearted. He had dreamed in the
night that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a
dead man leave to think), and that his lady came and
found him dead, and breathed such life with kisses in
his lips, that he revived, and was an emperor! And
now that a messenger came from Verona, he thought
surely it was to confirm some good news which his
dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to this
flattering vision appeared, and that it was his lady
who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by
‘any kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready, for he
determined that night to visit Verona, and to see his
lady in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter
into the thoughts of desperate men, he called to mind
a-poor apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had
lately passed, and from the beggarly appearance of
the man, who seemed famished, and the wretched
show in his shop of empty boxes ranged on dirty
shelves, and other tokens of extreme wretchedness,
he had said at the time (perhaps having some mis-
givings that his own disastrous life might haply meet
with a conclusion so desperate), “If a man were to
need poison, which by the law of Mantua it is death
to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would sell it
him.” These words of his now came into his mind,
and he sought out the apothecary, who after some
: Cc



18 tales from Shakspeare.

pretended scruples, Romeo offering him gold which
his poverty could not resist, sold hima poison, which,
if he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength
of twenty men, would quickly despatch him.

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a
sight of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he
had satisfied his sight, to swallow the poison, and be
buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight,
and found the churchyard, in the midst of which was
situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had
provided a light, and a spade, and wrenching iron,
and was proceeding to break open the monument.
when he was interrupted by a voice, which by the
name of vile Mountague, bade him desist from his un-
lawful business. It was the young count Paris, who
had come to the tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable
time of night, to strew flowers, and to weep over
the grave of her that should have been his bride.
He knew not what an interest Romeo had in the
dead, but knowing him to be a Mountague, and (as
he supposed) a sworn foe to all the Capulets, he
judged that he was come by night to do some villa-
nous shame to the dead bodies; therefore in angry
tone he bade him desist; and as a criminal, con-
demned by the laws of Verona to die if he were
found within the walls of the city, he would have
apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to leave him,
and warned him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay buried
there, not to provoke his anger, or draw down another
_ sin upon his head, by forcing him to kill him. But
the count in scorm refused his warning, and laid
hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting,
they fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the
help of a light, came to see who it was that he had

at



fomeo and Juliet. 1g

slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned in his way
from Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took
the dead youth by the hand, as one whom misfortune
had made a companion, and said that he would bury
him in a triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet’s grave,
which he now opened : and there lay his lady, as one
whom death had no power upon to change a feature
or complexion in her matchless beauty, or as if Death
were amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept
her there for his delight; for she lay yet fresh and
blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when she
swallowed that benumbing potion: and near her lay
Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing,
begged pardon of his lifeless corse, and for Juliet’s
sake called him couszz, and said that he was about
to do him a favour by putting his enemy to death.
Here Romeo took his last leave of his lady’s lips,
kissing them ; and here he shook the burden of his
cross stars from his weary body, swallowing that
poison which the apothecary had sold him, whose
operation was fatal and real, not like that dissembling
potion which Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which
was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake
to complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or
that he had come too soon.

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar
had promised that she should awake; and he, having
learned that his letters which he had sent to Mantua,
by some unlucky detention of the messenger, haa
never reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a
pickaxe and lantern, to deliver the lady from her con-
finement ; but he was surprised to find a light already
burning in the Capulet’s monument, and to see swords

C2



20 Tales from Shakspeare,

and blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breath-
less by the monument.

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine
how these fatal accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke
out of her trance, and seeing the friar near her, she
remembered the place where she was, and the occa-
sion of her being there, and asked for Romeo: but
the friar, hearing a noise, bade her come out of that
place of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a greater
power than they could contradict had thwarted their
intents; and being frighted by the noise of people
coming, he fled; but when Juliet saw the cup closed
in her true love’s hands, she guessed that poison had
been the cause of his end, and she would have
swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she
kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did
hang upon them: then hearing a nearer noise of
people coming, she quickly unsheathed a dagger which
she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her true
Romeo’s side.

The watch by this time had come up to the place.
A page belonging to count Paris, who had witnessed
the fight between his master and Romeo, had given
the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who
went up and down the streets of Verona confusedly,
exclaiming, a Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumour
had imperfectly reached them, till the uproar brought
iord Mountague and lord Capulet out of their beds,
with the prince, to inquire into the causes of the dis-
turbance. ‘The friar had been apprehended by some
of the watch, coming from the churchyard, trembling,
sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A
great multitude being assembled at the Capulet’s
monument, the friar was demanded by the prince to



Romeo and Julie. az

deliver what he knew of these strange and disastrous
accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old lords Moun-
tague and Capulet, he faithfully related the story of
their children’s fatal love, the part he took in pro-
moting their marriage, in the hope in that union to
end the long quarrels between their families: how
Romeo, there dead, was husband to Juliet; and
Juliet, there dead, was Romeo’s faithful wife: how
before he could find a fit opportunity to divulge their
marriage, another match was projected for Juliet, who
to avoid the crime of a second marriage swallowed
the sleeping draught (as he advised), and all thought
her dead: how meantime he wrote to Romeo, ‘to
come and take her thence when the force of the
potion should cease, and by what unfortunate mis-
carriage of the messenger the letters never reached
Romeo: further than this the friar could not follow
the story, nor knew more than that, coming himself
to deliver Juliet from that place of death, he found
the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of
the transactions was supplied by the narration of the
page who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by
the servant who came with Romeo from Verona, to
whom this faithful lover had given letters to be de-
livered to his father in the event of his death, which
made good the friar’s words, confessing his marriage
with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of his parents,
acknowledging the buying of the poison of the poor
apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monu-
ment, to die, ané lie with Juliet. All these circum-
stances agreed together to clear the friar from any
hand he could be supposed to have had in these
complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended



22 Tales from Shakspeare.

consequences of his own well-meant, yet too artificial -
and subtle contrivances.

And the prince, turning to these old lords, Moun-
tague and Cupulet, rebuked them for their brutal and
irrational enmities, and showed them what a scourge
neaven had laid upon such offences, that it had found
means even through the love of their children to
punish their unnatural hate. And these old rivals,
no longer enemies, agreed to bury their long strife in
their children’s graves ; and lord Capulet requested
lord Mountague to give him his hand, calling him by
the name of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the
union of their families by the marriage of the young
Capulet and Mountague; and saying that lord
Mountague’s hand (in token of reconcilement) was
all he demanded for his daughter’s jointure: but lord
Mountague said he would give him more, for he
would raise her statue of pure gold, that while Verona _
kept its name, no figure should be so esteemed for
its richness and workmanship as that of the true and
faithful Juliet. And lord Capulet in return said, that »
he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did
these poor old lords, when it was too late, strive to
outgo each other in mutual courtesies: while so
deadly had been their rage and enmity in past times,
that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their children
(poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions)
could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the
noble families.



King Lear. . . 23

KING LEAR.

Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters; Go-
nerill, 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 Bur-
gundy 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.

Gonerill, 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 confi-
dence 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 fit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her
ausband one-third of his ample kingdom.

_Then calling to him his second daughter, he de-



24 Tales from Shakspeare.

manded what she had to say. Regan, who was made
of the same hollow metal as her sister, was not a wit
behind in her professions, but rather declared that
what her sister had spoken came short of the love
which she professed to bear for. his highness : inso-
much 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 chil-
dren, 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 Gonerill.

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 ingrati-
tude in his favourite child, desired her to consider
her words, and to mend her speech, lest it should mat
ther fortunes. ;

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her
father, that he had given her breeding, and loved her,



King Lear. 25

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 hus-
bands, 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 draw 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 shewed 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 yel
remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia,
and gave it away from her, sharing it equally between



%

20 Zales from Shakspeare.

her two sisters and their husbands, the dukes of
Albany and Cornwall: whom he now called to hin,
and in presence of all his courtiers, bestowing a coro-
net 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 daughter’s 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 Cor-
delia, 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 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 besouglht
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 judg-
ment that Lear’s youngest daughter did not love



= King Lear. 24
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 al-
lotted 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 sister's 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



28 Tales from Shakspeare.

her sist2rs, took this young maid by the hand, and
saying that her virtues were a dowry above a king-
dom, 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 ef 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
disposition 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 Gonerill, the old king began
to find out the difference between promises and per-
formances. 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



King Lear. 29

when the old man wanted to speak with her, she
would feign sickness, or anything to be rid of the
sight of him; for it was plain that she esteemed his
old age a useless burden, and his attendants an un-
necessary 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 altera-
tion in the behaviour of his daughter, but he shut his
eyes against it as long as he could, as people com-
monly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant conse-
quences which their own mistakes and obstinacy have
brought upon them.

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged
by 7Z, than falsehood and hollow-heartedness can
be conciliated- by good usage. This eminently ap-
pears 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



30 Zales from Shakspeare.

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 ot
Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to shew his fidelity.
and love to his royal. master; for Gonerill’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 mis-
tress, Caius not enduring to hear so open an affront
put upon 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

For sudden joy did weep,
And he for sorrow sung,

That such a king should play bo-peep,
And go the fools among.

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of



King Lear. 31

which he had plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured
out his heart even in the presence of Gonerill her-
self 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 fill her court with riot and feastings ; and
she prayed him that he would lessen their number,
and keep none but old men about him, such as him-
self, 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 had 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 and



32 Tales from Shakspeare.

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 Gonerill
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 Gonerill’s husband, the duke of Albany,
beginning to excuse himself for any share which Lear
might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear woula
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 Gonerill 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 dis-
patched 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
Gonerill had been beforehand with him, sending
letters also to Regan, accusing her father of way-
wardness 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 for.



King Lear. 33

merly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behaviour
to Lear. Caius not liking the fellows look, and
suspecting what he came for, began to revile him, and
challenged him to fight,-which the fellow refusing,
Caius, ina fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as
such a mischief-maker and carrier of wicked mes-
sages 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 insist-
ing in a positive and angry manner to see them, they
came to greet him, whom should he see in their com-
pany but the hated Gonerill, 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 Gonerill if she was not ashamed to look upon
his old white beard. And Regan advised him to go
home again with Gonerill and live with her peaceably,
dismissing half of his attendants, and to ask her for-
giveness ; 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 pre-
posterous that would sound, if he were to down on
his knees, and beg of his own daughter fer food and

: D



34 Zales from Shakspeare,

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 Gonerill’s, but mild and kind. And he said that
rather than return to Gonerill 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
Gonerill. As if willing to outdo her sister in unfilial
behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty knights
too many to wait upon him: that five-and-twenty
were enough. Then Lear, nigh heartbroken, turned
to Gonerill, 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 Gonerill 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 hap-
piness, but front a king to a beggar is a hard change,
from commanding millions to be without one at-
tendant ; and it was the ingratitude in his daughters
denying it, more than what he would suffer by the



King Lear. 38

want of it, whicn pierced this poor old king to the
heart : insomuch, that with this double ill usage, and
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 un-
natural 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 in-
juries which wilful men procure to themselves are their
just punishment, suffered him to go in that condition,
and shut their doors upon him.

The winds were high, and the rain and storm in-
creased, when the old man sallied forth to combat
with the elements, less sharp than his daughters’ un-
kindness. 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 mis-
fortune, saying, it was but a naughty night to swim
in, and truly the king had better go in and ask his
daughter’s blessing :

D2



36 Lales from Shakspeare,

But he that has a little tiny wit,

With heigh ho, the wind and the rain !
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
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 fol-
lowed 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 fixed. When the mind is at ease,
the body has leisure to be delicate ; but the tempest
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 chil-
dren.

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 ot
those poor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be



King Lear’, 37

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 any thing 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; fo
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 himseif 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 in-
humanity 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



33 Tales from Shakspeare.

with a sufficient power to subdue these daughters and
their husbands, and restore the 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 ta
beg pardon of his child; and she, good lady, kneeling



King Lear. 39

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
Cordelia! 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
this 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 réturn to say a word or
two about those cruel daughters.

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so
false to their own 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,



42 Tah; from Shakspeare.

and by his wicked practices was now earl himself: a
wicked man, and a fit object for the love of such
wicked creatures as Gonerill and Regan. It falling
out about this time that the duke of Cornwall, Regan’s
husband, died, Regan immediately declared her in-
tention 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 pro-
fessed love, Gonerill found means to make away with
her sister by poison: but being detected in her prac-
tices, 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 fit 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 conclu
sion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and
piety are not always successful in this world. The
forces which Gonerill 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 illus-
trious example of filial duty. Lear did not long sur-
vive this kind child.



King Lear, Al

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 vexa-
tions, 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 Gonerill’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.



42 Tales from Shakspeare.

OTHELL v.

BraBantio, the rich senator of Venice, had a faiz
daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought
to by divers suitors, both on account of her many
virtuous qualities and for her rich expectations. But
among the suitors of her own clime and complexion
she saw none whom she could affect: for this noble
lady, who regarded the mind more than the features
of men, with a singularity rather to be admired than
imitated, had chosen for the object of her affections,
a Moor, a black, whom her father loved, and often
invited to his house. |

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned
for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected
for her lover. Bating that Othello was black, the
noble Moor wanted nothing which might recommend
him to.the affections of the greatest lady. He was a
soldier, and a brave one; and by his conduct in
bloody wars against the Tarks had risen to the rank
of general in the Venetian service, and was esteemed
and trusted by the state.

He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is the
manner of ladies) loved to hear him tell the story of
his adventures, which he would run through from his
earliest recollection ; the battles, sieges, and encounters
which he had passed through ; the perils he had been
exposed to by land and by water; his hair-breadth









Othello. 43

escapes when he had entered a breach, or marched
up to the mouth of a cannon; and how he had been
taken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to
slavery : how he demeaned himself in that state, and
how he escaped: all these accounts, added to the
narration of the strange things he had seen in foreign
countries, the vast wildernesses and romantic caverns,
the quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads
are in the clouds; of the savage nations, the can-
nibals who are man-eaters, and a race of people in
Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders :
these travellers’ stories would so enchain the atten-
tion of Desdemona, that if she were called off at
any time by household affairs, she would dispatch
with all haste that business, and return, and with a
greedy ear devour Othello’s discourse. And once he
took advantage of a pliant hour, and drew from her
a prayer, that he would tell her the whole story of
his life at large, of which she had heard so much,
but only by parts: to which he consented, and
beguiled her of many a tear, when he spoke of some
distressful stroke which his youth suffered.

His story being done, she gave him for his pains
a world of sighs: she swore a pretty oath, that it
was all passing strange, and pitiful, wondrous pitiful :
she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she
wished that heaven had made her such a man: and
then she thanked him, and told him, if he had a
friend who loved her, he had only to teach him how
to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this
hint, delivered not with more frankness than modesty,
accompanied with a certain bewitching prettiness, and
blushes, which Othello could not but understand, he
spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden



44 Tales from Shakspeare.

opportunity gained the consent of the generous lady
Desdemona privately to marry him.

Neither Othello’s colour nor his fortune were such
that it could be hoped Brabantio would accept him
fora son-in-law. He had left his daughter free; but
he did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetian
ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of
senatorial rank or expectations: but in this he was
deceived ; Desdemona loved the Moor, though he was
black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his
valiant parts and qualities : so was her heart subdued
to an implicit devotion to the man she had selected
for a husband, that his very colour, which to all but
this discerning lady would have proved an imsur-
mountable objection, was by her esteemed above ali
the white skins and clear complexions of the young
Venetian nobility, her suitors.

Their marriage, which, though privately carried,
could not long be kept a secret, came to the ears of
the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in a solemn
council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor
Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he maintained)
had seduced the affections of the fair Desdemona
to marry him, without the consent of her father, and
against the obligations of hospitality.

At this juncture of time it happened that the state
of Venice had immediate need of the services of
Othello, news having arrived that the Turks with
mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was
bending its course to the Island of Cyprus, with
intent to regain that strong post from the Venetians,
who then held it: in this emergency the state tumed
its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate
to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks.



Othello. AS

So that Othello, now summoned before the senate,
stood in their presence at once as a candidate for
a great state employment, and as a culprit, charged
with offences which by the laws of Venice were made
capital,

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio
commanded a most patient hearing from that grave
assembly ; but the incensed father conducted his
accusation with so much intemperance, producing
likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when
Othello was called upon for his defence, he had only
to relate a plain tale of the course of his love; which
he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting the
whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above,
and delivered his speech with so noble a plainness
(the evidence of truth), that the duke, who sat as
chief judge, could not help confessing, that a tale so
told would have won his daughter too : and the spelis
and conjurations, which Othello had used in his court-
ship, plainly appeared to have been no more than the
honest arts of men in love; and the only witchcraft
which he had used, the faculty of telling a soft tale to
win a lady’s ear.

This statement of Othello was confirmed by the
-testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, who ap-
peared in court, and professing a duty to her father
for life and education, challenged leave of him to
profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband,
even so much as her mother had shown in preferring

‘him (Brabantio) above Aer father.

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called
the Moor to him with many expressions of sorrow,
and, as an act of necessity, bestowed upon hii his
daughter, whom, if he had been free to withhold her



46 Tales from Shakspeare.

(he told him), he would with all his heart have kept
from him ; adding, that he was glad at soul that he-
had no other child, for this behaviour of Desdemona
would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs
on them for her desertion.

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom
custom had rendered the hardships of a military life
as natural as food and rest are to other men, readily
undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus:
and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord
(though with danger) before the indulgence of those
idle delights in which new-married people usually
waste their time, cheerfully consented to his going.

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in
Cyprus, than news arrived, that a desperate tempest
had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and thus the island
was secure from any immediate apprehension of an
attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer,
was now beginning; and the enemies, which: malice
stirred up against his innocent lady, proved in their
nature more deadly than strangers or infidels,

Among all the general’s friends no one possessed
the confidence of Othello more entirely than Cassio.

. Michael Cassio was a young soldier, a Florentine,
gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite
qualities with women ; he was handsome, and elo-
quent, and exactly such a person as might alarm the
jealousy of a man advanced in years (as Othello in
some measure was), who had married a young and
beautiful wife ; but Othello was as free from jealousy
as he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting, as of
doing, a base action. He had employed this Cassio
in his love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had
been a sort of go-between in his suit: for Othello,



Othello, 47

fearing that himself had not those soft parts of con-
versation which please ladies, and finding these quali-
ties in his friend, would often depute Cassio to go (as
he phrased it) a courting for him : such innocent sim-
plicity being an honour rather than a blemish to the
character of the valiant Moor. So that no wonder,
if next to Othello himself (but at far distance, as be-
seems a virtuous wife) the gentle Desdemona loved
and trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this
couple made any difference in their behaviour to
Michael Cassio. He frequented their house, and his
free and rattling talk was no unpleasing variety to
Othello, who was himself of a more serious temper:
for such tempers are observed often to delight in their
contraries, as a relief from the oppressive excess of
their own: and Desdemona and Cassio would talk
and laugh together, as in the days when he went a
courting for his friend.

Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieu-
tenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the general’s
person. This promotion gave great offence to Iago,
an older officer, who thought he had a better claim
than Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio, as a
fellow fit only for the company of ladies, and one that
knew no more of the art of war, or how to set an
army in array for battle, than a girl, Iago hated
Cassio, and he hated Othello, as well for favouring
Cassio, as for an unjust suspicion, which he had lightly
taken up against Othello, that the Moor was too fond
of Iago’s wife Emilia. From these imaginary provo-
cations, the plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid
scheme of revenge, which should involve both Cassio,
the Moor, and Desdemona in one common ruin.

Tago was artful, and had studied human nature



48 Tales from Shakspeare.

deeply, and he knew that of all the torments which
afflict the mind of man (and far beyond bodily torture),
the pains of jealousy were the most intolerable, and
had the sorest sting. If he could succeed in making
Othello jealous of Cassio, he thought it would be an
exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in the death
of Cassio or Othello, or both; he cared not.

The arrival of the general and his lady in Cyprus,
meeting with the news of the dispersion of the enemy’s
fleet, made a sort of holiday in the island. Every
body gave themselves up to feasting and making
merry. Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went
round to the health of the black Othello, and his lady
the fair Desdemona.

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night,
with a charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from
excess in drinking, that no brawl might arise, to fright
the inhabitants, or disgust them with the new-landed
forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans
of mischief; under colour of loyalty and love to the
general, he enticed Cassio to make rather too free
with the bottle (a great fault in an officer upon guard).
Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long hold
out against the honest freedom which Jago knew how
to put on, but kept swallowing glass after glass (as
Iago still plied him with drink and encouraging songs),
and Cassio’s tongue ran over in praise of the lady
Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirm-
ing that she was a most exquisite lady: until at last
the enemy which he put into his mouth, stole away
brains ; and upon some provocation given him by a
fellow whom Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and
Montano, a worthy officer who interfered to appease
the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot

x



Othello. 49

now began to be general, and Iago, who had set on
foot the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm,
vausing the castle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous
mutiny, instead of a slight drunken quarrel, had arisen):
the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello, who, dressing
in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, ques-
tioned Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to
himself, the effect of the wine having a little gone off,
but was too much ashamed to reply; and Iago, pretend-
ing a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but as it were
forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the
truth, gave an account of the whole matter (leaving
out his own share in it, which Cassio was too far gone
to remember) in such a manner, as while he seemed
to make Cassio’s offence less, did indeed make it
appear greater than it was. The result was, that
Othello, who was a strict observer of discipline, was
compelled to take away Cassio’s place of lieutenant
from him.

Thus did Iago’s first artifice succeed completely:
he had now undermined his hated rival, and thrust
him out of his place: but a further use was hereafter
to be made of the adventure of this disastrous night.

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered,
now lamented to his seeming friend Iago, that he
should have been such a fool as to transform himself
into a beast. He was undone, for how could he ask
the general for his place again! he would tell him he
was a drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, affecting
to make light of it, said that he, or any man living,
might be drunk upon occasion ; it remained now to
make the best of a bad bargain ; the general’s wife
was now the general, and could do anything with
Othello ; that he were best to apply to the lady Des-

E



50 Tales from Shakspeare.

demona to mediate for him with her lord; that she
was of a frank, obliging disposition, and would readily
undertake a good office of this sort, and set Cassio
right again in the general’s favour; and then this
crack in their love would be made stronger than ever.
A good advice of Jago, if it had not been given for
wicked purposes, which will after appear.

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made appli-
cation to the lady Desdemona, who was easy to be
won over in any honest suit; and she promised Cassio
that she would be his solicitor with her lord, and
rather die than give up his cause. This she imme-
diately set about in so earnest and pretty a manner,
that Othello, who was mortally offended with Cassio.
could not put her off When he pleaded delay, and
that it was too soon to pardon such an offender, she
would not be beat back, but insisted that it should be
the next night, or the morning after, or the next
morning to that at farthest. Then she showed how
penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, and that his
offence did not deserve so sharp a check. Andwher
Othello still hung back, “What! my lord,” said she,
“that I should have so much to do to plead for Cassio,
Michael Cassio, that came a courting for you, and
oftentimes, when I have spoken in dispraise of you,
has taken your part? I count this but a little thing to
ask of you. When I mean to try your love indeed,
I shall ask a weighty matter.” Othello could deny
nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting that
Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised ta
receive Michael Cassio again into favour.

It happened that Othello and Iago had entered
into the room where Desdemona was, just as Cassio,
who had been imploring her intercession, was depart.



Othello. 51

ing at the opposite door; and Iago, who was full of
art, said in a low voice, as if to himself, “I lke not
that.” Othello took no great notice of what he said ;
indeed the conference which immediately took place
with his lady put it out of his head: but he remem-
bered it afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone,
Tago, as if for mere satisfaction of his thought, ques-
tioned Othello whether Michael Cassio, when Othello
was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this the
general answering in the affirmative, and adding, that
he had gone between them very often during the
courtship, Iago knitted his brow, as if he had got
fresh light of some terrible matter, and cried, “ In-
deed!” This brought into Othello’s mind, the words
which Iago had let fall upon entering the room, and
_seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to
think there was some meaning in all this: for he
deemed Iago to be a just man, and full of love and
honesty, and what in a false knave would be tricks, in
him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest
mind, big with something too great for utterance: and
Othello prayed Iago to speak what he knew, and
to give his worst thoughts words. “ And what,” said
Tago, “if some thoughts very vile should have intruded
into my breast, as where is the palace into which foul
things do not enter?” Then Iago went on to say,
what a pity it were, if any trouble should arise to
Othello out of his imperfect observations; that it
would not be for Othello’s peace to know his
thoughts; that people’s good names were not to be
taken away for slight suspicions ; and when Othello’s
curiosity was raised almost to distraction with these
hints and scattered words, Iago, as if in earnest care
for Othello’s peace of mind, besought him to beware
E2



52 Zales from Shakspeare.

of jealousy ; with such art did this villain raise sus-
picions in the unguarded Othello, by the very caution
which he pretended to give him against suspicion.
“T know,” said Othello, “that my wife is fair, loves
company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays,
and dances well: but where virtue is, these qualities
are virtuous. I must have proof before I think her
dishonest.” Then Iago, as if glad that Othello was
slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that
he had no proof, but begged Othello to observe her —
behaviour well, when Cassio was by; not to be
jealous nor too secure neither, for that he (Iago)
knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his coun-
trywomen, better than Othello could do; and that in
Venice the wives let heaven see many pranks they
dared not show their husbands. Then he artfully in-
sinuated, that Desdemona deceived her father in mar-
rying with Othello, and carried it so closely, that the
poor old man thought that witchcraft had been used.
Othello was much moved with this argument, which
brought the matter home to him, for if she had
deceived her father, why might she not deceive her
husband ? ~

Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but
Othello, assuming an indifference, while he was really
shaken with inward grief at Iago’s words, begged him
to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as if
unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom
he called his friend: he then came strongly to the
point, and reminded Othello how Desdemona had
refused many suitable matches of her own clime and
complexion, and had married him, a Moor, which
showed unnatural in her, and proved her to have a
headstrong will: and when her better judgment re-



Othello. 53

turned, how probable it was she should fall upon
comparing Othello with the fine forms and clear
white complexions of the young Italians her country-
men. He concluded with advising Othello to put off
his reconcilement with Cassio a little longer, and in
the meanwhile to note with what earnestness Desde-
mona should intercede in his behalf; for that much
would be seen in that, So mischievously did this
artful villain lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities
of this innocent lady into her destruction, and make
a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap her:
first setting Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and
then out of that very mediation contriving stratagems
for her ruin.

The conference ended with Iago’s begging GCihello
to account his wife innocent until he had more deci-
sive proof ; and Othello promised to be patient; but
from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted
content of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandra-
gora, nor all the sleeping potions in the world, could
ever again restore to him that sweet rest which he
had enjoyed, but yesterday. His occupation sickened
upon him. He no longer took delight in arms. Fus
heart, that used to be roused at the sight of troops,
and banners, and battle-array, and would stir and leap
at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing
war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride and
ambition, which are a soldier’s virtue ; and his mili-
tary ardour and all his old joys forsook him. Some-
times he thought his wife honest, and at times he
thought her not so; sometimes he thought Iago just.
and at times he *-ought him not so; then he would
wish that he had never known of it; he was not the
worse for her loving Cassio, so long as he knew it



S4 Zales from Shakspeare.

not: torn in pieces with these distracting thoughts,
he once laid hold on Iago’s throat, and demanded
proof of Desdemona’s guilt, or threatened instant
death for his having belied her. Iago, feigning in-
dignation that his honesty should be taken for a vice,
asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a hand-
kerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife’s hand.
Othello answered, that he had given her such a one,
and that it was his first gift. “That same handker-
chief,” said Iago, “did I see Michael Cassio this day
wipe his face with.” “If it be as you say,” said
Othello, “I will not rest till a wide revenge swallow
them up : and first, fora token of your fidelity, I expect
that Cassio shall be put to death within three days ; and
for that fair devil (meaning his lady), I will withdraw
and devise some swift means of death for her.”

Trifles, light as air, are to the jealous proofs as
strong as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife’s
seen in Cassio’s hand, was motive enough to the
deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them
both, without once inquiring how Cassio came by it.
Desdemona had never given such a present to Cassio,
nor would this constant lady have wronged her lord
with doing so naughty a thing as giving his presents
to another man; both Cassio and Desdemona were
innocent of any offence against Othello: but the
wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance
of villany, had made his wife (a good, but a weak
woman) steal this. handkerchief from Desdemona,
under pretence of getting the work copied, but in
reality, to drop it in Cassio’s way, where he mignt
find it, and give a handle to Iago’s suggestion that it
was Desdemona’s present.

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that



Othello. 55

he had a headache (as he might indeed with truth,)
and desired her to lend him her handkerchief to
hold his temples. She did so. “Not this,” said
Othello, “ but that handkerchief I gave you.” Desde-
mona had it not about her (for indeed it was stolen
as we have related). “How!” said Othello, “this is
a fault indeed. That handkerchief an Egyptian
woman gave to my mother; the woman was a witch,
and could read people’s thoughts : she told my mother,
while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and my
father would love her; but, if she lost it, or gave it
away, my father’s fancy would turn, and he would
loathe her as much as he had loved her. She dying
gave it me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it
to my wife. J did so; take heed of it. Make it a
darling as precious as your eye.” “Is it possible?”
said the frighted lady. “’Tis true;” continued
Othello; “it is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that
had lived in the world two hundred years, in a fit of
prophetic fury worked it; the silkworms that fur-
nished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in
mummy of maidens’ hearts conserved.” Desdemona,
hearing the wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was
ready to die with fear, for she plainly perceived she
had lost it, and with it, she feared, the affections of her
husband. ‘Then Othello started, and looked as if he
were going to do some rash thing, and still he al
manded the handkerchief, which when she could not
produce, she tried to divert her husband from too
serious thoughts, and cheerfully told him, she saw all
his talk. about the handkerchief was only to put her
off from her suit about Michael Cassio, whom she
went on to praise (as Iago had foretoid), till Othello
in perfect distraction burst out of the room, and then



56 Lales from Shakspeare.

Desdemona, though unwillingly, began to suspect her
lord was jealous.

What cause she could have ministered to him she
knew not, and then she accused herself for accusing
the noble Othello, and thought to be sure that some
untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles,
had puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so
sweet as formerly. And she said, “Men are not gods,
and we must not look for that observance from them
when they are married, which they show us on the
bridal day.” And she beshrewed herself for so un-
kindly judging of his unkindness.

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused
her more plainly of being unfaithful, and of loving
another man, but he did not name whom: and Othello
wept, and Desdemona said, “Alas! the heavy day!
why do you weep?” And Othello told her, he could
have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude—poverty,
and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity had
broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that
looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, that the sense
ached at it; and wished she had never been born.
And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so
stupified with wonder at her lord’s untrue suspicion
of her, that a weight-like sleep came over her, and
she only desired her attendant to make her bed, and
to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when
people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means
and easy tasks, and Othello might have chid her so;
for in good faith she was but a child when she was
chidden. And this was all the complaint which this
gentle lady made.

Desdemona being retired to bed, expecting her lord
would follow her, soon fell into a slumber, the effect



Othello. 5?

of her troubled spirits, when Othello entered the
chamber, full of the black purpose which he had
meditated of putting his lady to death. But when he
saw her asleep, he thought he would not shed her
blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, more white
than alabaster. But he was resolved she should die ;
else (as he said) she would live to betray more men,
as she had done him. Then he kissed her for the
last time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, he
must needs kiss her again ; and he wept, but he said
they were cruel tears.

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she
looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under
lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was always
fatal when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for
death, and to say her prayers, for he would not kill
her soul. And this innocent wife, as she lay at his
mercy, begged for compassion, and to know her fault ;
and then he named Cassio, and the handkerchief
which (he said) she had given him; and as the guilt-
less lady was proceeding to clear herself, he suddenly
would hear no more, but covering her up in the bed-
clothes, stifled her till she died.

In this instant of time was brought into the house
Cassio, wounded and bleeding, whom Iago had set
one of his creatures on to assassinate ; but the fellow
not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cassio (whom he
wounded, but not mortally), and being himself killed
by Iago to prevent discovery, in his pockets were
found certain letters, which made the guilt of Iago,
and the innocence of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt:
and Cassio now came to beg pardon of Othello, and
to ask wherein he had offended him, that he had
employed Iago to murder him.



58 Zales from Sharspeare.

This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello,
who now plainly saw that he was no better than a
murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent lady) had
been ever faithful to him; the extreme anguish of
which discovery making life insupportable, he fell
upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body
of his dear injured lady, expired.

These rash acts raised much passion of horror and
amazement in the bystanders, for Othello had borne
a fair reputation, and till he was wrought upon by the
arts of a villain, which his own noble nature never
gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a
doting husband. He had loved, not wisely, but toe
well ; and his manly eyes (when he learned his mis-
take), though not used to weep on every small occa-
sion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian trees their
gum. And when he was dead all his former merits
and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now
remained for his successor, but to put the utmost
censure of the law in force against Iago, who was
executed with strict tortures ; and to send word to the
state of Venice of the lamentable death of their re
nowned general.



Timon of Athens. 59

TIMON OF ATHENS.

Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a
princely fortune, affected a humour of liberality which
knew no limits. His almost infinite wealth could not
flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster upon all
sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only
tasted of his bounty, but great lords did not disdain
_ to rank themselves among his dependants and fol-
lowers. His table was resorted to by all the luxu-
rious feasters, and his house was open to all comers
and goers at Athens. His large wealth combined
with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all hearts
to his love; men of all minds and dispositions ten-
dered their services to lord Timon, from the glass
faced flatterer, whose face reflects as in a mirror the
present humour of his patron, to the rough and un-
bending cynic, who affecting a contempt of mens
persons, and an indifference to worldly things, yet
could not stand out against the gracious manners
and munificent soul of lord Timon, but would come
(against his nature) to partake of his royal entertain-
ments, and return most rich in his own estimation if
he had received a nod or a salutation from Timon.

If a poet had composed a work which wanted a
recommendatory introduction to the world, he had
no more to do but to dedicate it to lord Timon, and
the poem was sure of a sale, besides a present purse



60 Lales from Shakspeare.

from the patron, and daily access to his house and
table. Ifa painter had a picture to dispose of, he had
only to take it to lord Timon, and pretend to consult
his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more was
wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it.
If a jeweller had a stone of price, or a mercer rich
costly stuffs, which for their costliness lay upon his
hands, lord Timon’s house was a ready mart always
open, where they might get off their wares or their
jewellery at any price, and the good-natured lord
would thank them into the bargain, as if they had
done him a piece of courtesy in letting him have the
refusal of such precious commodities. So that by
this means his house was thronged with superfluous
purchases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostenta-
tious pomp; and his person was still more incon-
veniently beset with a crowd of. these idle visiters,
lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies,
needy courtiers, and expectants, who continually
filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in
whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adula-
tion as to a God, making sacred the very stirrup by
which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though
they drank the free air but through his permission
and bounty.

Some of these daily dependants were young men of
birth, who (their means not answering to their ex-
travagance) had been put in prison by creditors, and
redeemed thence by lord Timon ; these young prodi-
gals thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if
by common sympathy he were necessarily endeared
to all such spendthrifts and loose livers, who, not
being able to follow him in his wealth, found it easier
to copy him in prodigality and copious spending ot



Timon of Athens. 6t

what was not their own. One of these flesh-flies
was Ventidius, for whose debts unjustly contracted
Timon but lately had paid down the sum of five
talents.

But among this confluence, this great flood of
visiters, none were more conspicuous than the makers
of presents and givers of gifts. It was fortunate for
these men, if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse,
or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs.
The thing so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be
sent the next morning with the compliments of the
giver for lord Timon’s acceptance, and apologies for
the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse,
or whatever it might be, did not fail to produce, from
Timon’s bounty, who would not be outdone in gifts,
perhaps twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents of
far richer worth, as these pretended donors knew
well enough, and that their false presents were but
the putting out of so much money at large and speedy
interest. In this way lord Lucius had lately sent to
Timon a present of four milk white horses trapped
in silver, which this cunning lord had observed Timon
upon some occasion to commend; and another lord,
Lucullus, had bestowed upon him in the same pre-
tended way of free gift a brace of greyhounds,
whose make and fleetness Timon had been heard to
admire: these presents the easy-hearted lord accepted
without suspicion of the dishonest views of the
presenters ; and the givers of course were rewarded
with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel of
twenty times the value of their false and mercenary
donation.

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a

- more direct way, and with gross and palpable artifice,



62 - Tales from Shakspeare.

which yet the credulous Timon was too bliad to see,
would affect to admire and praise something that
Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or
some late purchase, which was sure to draw from
this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing
commended, for no service in the world done for it
but the easy expense of a little cheap and obvious
flattery. In this way Timon but the other day had
given to one of these mean lords the bay courser
which he himself rode upon, because his lordship had
been pleased to say that it was.a handsome beast
and went well; and Timon knew that no man ever
justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For
lord Timon weighed his friends’ affection with his
own, and so fond was he of bestowing, that he could
have dealt kingdoms to these supposed friends, and
never have been weary.

Not that Timon’s wealth all went to enrich these
wicked flatterers; he could do noble and praise-
worthy actions ; and when a servant of his once loved
the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope
to obtain her by reason. that in wealth and rank the
maid was so far above him, lord Timon freely -be-
stowed upon his servant three Athenian talents, to
make his fortune equal with the dowry which the
father of the young maid demanded of him who
should be her husband. But for the most part,
knaves and parasites had the command of his fortune,
false friends whom he did not know to be such, but,
because they flocked around his person, he thought they
must needs love him; and because they smiled and
flattered him, he thought surely that his conduct was
approved by all the wise and good. And when he
was feasting in the midst of all these flatterers and



Timon of Athens. 63

mock friends, when they were eating him up, and
draining his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest
wines drunk to his health and prosperity, he could
not perceive the difference of a friend from a flatterer,
but to his deluded eyes (made proud with the sight),
it seemed a precious comfort to have so many, like
brothers commanding one another’s fortunes (though
it was his own fortune which paid all the costs), and
with joy they would run over at the spectacle of such,
as it appeared to him, truly festive and fraternal
meeting. ;

But while he thus outwent the very heart of kind-
ness, and poured out his bounty, as if Plutus, the
god of gold, had been but his steward; while thus
he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of
expense that he would neither inquire how he could
maintain it, nor cease his wild flow of riot; his riches,
which were not infinite, must needs melt away before
a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should
tell him so? his flatterers? they had. an interest in
shutting his-eyes. In vain did his honest steward
Flavius try to represent to him his condition, laying
his accounts before him, begging of him, praying of
him, with an importunity that on any other occasion
would have been unmannerly in a servant, beseeching
him with tears, to look into the state of his affairs.
Timon would still put him off, and turn the discourse
to something else ; for nothing is so deaf to remon-
strance as riches turned to poverty, nothing so un-
willing to believe its situation, nothing is so incredu-
lous to its own true state, and hard to give credit to a
reverse, Often had this good steward, this honest
creature, when all the rooms of Timon’s great house
have been choked up with riotous feeders at his



64 Tales from Shakspeare.

master’s cost, when the floors have wept with drunken
spilling of wine, and every apartment has blazed with
lights and resounded with music and feasting, often
had he retired by himself to some solitary spot, and’
wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful casks
within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, and to
think, when the means were gone which brought him
praises from all sorts of people, how quickly the
breath would be gone of which the praise was made ;
praises won in feasting would be lost in fasting, and
at one.cloud of winter-showers these flies would dis-
appear.

But now the time was come that Timon could shut
his ears no longer to the representations of this faithful
steward. Money must be had: and when he ordered
Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose,
Flavius informed him, what he had in vain en-
deavoured at several times before to make him listen
to, that most of his land was already sold or forfeited,
and that all he possessed at present was not enough
to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with
wonder at this representation, Timon hastily replied,
“My lands extended from Athens to Lacedemon.”
“O my good lord,” said Flavius, “the world is but a
world, and has bounds; were it all yours to give it in
a breath, how quickly were it gone!”

Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty
had yet come from him, that if he had given his
wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowed to
feed his vices, but to cherish his friends ; and he bade
the kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take
comfort in the assurance that his master could never
lack means, whiie he had so many noble friends ; and
this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had



Limon of Athens, 65

nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every
man’s fortune (that had ever tasted his bounty) in
this extremity, as freely as his own. Then with a
cheerful look, as if confident of the trial, he seve-
rally dispatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords
Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon whom he had
lavished his gifts in past times without measure or
moderation ; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately
released out of prison by paying his debts, and who
by the death of his father was now come in to the
possession of an ample fortune, and well enabled to
requite .Timon’s courtesy; to request of Ventidius
the return of those five talents which he had paid for
him, and of each of these noble lords the loan of fifty
talents : nothing doubting that their gratitude would
supply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount of
five hundred times fifty talents.

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord
had been dreaming overnight of a silver bason and
cup, and when Timon’s servant was announced, his
sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely a
making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent
him such a present: but when he understood the
truth of the matter, and that Timon wanted money,
the quality of his faint and watery friendship showed
itself, for with many protestations he vowed to the
servant that he had long foreseen the ruin’ of his
master’s affairs, and many a time had he come to
dinner, to tell him of it, and had come again to sup-
per, to try to persuade him to spend less, but he
would take no counsel nor warning by his coming:
and true it was that he had been a constant attender
(as he said) at Timon’s feasts, as he had in greater
things tasted his bounty, but that he ever came with.

F



65 Tales from Shakspeare.

that intent, or gave good counsel or reproof to Timon,
was a base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed
up with meanly offering the servant a bribe, to go
home to his master and tell him that he had not
found Lucullus at home.

As little success had the messenger who was sent to
lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was full of Timon’s
meat, and enriched almost to bursting with Timon’s
costly presents, when he found the wind changed,
and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stop-
ped, at first could hardly believe it; but on its being
confirmed, he affected great regret that he should not
have it in his power to serve lord Timon, for unfor-
tunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made a
great purchase the day before, which had quite dis-
‘furnished him of the means at present, the more
beast he, he called himself, to put it out of his power
to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of
his greatest afflictions that his ability should fail him
to pleasure such an honourable gentleman,

Who can call any man friend that dips in the same
dish with him? just of this metal is every flatterer.
Sn the recollection of every body Timon had been a
father to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with his
purse ; Timon’s money had gone to pay the wages of
his servants, to pay the hire of the labourers who had
sweat to build the fine houses which Lucius’s pride
had made necessary to him: yet, oh! the monster
which man makes himself when he proves ungrate-
ful! this Lucius now denied to Timon a sum, which,
in respect of what Timon had bestowed on him, was
less than charitable men afford to beggars.

Sempronius and every one of those mercenary
lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, returned



Timon of Athens. : 67

the same evasive answer or direct denial ; even Ven-
tidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused
to assist him with the loan.of those five talents which
Timon had not lent but generously given him in his
distress. :

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as
he had been courted and resorted to in his riches.
Now the same tongues which had been loudest in
his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and
openhanded, were not ashamed to censure that very
bounty as folly, that liberality as profuseness, though it
had shown itself folly in nothing so truly as in the
selection of such unworthy creatures as themselves
for its objects. Now was Timon’s princely mansion
forsaken, and become a shunned and hated place, a
place for men to pass by, not a place as formerly
where every passenger must stop and taste of his
wine and good cheer ; now, insteaa of being thronged
with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was beset with
impatient and clamorous creditors, usurers, extor-
tioners, fierce and intolerable in their demands, plea-
ding bonds, interest, mortgages, iron-hearted men that
would take no denial nor putting off, that Timon’s
house was now his jail, which he could not pass, nor
go in nor out for them; one demanding his due of
fifty talents, another bringing in a bill of five thousand
crowns, which if he would tell out his blood by drops,
and pay them so, he had not enough in his body to
discharge, drop by drop.

Jn this desperate and irremediable state (as it
seemed) of his affairs, the eyes .of all men were sud-
denly surprised at a néw and incredible lustre, which
. this setting sun put forth. Once more lord Timon
proclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed

F 2



68 Zales from Shrakspeare.

guests, lords, ladies, all that was great or fashionable
in Athens. Lords Lucius and Lucullus came, Ven-
tidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who more sorry
now than these fawning wretches, when they found (as
they thought) that lord Timon’s poverty was all pre-
tence, and had been only put on to make trial of their
loves, to think that they should not have seen through
the artifice at the time, and have had the cheap credit
of obliging his lordship? yet who more glad to find
the fountain of that noble bounty, which they had
thought dried up, still fresh and running? They cama
dissembling, protesting, expressing deepest sorrow
and shame, that when his lordship sent to them, they
should have been so unfortunate as to want the pre-
sent means to oblige so honourable a friend. But
Timon begged them not to give such trifles a thought,
for he had altogether forgotten it. And these base
fawning lords, though they had denied him money in
his adversity, yet could not refuse their presence at
this new blaze of his returning prosperity. For the
swallow follows not summer more willingly than men
of these dispositions follow the good fortunes of the
great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these
shrink from the first appearance of a reverse: such
summer birds are men. But now with music and
state the banquet of smoking dishes was served up;
and when the guests had a little done admiring ~
whence the bankrupt Timon could find means to
furnish so costly a feast, some doubting whether the
scene which they saw was real, as scarce trusting their
pwn eyes; at a signal given, the dishes were unco
vered, and Timon’s drift appeared: instead of those
varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected,
that Timon’s epicurean table in past times had sa



Timon of Athens. 39

liberally presented, now appeared under the covers of
these dishes a preparation more suitable to Timon’s
poverty, nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm
water, fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose
professions were indeed smoke, and their hearts luke-
warm and slippery as the water with which Timon
welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them, “ Un
cover dogs, and lap ;” and before they could recover
their surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they
might have enough, and throwing dishes and all after
them, who now ran huddling out, lords, ladies, with
their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid confusion,
Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they
were, “Smooth smiling parasites, destroyers under the
mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools of
fortune, feast-friends, time-flies.”. They, crowding our |
to avoid him, left the house more willingly than they
had entered it: some losing their gowns and caps,
and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escaps
but of the presence of such a mad lord, and the
ridicule of his mock banquet.

This was the last feast which ever Timon made,
and in it he took farewell of Athens and the society
of men, for after that he betook himself to the woods,
turning his back upon the hated city and upon all
mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city
might sink, and their houses fall upon their owners,
wishing all plagues which infest humanity, war, out-
rage, poverty, and diseases, might fasten upon its
nhabitants, praying the just gods to confound all
Athenians, both young and old, high and low; so
wishing, he went to the woods, where he said he
should find the unkindest beast much kinder than
mankind. He stripped himself naked, that he might



70 Tales from Shakspeare.

retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in,
and lived solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the
wild roots, and drinking water, flying from the face of
his kind, and choosing rather to herd with wild beasts, |
as more harmless and friendly than man.

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord
Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon the naked,
Timon the man-hater! Where were his flatterers
now? Where were his attendants and retinue
Would the bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his
chamberlain, to put his shirt on warm? Would those
stiff trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn young and
airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade
them? Would the cold brook, when it was iced with:
winter, administer to him his warm broths and caudles
when sick of an overnight’s surfeit? Or would the
creatures that lived in those wild woods come and
lick his hand and flatter him ?

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, iis
poor sustenance, his spade struck against something
heavy, which proved to be gold, a great heap which
some miser had probably buried in a time of alarm,
thinking to have come again and taken it from its
prison, but died before the opportunity had arrived,
without making any man privy to the concealment»
so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, in the bowels
of the earth, its mother, as if it had never come from
thence, till the accidental striking of Timon’s spade
against it once more brought it to light.

Here was a mass of treasure which if Timon had
retained his old mind, was enough to have purchased
him friends and flatterers again ; but Timon was sick
of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonous
to his eyes; and he would have restored it to the



Timon of Athens. 71

-earth, -but that, thinking of the infinite calamitics
which by means of gold happen to mankind, how the
lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice,
briberies, violence, and murder among them, he had
a pleasure in imagining (such a rooted hatred did he
bear to his species) that out of this heap which in
digging he had discovered, might arise some mischief!
to plague mankind. And some soldiers passing
through the woods near to his cave at that instant,
which proved to be a part of the troops of the Athe-
mian captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust taken
against the senators at Athens (the Athenians were
ever noted to be a thankless and ungrateful people,
giving disgust to their generals and best friends), was
marching at the head of the same triumphant army
which he had formerly headed in their defence, to war
. against them: Timon, who liked their business well,
bestowed upon their captain the gold to pay his
soldiers, requiring no other service from him, than
that he should with his conquering army lay Athens
level with ‘the ground, and burn, slay, kill all her
inhabitants ; not sparing the old men for their white
beards, for (he said) they were usurers, nor the young
children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those
(he said) would live, if they grew up, to be traitors ;
but to steel his eyes and ears against any sights or
sounds that might awaken compassion ; and not to |
let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him
from making one universal massacre of the city, but
to confound them all in his conquest ; and when he
had conquered, he prayed that the gods would con-
found him also, the conqueror: so thoroughly did
Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind.
While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life



42 Tales from Shakspiare.

more brutal than human, he was suddenly surprised
one day with the appearance of a man standing in an
admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was
Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous -
affection to his master had led to seek him out at his
wretched dwelling, and to offer his services ; and the
first sight of his master, the once noble Timon, in that
abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the
manner of a beast among. beasts, looking like his own
sad ruins and a monument of decay, so affected this
good servant, that he stood speechless, wrapped up in
horror and confounded. And when he found utter
ance at last to his words, they were so choked witn
tears, that Timon had much ado to know him again,
or to make out who it was that had come (so contrary
to the experience he had had of mankind) to offer him
service in extremity. And being in the form and
shape of a man, he suspected him for a traitor, and his
tears for false; but the good servant by so many
tokens confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and made it
clear that nothing but love and zealous duty to his
once dear master had brought him there, that Timon
wis forced to confess that the world contained one
honest man; yet, being in the shape and form of a
man, he could not look upon his man’s face without
abhorrence, or hear words uttered from his man’s lips
without loathing ; and this singly honest man was
forced to depart, because he was a man, and because,
with a heart more gentle and compassionate than is
usual to man, he bore man’s detested form and
outward feature.

But greater visitants than a poor steward were
about to interrupt the savage quiet of Timon’s soli-
tude. For now the day was come when the ungrate-



Timon of Athens. 13

ful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice which
they had done to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades,
like an incensed wild boar, was raging at the walls of
their city, and with his hot siege threatened to lay
fair Athens in the dust. And now the memory of
lord Timon’s former prowess and military conduct
came fresh into their forgetful minds, for Timon had
been their general in past times, and was a valiant and
expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was
deemed able to cope with a besieging army such as
then threatened them, or to drive back the furious
approaches of Alcibiades.

A deputation of the senators was chosen in this
emergency to wait upon Timon. To him they come
in their extremity, to whom, when he was in extremity,
they had shown but small regard; as if they pre-
sumed upon his gratitude whom they had dis-
obliged, and had derived a claim to his courtesy from
their own most discourteous and wunpiteous treat-
ment. :

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with
tears, to return and save that city, from which their
ingratitude had so lately driven him ; now they offer
him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for past
injuries, and public honours and the public love ;
their persons, lives, and fortunes, to be at his dis-
posal, if he will but come back and save them. But
Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longer
lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour,
their defence in war, their ornament in peace. If
Alcibiades killed his countrymen, Timon cared not.
If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men and
her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them ;
and that there was not a knife in the unruly camp



A Tales from Shakspeave.

which he did not prize above the reverendest throat
in Athens.

This was ali the answer he vouchsafed to the weep-
ing disappointed senators ; only at parting, he bade
them commend him to his countrymen, and tell them,
that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and
to prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades’
wrath, there was yet a way left, which he would teach
them, for he had yet so much affection left for his
dear countrymen as to be willing to do them a’kind-
ness before his death. These words a little revived
the senators, who hoped that his kindness for their
city was returning. Then Timon told them that he
had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should
shortly have occasion to cut down, and he invited all
his friends in Athens, high or low, of what degree
soever, who wished to shun affliction, to come and
take a taste of his tree before he cut it down ; mean-
ing that they might come and hang themselves on it,
and escape affliction that way.

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble
bounties, which Timon showed to mankind, and this
the last sight of him which his countrymen had : for
not many days after, 2 poor soldier, passing by the
seabeach, which was at a little distance from the
woods which Timon frequented, found a tomb on the
verge of the sea, with an inscription upon it, purport-
ing that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater,
who, “While he lived, did hate all living men, and
dying, wished a plague might consume all caitiffs
left 1”

Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether
mere distaste of life and the loathing he. had for
mankind brought Timon to his conclusion, was not



Timsn of Athens, 78

clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his epitaph,
and the consistency of his end; dying, as he lwé
lived, a hater of mankind: and some there were whe
fancied a conceit in the-very choice which he made
of the seabeach for his-place of burial, where the vast
sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as in contempt
for the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and
deceitful mankind.



96 Tales from Shakspeare.

MACBETH.

Wuen Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland,
there lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth.
This Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in
great esteem at court for his valour and conduct in
the wars ; an example of which he had lately given,
in defeating a rebel army assisted by the troops of
Norway in terrible numbers,

-The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo,
returning victorious from this great battle, their way
lay over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by
the strange appearance of three figures like women,
except that they had beards, and their withered skins
and wild attire made them look not like any
earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed them,
when they, seemingly offended, laid each one her
choppy finger upon her skinny lips, in token of
silence: and the first of them saluted Macbeth witt
the title of thane of Glamis. The general was not a
little startled to find himself known by such creatures ;
but -how much more, when the second of them
followed up that salute by giving him the title of
‘thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no pre-
tensions ; and again the third bid him, “ All hail!
king that shall be hereafter!” Such a prophetic
greeting might well amaze him, who knew that while
the king’s sons lived he could not hope to succeed to









Macbeth. 44

the throne. Then turning to Banquo, they pro-
nounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be Zesser
than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, but much
happier / and prophesied that though he should never
reign, yet his sons after him should be kings in
Scotland. ‘They then turned into air, and vanished :
by which the generals knew them to be the weird
sisters, or witches.

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of
this adventure, there arrived certain messengers from
the king, who were empowered by him to confer upon
Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor. An event
so miraculously corresponding with the prediction of
the witches astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped
in amazement, unable to make reply to the mes-
sengers; and in that point of time swelling hopes
arose in his mind, that the prediction of the third
witch might in like manner have its accomplishment,
and that he should one day reign king in Scotland.

Turning to Banquo, he said, “Do you not hope
that your children shall be kings, when what the
witches promised to me has so wonderfully come to
pass?” ‘That hope,” answered the general, “ might
enkindle you to aim at the throne; but oftentimes
these ministers of darkness teli us truths in’ little
things, to betray us into deeds of greatest conse-
quence.”

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk
too deep into the mind of Macbeth to allow him to
attend to the warnings of the good Banquo... From
that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the
throne of Scotland.

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated
the strange prediction of the weird sisters, and its



78 Tales from Shakspeare.

partial accomplishment. She was a bad ambitious
woman, and so as her husband and herself could
ative at greatness, she cared not much by what means.
‘She spurred on the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who
elt compunction at the thoughts of blood, and did
net cease to represent the murder of the king as a
step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flat-
tering prophecy.

It happened at this time that the ines who out of
his royal condescension would oftentimes visit his
principal nobility upon gracious terms, came to Mac-
beth’s house, attended by his two sons, Malcolm and
Donalbain and a numerous train of thanes and atten-°
dants, the more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal
success of his wars.

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and
the air about it was sweet and wholesome, which
appeared by the nests which the martlet, or swallow,
had built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses
of the building, wherever it found a place of advan- -
tage: for where those birds most breed and haunt,
the air is observed to be delicate. The king entered -
well pleased with the place, and not less so with the
attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady
Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous
purposes with smiles: and could look like the in-
nocent flower, while she was indeed the serpent under
it.

The king, being tired with his journey, went early
to bed, and in his stateroom two grooms of his
chamber (as was the custom) slept beside him. He
had been unusually pleased with his reception, and
had made presents before he retired to his principal
officers ; and among the rest, had sent a rich diamond



Macbeth, "9

to lady Macbeth, greeting her by the name of his
most kind hostess.

Now was the middle of night, when over half the
world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
men's minds asleep, and none but the wolf and the
murderer is abroad. This was the time when lady
Macbeth waked to plot the murder of the king. She
would not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent to
her sex, but that she feared her husband’s nature,
that it was too full of the milk of human kindness, to
do a contrived murder. She knew him to be ambi-
tious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet pre-
pared for that height of crime which commonly in the
end accompanies inordinate ambition. She had won
him to consent to the murder, but she doubted his
resolution: and she feared that the natural tenderness
of his disposition (more humane than her own) would
come between, and defeat the purpose. So with her
own hands armed with a dagger, she approached the
king’s bed ; having taken care to ply. the grooms of
his chamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated,
and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan, ina
sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as
she viewed him earnestly, there was something in his
face, as he slept, which resembled her own father
and she had not the courage to proceed.

She returned to confer with her husband. His
resolution had begun to stagger. He considered that
there were strong reasons against the deed. In the
first place, he was not only a subject, but a near kins-
man to the king; and he had been his host and
entertainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of
hospitality, it was to shut the door against his mur-
derers, not bear the knife himself. Then he con-



80 Lales from Shakspeare.

sidered how just and merciful a king this Duncan
had been, how clear of offence to his subjects, how
loving to his nobility, and in particular to him; that
such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, and their
subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. Be-
sides, by the favours of the king, Macbeth stood high
in the opinion of all sorts of men, and how would
those honours be stained by the reputation of so foul
a murder !

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found
her husband, inclining to the better part, and resolv
_ ing to proceed no further. But she being a woman
not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to
pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of
her own spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon
reason why he should not shrink from what he had
undertaken ; how easy the deed was; how soon it
would be over; and how the action of- one short
night would give to all their nights and days to come
a sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw con-
tempt on his change of purpose, and accused him of
fickleness and cowardice ; and declared that she had
given suck, and knew how tender it was to love the
babe that milked her, but she would, while it was
smiling in her face, have plucked it from her breast,
and dashed its brains out, if she had so sworn to do
it, as he had sworn to perform that murder. Then
she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt of
the deed upon the drunken sleepy grooms. And with
the valour of her tongue she so chastised his sluggish
resolutions, that he once more summoned up courage
to the bloody business,

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in
the dark, to the room where Duncan lay ; and as he



Macbeth. 81

went, he thought he saw another dagger in the air,
with the handle towards him, and on the blade and at
the point of it, drops of blood: but when he tried to
grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm
proceeding from his own hot and oppressed brain
and the business he had in hand.

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king’s room,
whom he dispatched with one stroke of his dagger.
Just as he had done the murder, one of the grooms,
who slept in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and
the other cried, “ Murder,” which woke them both ;
but they said a short prayer; one of them said, “God
bless us!” and the other answered, “Amen;” and
addressed themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, who
stood listening to them, tried to say, “ Amen,” when
the fellow said, “God bless us!” but, though he had |
most need of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat,
and he could not pronounce it.

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried
“Sleep no more: Macbeth doth murder sleep, the
jonocent sleep, that nourishes life.” Still it cried,
“Sleep no more,” to all the house, “Glamis hath
murdered sleep, and therefore Candor shall sleep no
more, Macbeth shall sleep no more.”

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth seed
to his listening wife, who began to think he had failed
of his purpose, and that the deed was somehow frus-
trated. He came in so distracted a state, that she
reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent
him to wash his hands of the blood which stained
them, while she took his dagger, with purpose to stain
the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem
their guilt.

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the



82 ales from Shakspeare,

raurder, which could not be concealed; and though
Macbeth and his lady made great show of grief, and
the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being pro-
duced against them and their faces smeared with
blood) were sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspi-
cion feli upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such
a deed were so much more forcible than such poor
silly grooms could be supposed to have; and Duncan’s
two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought for refuge
in the English court ; and the youngest, Donalbain,
made his escape to Ireland.

The king’s sons, who.should have succeeded him,
having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir
was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the
weird sisters was literally accomplished,

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen
could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters,
that, though Macbeth should be king, yet not his
- children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings
after him. The thought of this, and that they had
defiled their hands with blood, and done so great
crimes, only to place the posterity of Banquo upon
the throne, so rankled within them, that they deter-
mined to put to death both Banquo and his son, to
make void the predictions of the weird sisters, which
in their own case had been so remarkably brought to
pass.

For this purpose they made a great supper, to
which they invited all the chief thanes; and, among
the rest, with marks of particular respect, Banquo
and his son Fleance were: invited... The way by which
Banquo was to pass to the palace at night, was beset
by murderers appointed by Macbeth, whe -stabbed
Banquo; but in-thé 'sciffle: Fleancesescaped,,:. Fro



Macbeth, $3

that Fleance descended a race of monarchs who
afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending with
James the Sixth of'Scotland and the First of England,
under whom the two crowns of England and Seqtland
were united. :

At supper the queen, whose manners were in the
highest degree affable and royal, played the hostess
with a gracefulness and attention which conciliated
every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely
with his thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was
honourable in the country was under his roof, if he
had but his good friend Banquo present, whom yet he
hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect,
than to lament for any mischance. Just at these
words the ghost of Banquo, whom he had caused to
be murdered, entered the room, and placed himself
on the chair which Macbeth was about to occupy.
Though Macbeth was a bold man, and one that could
have faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible
sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood
quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost.
His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but
perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an
empty chair, took it for a fit of distraction; and she
reproached him, whispering that it was but the same
fancy which had made him see the dagger i in the alr,
when he was about to kill Duncan. But Macheth
continued to see the ghost, and gave no heed to all
they could say, while he addressed it with distracted
words, yet so significant, that his queen, fearing the
dreadful secret would be disclosed, in, great haste dis-
missed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth
48,,a disorder, he was often troubled, with. , |

To, such dreadful fancies. Macbeth. was subject

G2



84 Tales from Shakspeare.

His queen and he had their sleeps afflicted with
terrible dréams, and the blood of Banquo troubled
them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom
now they looked upon as father to a line of kings,
who should keep their posterity out of the throne
With these miserable thoughts they found no peace
and Macbeth determined once more to seek out the
weird sisters, and know from them the worst.

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where

they, who knew by foresight of his coming, were
engaged in preparing their dreadful charms, by which
they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them
futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats,
and serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of a
dog, the leg of a lizard, and the wing of the night- .
owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the
maw of the ravenous salt sea shark, the mummy of a
witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to
have effect must be digged in the dark), the gall of a.
goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew-
tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a
dead child: all these were set on to boil in a great
_kettle, or caldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot,
was cooled with a baboon’s blood: to these they
poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten her
young, and they threw into the flame the grease that
had sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By these
charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer theit
questions.

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would
have his doubts resolved by them, or by their masters,
the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful
ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, “ Where
are they? let me see them.” And they called the



Macbeth. 85

spirits, which were three. And the first arose in the
likeness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth
by name, and bid him beware of the thane of Fife ;
for which caution Macbeth thanked him : for Macbeth
had entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the thane of
Fife.

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a
bloody child, and he called Macbeth by name, and
bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of
man, for none of woman born should have power to
hurt him: and he advised him.to be bloody, bold,
and resolute. “Then live, Macduff!” cried the king ;
“what need I fear of thee? but yet I will make
assurance doubly sure. Thou shalt not live; that I
may tell pale-hearted Feur it lies, and sleep in spite of
thunder.”

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the
form of a child crowned; with a tree in hishand. He
called Macbeth by name, and comforted him against
conspiracies, saying, that he should never be van-
quished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane
Hill should come against him. ‘Sweet bodements!
good!” cried Macbeth; “who can unfix the forest,
and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall
live the usual period of man’s life, and not be cut off
by a violent death, But my heart throbs to know
one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell so much, if
Banquo’s issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?”
Here the caldron sunk into the ground, and a noise
of music was heard, and eight shadows, like kings,
passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a
glass which showed the figures of many more, and
Banquo all bloody siniled upon Macbeth, and pointed
to them; by which Macbeth knew, that these were



(86 Tales from Shakspeare.

the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after him
in Scotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft
music, and with dancing, making a show of duty,
and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from this
time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and
dreadful.

The first thing he heard when he got out of the
witches’ cave, was, that Macduff, thane of Fife, had
fled to England, to join the army which was forming
against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late
king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Mal-
colm, the right heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung
with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff, and put his
wife and children, whom the thane had left behind,
to the sword, and extended the slaughter to.all who
claimed the least relationship to Macduff.

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of
all his chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled
to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were now
approaching with a powerful army which they had
raised in England; and the rest secretly wished suc-
cess to their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they
could take no active part. His recruits went on
slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant, nobody loved
or honoured him, butall suspected him, and he began
to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he had
murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against
whom treason had done its worst: steel nor poison,
domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him
any longer.

While these things were acting, the queen, who had
been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose
bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary repase
from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both



Macheth. . 37

nightly, died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable
to bear the remorse of guilt, and public hate; by
which event he was left alone, without a soul to love
or care for him, or a friend to whom he could confide
his wicked purposes.

He grew careless of life, and wished for death ; but
the near approach of Malcolm’s army roused in him
what remained of his ancient courage, and he deter-
mined to die (as he expressed it) “with armour on
his back.” Besides this, the hollow promises of the
witches had filled him with false confidence, and he
remembered the sayings of the spirits, that none cf
woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never
to be vanquished till Birnam wood should come to
Dunsinane, which he thought could never be. So
he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable
strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly
waited the approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day,
there came a messenger to him, pale and shaking with
fear, almost unable to report that which he had seen:
for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the
hill, he looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking
the wood began to move! “Liar and slave,” cried
Macbeth, “if thou speakest false, thou shalt hang
alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If
thy tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much
by me:” for Macbeth now began to faint in resolu-
tion, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of the
spirits. He was not to fear, till Birnam wood should
come to Dunsinane: and now a wood did move!
:* However,” said he, “if this which he avouches be
true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence, nor
staying here. I begin to be weary of the sun, and
wish my life at an end.” With these desperate speeches



Full Text



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The Baldwin Library

University
mB 5

Florida


Shes


TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

DESIGNED

for the Ase of Young People

By CHARLES LAMB

WITH IELUSTRATIONS BY SIR FORN GILBERT, R.A.

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL
NEW YORK; 416 BROOME STREET
Rrra tne ut

SHAKESPEARE.

SHAKSPERE’S COMPLETE WORKS.
Edited by CHArtEs Knicur. With Illustrations
by Sir Jonn Givgert, R.A. Price 3s. 6d. cloth
gilt edges.



DODD'S BEAUTIES OF SHAKSPERE,
Illustrated by Sir Jonn GitBert, R.A. Cloth,
gilt edges, 3s. 6d.

THE MIND OF SHAKESPEARE AS EX-
HIBITED IN HIS WORKS. By the Rev. A.A,
Morcan. With Illustrations by Sir Joun Giiperr,
R.A. Cloth, gilt edges, 3s. 6d. a

SHAKSPERE GEMS: A Collection of the
most admired extracts from the Works of Shakspere.
Cloth, gilt edges 3s. 6a.


PREFACE.

THE following Tales are meant to be stibmitted
to the young reader as an introduction to the study
of Shakspeare, for which purpose his words are used
whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in
whatever has been added to give them the regular
form of a connected story, diligent care has been
taken to select such words as might least iriterrupt
the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he
wrote : therefore words introduced into our language
since his time have been as far as possible avoided.

In those Tales which have been taken from the
Tragedies, as my young readers will perceive when
they come to see the source from which these stories
are derived, Shakspeare’s own words, with little al-
teration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well
as in the dialogue; but in those made from the
Comedies I found myself scarcely ever able to turn
his words into the narrative form: therefore I fear in
them I have made use of dialogue too frequently for
iv Lresace.

young people not used to the dramatic form of writing,
But this fault, if it be as I fear a fault, has been caused
by my earnest wish to give as much of Shakspeare’s
own words as possible: and if the “He said,” and
“ She said,” the question and the reply, should some-
lines seem tedious to their young ears, they must
pardon it, because it was the only way I knew of, in
which I could give them a few hints and little fore-
tastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in their
elder years, when they come to the rich treasures from
which these small and valueless coins are extracted ;
pretending to no other merit than as faint and imper-
fect stamps of Shakspeare’s matchless image. Faint
and imperfect images they must be called, because
the beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed
by the necessity of changing many of his excellent
words into words far less expressive of his true sense,
to make it read something like prose ;-and even in
some places, where his blank verse is given unaltered,
as hoping from its simple plainness to cheat the young
readers into the belief that they are reading prose, yet
still his language being transplanted from its own
natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much
of its native beauty.

Ihave wished to make these Tales easy reading fat
very young children. To the utmost of my ability
I have constantly kept this in my mind ; but the sub-
jects of most of them made this a very difficult task,
It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and
vomen in terms familiar to the apprehension of a very
Lrep ue. v

young mind. Fo: young ladies too it has been my
intention chiefly to write, because boys are generally
permitted the use of their fathers’ libraries at a much
earlier age than girls are; they frequently have the
best scenes of Shakspeare by heart, before their sisters
are permitted to look into this manly book; and,
therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to the
perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so
much better in the originals, I must rather beg their
kind assistance in explaining to their sisters such parts
as are hardest for them to understand ; and when they
have helped them to get over the difficulties, then
perhaps they will read to them (carefully selecting
what is proper for a young sister’s ear) some passage
which has pleased them in one of these stories, in the
very words of the scene from which it is taken ; and
T trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, the
select passages, they may choose to give their sisters
in this way, will be much better relished and under-
stood from their having some notion of the general
story from one of these imperfect abridgments; which
if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightfu: to
any of you, my young readers, I hope will have no
worse effect upon you, than to make you wish your-
selves a little older, that you may be allowed to read
the plays at full length (such a wish will be neither
peevish nor irrational). When time and leave of judi-
cious friends shall put them into your hands, you will
discover in such of them as are here abridged (not to
mention almost as many more which are left un
vi Preface,

touched) many surprising events and turns of fortune,
which for their infinite variety could not be contained
in this little book, besides a world of sprightly and
cheerful characters, both men and women, the humour
of which I was fearful of losing if I attempted to
reduce the length of them,

What these tales have been to you in childhood,
that and much more it is my wish that the true plays
of Shakspeare may prove to you in older: years—
enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a with-
drawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a
lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and
actions, td teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity,
humanity : for of examples, teaching these virtues, his
pages are full.
CONTEN

4
w

ROMEO AND JULIET ® e ° . e

4
wt

KING LEAR. * . 8 e > e . » 23.
OTHELLO rr) . 2 + 8 eee QR
TIMON OF ATHENS . / ee 8 . ’ » 59
MACBETH . . . . . . oo. . 976
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE _ . . - 90
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. . . . . » 07
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK «3 6 « « -I28
THE TEMPEST . . . . > oo. » 145
AS YOU LIKE IT . oe 8 * 6 «6 159
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . . . > «© 179
\ MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM . 4 : . - 1905

MEASURE FOR BEASURE * . . ° . » 210
viil Contents,

PAGE
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW ww gs 229
TWELFTH NIGHT, OR WHAT YOU WILL so , 243,
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE . . eg 2 + 260
THE WINTER’S TALE, 2 . ‘ 6 , . 281

ALUS WELL TIAT ENDS WELL 2 ee un 208

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . ° , 7 . 3II
CYMBELINE . . , . . « e ° + 328
LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE . . e e » 344

CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF SHAKSPEARE’S DRAMAS . 369
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

THE two chief families in Verona were the rich
Capulets and the Mountagues. There had been an
old quarrel between these families, which was grown
to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity
between them, that it extended to the remotest kin-
dred, to the followers and retainers of both sides,
insomuch that a servant of the house of Mountague
could not meet aservant of the house of Capulet, nor
a Capulet encounter with a Mountague by chance,
but fierce words and sometimes bloodshed ensued ;
and frequent were the brawls from such accidental
meetings, which disturbed the happy quiet of
Verona’s estate.

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which
many fair ladies and many noble guests were invited.
All the admired beauties of Verona were present,
and all comers were made welcome if they were
not of the house of Mountague. At this feast of
Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the old
lord Mountague, was present; and though it was
dangerous for a Mountague to be seen in this assem-

B
2 Tales from Shakspeare.

bly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the
young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise
of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and seeing
her, compare her with some choice beauties of Verona,
who (he said) would make him think his swan a crow.
Romeo had small faith in Benvolio’s words ; never-
theless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded
to go. For Romeo was a sincere and passionate
lover, and one that lost his sleep for love, and fled
society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline, who dis-
dained him, and never requited his love with the least
show of courtesy or affection; and Benyolio wished
to cure his friend of this love by showing him
diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of
Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their
friend Mercutio went masked. Old Capulet bid
them welcome, and told them that ladies who had
their toes unplagued with corns would dance with
them. And the old man was light-hearted and merry,
and said that he had worn a mask when he was
young, and could have told a whispering tale in a
fair lady’s ear. And they fell to dancing, and Romeo
was suddenly struck with the exceeding beauty of a
lady that danced there, who seemed to him to teach
the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by
night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor : beauty
‘00 rich for use, too dear for earth! like a snowy
love trooping with crows (he said), so richly did her
beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her
companions. While he uttered these praises, he was
overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of lord Capulet, who
knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And _ this
Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, could
net endure that a Mountague should come under
Romeo and Juliet. 3

cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) at
their solemnities. And he stormed and raged exceed
ingly, and would have struck young Romeo dead.
But his uncle, the old lord Capulet, would not suffer
him to do any injury at that time, both out of respect
to his guests, and because Romeo had borne himself
like a gentleman, and all tongues in Verona bragged
of him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth,
Tybalt, forced to be patient against his will, restrained
himself, but swore that this vile Mountague should at
another time dearly pay for his intrusion:

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place
where the lady stood; and under favour of his mask-
ing habit, which might seem to excuse in part the
liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take
her by the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he pro-
faned by touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and
would kiss it for atonement. “Good pilgrim,” an-
swered the lady, “your devotion shows by far too
mannerly and too courtly: saints have hands, which
pilgrims may touch, but kiss not.” “ Have not saints
lips, and pilgrims too?” said Romeo. “ Ay,” ‘said
the lady, “lips which they must use in prayer.” “OQ
then, my dear saint,” said Romeo, “hear my prayer
and grant it, lest I despair.” In such like allusions
and loving conceits they were engaged, when the lady
was called away to her mother. And Romeo inquiring
who her mother was, discovered that the lady whose
peerless beauty he was so much struck with, was
young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet,
the great enemy of the Mountagues; and that he
had unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This
troubled him, but it could not dissuade him from
loving, As little rest had Juliet, when she found that

B2
4 Tales from Shakspeare.

the gentleman that she had been talking with was
Romeo and a Mountague, for she had been suddenly
smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion
for Romeo, which he had conceived for her; anda
prodigious birth of love it seemed to her, that she
must love her enemy, and that her affections should
settle there, where family considerations should in-
duce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Rormeo with his companions de
parted ; but they soon missed him, for unable to stay
away from the house where he had left his heart, he
leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back
of Juliet’s house. Here he had not remained long,
ruminating on his new love, when Juliet appeared
above at a window, through which her exceeding
beauty seemed to break like the light of the sun in
the east; and the moon, which shone in the orchard
with a faint light, appeared to Romeo as if sick and
pale with grief at the superior lustre of this new sun.
And she leaning her hand upon her cheek, he pas-
sionately wished himself a glove upon that hand, that
he might touch her cheek. She all this while thinking
herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed,
“ Ah me!” Romeo was enraptured to hear her speak,
and said softly, unheard by her, “O speak again,
bright angel, for such you appear, being over my
head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom
mortals fall back to gaze upon.” She, unconscious of
being overheard, and full of the new passion which
that night’s adventure had given birth to, called upon
her lover by name (whom she supposed absent): “O
Romeo, Romeo!” said she, “wherefore art thor
Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name, for
my sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love,
Rome ana Juliet. 5

and I no longer will be a Capulet.” Romeo, having
this encouragement, would fain have spoken, but he
was desirous of hearing more; and the lady con-
tinued her passionate discourse with herself (as she
thought), still chiding Romeo for being Romeo and
a Mountague, and wishing him some other name, or
that he would put away the hated name, and for that
name, which was no part of himself, he should take
all herself. At this loving word Romeo could no
longer refrain, but taking up the dialogue as if her
words had been addressed to him personally, and
not merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love, or
by whatever other name she pleased, for he was no
longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her.
Juliet, alarmed to hear a man’s voice in the garden,
did not at first know who it was, that by favour of
the night and darkness had thus stumbled upon the
discovery of her secret; but when he spoke again,
though her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words
of that tongue’s uttering, yet so nice is a lover's
hearing, that she immediately knew him to be young
Romeo, and she expostulated with him on the danger
to which he had exposed himself by climbing the
orchard walis, for if any of her kinsmen should find
him there, it would be death to him, being a Mount-
ague. “ Alack,” said Romeo, “there is more peril m
your eye, than in twenty of their swords. Do you
but look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof against
their enmity. Better my life should be ended by
their hate, than that hated life should be prolonged,
to live without your love.” “How came you into
this place,” said Juliet, “and by whose direction ?”
“Love directed me,” answered Romeo: “I am no
pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that vast
0 Tales from Shakspeare.

shore which is washed with the farthest sea, I should
adventure for such merchandise.” A crimson blush
came over the face of Juliet, yet unseen by Fomeo
by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the
discovery which she had made, yet not meaning ta
make it, of her love to Romeo. She would fain hav
recalled her words, but that was impossible: fair.
would she have stood upon form, and have kept her
lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is,
to frown and be perverse, and give their suitors harsh
denials at first; to stand off, and affect a coyness ot
indifference, where they most love, that their lovers
may not think them too lightly or too easily won : for
the difficulty of attainment increases the value of the
object. But there was no room in her case for denials,
or puttings off, or any of the customary arts of delay
and protractive courtship. Romeo had heard from
her own tongue, when she did not dream that he was
near her, aconfession of her love. So with an honest
frankness, which the novelty of her situation excused,
she confirmed the truth of what he had before heard,
and addressing him by the name of fair Mountague
(love can sweeten a sour name), she begged him not
to impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy
mind; but that he must lay tic fault of it (if it were a
fault) upon the accident of the night which had so
strangely discovered her thoughts. And she added,
that though her behaviour to him might not be suffi-
ciently prudent, measured by the custom of her sex,
yet that she would prove more true than many whose
prudence was dissembling, and their modesty artificial
cunning.

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to wit-
ness, that nothing was farther from his thoughts than
Romeo and Jutiet. 7

to impute a shadow of dishonour to such an honoured
lady, when she stopped him, begged him not to
swear: for although she joyed in him, yet she had
no joy of that night’s contract; it was too rash, too
unadvised, too sudden. But he being urgent with
her to exchange a vow of love with her that night, she
said that she already had given him hers before he
requested it; meaning, when he overheard her con-
fession; but she would retract what she then be-
stowed, for the pleasure of giving it again, for her
bounty was as infinite as the sea, and her love as
deep. From this loving conference she was called
away by her nurse, who slept with her, and thought
it time for her to be in bed, for it was near to day-
break ; but hastily returning, she said three or four
words more to Romeo, the purport of which was, that
if his love was indeed honourable, and his purpose
marriage, she would send a messenger to him to-
motrow, to appoint a time for their marriage, when
she would lay’all her fortunes at his feet, and follow
him as her lord through the world. While they were
settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by
her nurse, and went in and returned, and went and
returned again, for she seemed as jealous of Romee
going from her, as a young girl of her bird, which she
will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it back
with a silken thread ; and Romeo was as loath to part
as she: for the sweetest music to lovers is the sound
of each other’s tongues at night. But at last they
parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest for that
night,

The day was breaking when they parted, and
Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of his mistress
and that blessed meeting to allow him to sleep, in-
8 Tales from Shakspeare.

stead of going home, bent his course to a monastery
hard by, to find friar Lawrence. The good friar was
already up at his devotions, but seeing young Romeo
abroad so early, he conjectured rightly that he had
not been abed that night, but that some distemper
of youthful affection had kept him waking. He was
right in imputing the cause of Romeo’s wakefulness
to love, but he made a wrong guess at the object, for
he thought that his love for Rosaline had kept him
waking. But when Romeo revealed his new passion
for Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar to
marry them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyes
and hands in a sort of wonder at the sudden change
in Romeo’s affections, for he had been privy to all
Roineo’s love for Rosaline, and his many complaints
of her disdain ; and he said that young men’s love
lay not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But
Romeo replying that he himself had often chidden
him for doting on Rosaline, who could not love him
again, whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved
by him, the friar assented in some measure to his
reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial alliance
between young Juliet and Romeo might happily be
the means of making up the long breach between the
Capulets and the Mountagues ; which no one more
lamented than this good friar, who was a friend to
both the families, and had often interposed his medi-
ation to make up the quarrel without effect; partly
moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for
young Romeo, to whom he could deny nothing, the
old man consented to join their hands in marriage.
Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who
knew his intent from a messenger which she had
dispatched according to promise, did not fail to be
Romeo ana Juliet. 9

early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands
were joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying
the heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union
of this young Mountague and young Capulet to bury
the old strife and long dissensions of their families.

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home,
where she staid impatient for the coming of night, at
which time Romeo promised to come and meet her in
the orchard, where they had met the night before ;
and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the
night before some great festival seems to an impatient
child, that has got new finery which it may not put on
till the morning.

That same day about noon, Romeo’s friends, Ben-
volio and Mercutio, walking through the streets of
Verona, were met by a party of the Capulets with the
impetuous Tybalt at their head. This was the same
angry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo at
old lord Capulet’s feast. He seeing Mercutio, ac-
cused him bluntly of associating with Romeo, a
Mountague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and
youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied to this
accusation with some sharpness; and in spite of all
Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel
was beginning, when Romeo himself passing that way,
the fierce Tybalt turned from Mercutio to Romeo,
and gave him the disgraceful appellation of villain.
Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above
all men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and
much beloved by her ; besides, this young Mountague
had never thoroughly entered into the family quarrel,
being by nature wise and gentle, and the name of a
Capulet, which was his dear lady’s name, was now
rather a charm to allay resentment than a watchword
IO Tales from Shakspeare.

to excite fury. So he tried to reason with Tybalt,
whom he saluted mildly by the name of good Capulet,
as if he, though a Mountague, had some secret plea-
sure in uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all
Mountagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason,
but drew his weapon ; and. Mercutio, who knew not
of Romeo’s secret motive for desiring peace with
Tybalt, but looked upon his present forbearance as
a sort of calm dishonourable submission, with many
disdainful words provoked Tybalt to the prosecution
of his first quarrel with him; and Tybalt and Mer:
cutio fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving his death’s
wound while Romeo and Benvolio were vainly en-
deavouring to part the combatants. Mercutio being
dead, Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned
the scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt had
given him ; and they fought till Tybalt was slain by
Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the midst of
Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly brought
a crowd of citizens to the spot, and among them the
old lords Capulet and Mountague, with their wives ;
and soon after arrived the prince himself, who being
related to Mercutio, whom: Tybalt had slain, and
having had the peace of his government often dis-
turbed by these brawls of Mountagues and Capulets,
came determined to put the law in strictest force
against those who should be found to be offenders.
Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the fray, was
commanded by the prince to relate the origin of it,
which he did, keeping as near to the truth as he could
without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the
part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet,
whose extreme grief for the loss of her kinsman
Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her revenge,
Romec and Juliet, iI

exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his mur-
derer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio’s repre
sentation, who being Romeo’s friend, and a Mountague,
spoke partially. Thus she pleaded against her new
son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was her son-
in-law, and Juliet’s husband. On the other hand was
to be seen lady Mountague pleading for her child’s
life, and arguing with some justice that Romeo had
done nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life
of Tybalt, which was already forfeited to the law by
his having slain Mercutio. The prince, unmoved by
the passionate exclamations of these women, on a
careful examination of the facts, pronounced his sen-
tence, and by that sentencé Romeo was banished
from Verona.

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a
few hours a bride, and now by this decree seemed
everlastingly divorced! When the tidings reached
her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo, who
had slain her dear cousin: she called him a beautiful
tyrant, a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with
a wolf’s nature, a serpent-heart hid with a flowering
face, and other like contradictory names, which de-
noted the struggles in her mind between her love and
her resentment : but in the end love got the mastery,
and the tears which she shed for grief that Romeo had
slain her cousin, turned to drops of joy that her hus-
band lived whom Tybalt would have slain. Then
came fresh tears, and they were altogether of grief
for Romeo’s banishment. That word was more ter-
rible to her than the death of many Tybalts.

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar
Lawrence’s cell, where he was first made acquainted
with the prince’s sentence, which seemed to him fa.
12 Lales from Shakspeare.

more terrible than death. To him it appeared there

was no world out of Verona’s walls, no living out
of the sight of Juliet. Heaven was there where
Juliet lived, and all beyond was purgatory, torture,
hell, The good friar would have applied the con-
solation of philosophy to his griefs ; but this frantic
young man would hear of none, but like a madman
he tore his hair, and threw himself all along upon the
ground, as he said, to take the measure of his grave.
From this unseemly state he was roused by a message
from his dear lady, which a little revived him, and
then the friar took the advantage to expostulate with
him on the unmanly weakness which he had shown.
He had slain Tybalt, but would he also slay himself,
slay his dear lady who lived but in his life? The
noble form of man, he said, was but a shape of wax,
when it wanted the courage which should keep it firm.
The law had been lenient to him, that instead of
death which he had incurred, had pronounced by the
prince’s mouth only banishment.. He had slain
Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him: there was
a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and
(beyond all hope) had become his dear wife, therein
he was most happy. All these blessings, as the friar
made them out to be, did Romeo put from him like
a sullen misbehaved wench. And the friar bade him
beware, for such as despaired (he said) died miserable.
Then when Romeo was a little calmed, he counselled
him that he should go that night and secretly take his
leave of Juliet, and thence proceed straightways to
Mantua, at which place he should sojourn, till the
friar found a fit occasion to publish his marriage,
which might be a joyful means of reconciling their
families ; and then he did not doubt but. the prince
Romeo and Jutiet, 12

a

would be moved to pardon him, and he wonld return
with twenty times more joy than he went forth with _
grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels
of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lady,
purposing to stay with her that night, and by day-
break pursue his journey alone to Mantua ; to which
place the good friar promised to send him letters
from time to time, acquainting him with the state
of affairs at home.

That night Romeo passed.with his dear wife, gain-
ing secret admission to her chamber from the orchard
in which he had heard her confession of love the
night before. That had been a night of unmixed
joy and rapture ; but the pleasures of this night, and
the delight which these lovers took in each other's
society, were sadly allayed with the prospect of part-
ing, and the fatal adventures of the past day. The
unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, and
when Juliet heard the morning song of the lark, she
would fain have persuaded herself that it was the
nightingale, which sings by night; but it was too
truly the lark which sung, and a discordant and un-
pleasing note it seemed to her; and the streaks of
day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was
time for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave
of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising to write
to her from Mantua every hour in the day, and when
he had descended from her chamber-window, as he
stood below her on the ground, in that sad foreboding
state of mind, in which she was, he appeared to her eyes
as one dead in the bottom of atomb. Romeo’s mind
misgave him in like manner; but now he was forced
hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be found
within the walls of Verona after daybreak,
14 Zales from Shakspeare,

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this
pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been
gone many days, before the old lord Capulet proposed
a match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for
her, not dreaming that she was married already, was
count Paris, a gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
no unworthy suitor to the young Juliet if she had
never seen Romeo.

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her
father’s offer. She pleaded her youth unsuitable to
marriage, the recent death of Tybalt, which had left
her spirits too weak to meet a husband with any face
of joy, and how indecorous it would show for the
family of the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial-
feast, when his funeral solemnities were hardly over :
she pleaded every reason against the match, but the
true one, namely, that she was married already. But
lord Capulet was deaf to all her excuses, and in a
peremptory manner ordered her to get ready, for by
the following Thursday she should be married to
Paris: and having found her a husband rich, young,
and noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona might
joyfully accept, he could not bear that out of an
affected coyness, as he construed her denial, she
should oppose obstacles to her own good fortune.

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar,
always her counsellor in distress, and he asking her -
if she had resolution to undertake a desperate remedy,
and she answering that she would go into the grave
alive, rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband
living ; he directed her to go home, and appear merry,
and give her consent to marry Paris, according to her
father’s desire, and on the next night, which was the
night before the marriage, to drink off the contents of
Romeo and Juliet. 15

a phial which he then gave her, the effect of which
would be, that for two-and-forty hours after drinking
it she should appear cold and lifeless ; that when the
bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning, he
would find her to appearance dead; that then she
would be borne, as the manner in that country was,
uncovered, ona bier, to be buried in the family vault ;
that if she could put off womanish fear, and consent
to this terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing
the liquid (such was its certain operation) she would
be sure to awake, as from a dream; and before she
should awake, he would let her husband know their
drift, and he should come in the night, and bear her
thence to Mantua. Love, and the dread of marrying
Paris, gave young Juliet strength to undertake this
horrible adventure ; and she took the phial of ths
friar, promising to observe his directions.

Going from the monastery, she met the young count
Paris, and modestly dissembling, promised to become
his bride. This was joyful news to the lord Capulet
and his wife.’ It seemed to put youth into the old
man; and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly

‘by her refusal of the count, was his darling again,
now she promised to be obedient. All things in the
house were in a bustle against the approaching nup-
tials. No cost was spared to prepare such festival
rejoicings, as Verona had never before witnessed.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the
potion. She had many misgivings, lest the friar, to
avoid the blame which might be imputed to him for
marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison ; but
then he was always known for a holy man: then lest
she should awake before the time that Romeo was to
come for her; whether the terror of the place, a
6” Zales from Shakspeare,

vault full of dead Capulets’ bones, and where Tybalt,
all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would not be
enough to drive her distracted : again she thought of
all the stories she had heard of spirits haunting the
places where their bodies were bestowed. But then
her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, re-
turned, and she desperately swallowed the draught,
and became insensible.

When young Paris came early in the morning with
music, to awaken his bride, instead of a living Juliet,
her chamber presented the dreary spectacle of a life.
less corse. What death to his hopes! What confu.
sion then reigned through the whole house! Poor
Paris lamenting his bride, whom most detestable
death had beguiled him of, had divorced from him
even before their hands were joined. But still more
piteous it was to hear the mournings of the old lord
and lady Capulet, who having but this one, one poor
loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel death had
snatched her from their sight, just as these careful
parents were on the point of seeing her advanced (as
they thought) by a promising and advantageous match.
Now all things that were ordained for the festival
were turned from their properties to do the office of
a black funeral. The wedding cheer served for a sad
burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed to sullen
dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy bells,
and the flowers that should have been strewed in the
bride’s path, now served but to strew her corse. Now
instead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed
to bury her; and she was borne to church indeed
not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but
to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good,
Romeo and Juliet, 17

now brought the dismal story of his Juliet’s death to
Romeo at Mantua, before the messenger could arrive,
who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprise him that
these were mock funerals only, and but the shadow
and representation of death, and that his dear lady
lay in the tomb but for a short while, expecting when
Romeo should come to release her from that dreary
mansion. Just before, Romeo had been unusually
joyful and lighthearted. He had dreamed in the
night that he was dead (a strange dream, that gave a
dead man leave to think), and that his lady came and
found him dead, and breathed such life with kisses in
his lips, that he revived, and was an emperor! And
now that a messenger came from Verona, he thought
surely it was to confirm some good news which his
dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to this
flattering vision appeared, and that it was his lady
who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by
‘any kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready, for he
determined that night to visit Verona, and to see his
lady in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter
into the thoughts of desperate men, he called to mind
a-poor apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had
lately passed, and from the beggarly appearance of
the man, who seemed famished, and the wretched
show in his shop of empty boxes ranged on dirty
shelves, and other tokens of extreme wretchedness,
he had said at the time (perhaps having some mis-
givings that his own disastrous life might haply meet
with a conclusion so desperate), “If a man were to
need poison, which by the law of Mantua it is death
to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would sell it
him.” These words of his now came into his mind,
and he sought out the apothecary, who after some
: Cc
18 tales from Shakspeare.

pretended scruples, Romeo offering him gold which
his poverty could not resist, sold hima poison, which,
if he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength
of twenty men, would quickly despatch him.

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a
sight of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he
had satisfied his sight, to swallow the poison, and be
buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight,
and found the churchyard, in the midst of which was
situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had
provided a light, and a spade, and wrenching iron,
and was proceeding to break open the monument.
when he was interrupted by a voice, which by the
name of vile Mountague, bade him desist from his un-
lawful business. It was the young count Paris, who
had come to the tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable
time of night, to strew flowers, and to weep over
the grave of her that should have been his bride.
He knew not what an interest Romeo had in the
dead, but knowing him to be a Mountague, and (as
he supposed) a sworn foe to all the Capulets, he
judged that he was come by night to do some villa-
nous shame to the dead bodies; therefore in angry
tone he bade him desist; and as a criminal, con-
demned by the laws of Verona to die if he were
found within the walls of the city, he would have
apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to leave him,
and warned him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay buried
there, not to provoke his anger, or draw down another
_ sin upon his head, by forcing him to kill him. But
the count in scorm refused his warning, and laid
hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting,
they fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the
help of a light, came to see who it was that he had

at
fomeo and Juliet. 1g

slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned in his way
from Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took
the dead youth by the hand, as one whom misfortune
had made a companion, and said that he would bury
him in a triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet’s grave,
which he now opened : and there lay his lady, as one
whom death had no power upon to change a feature
or complexion in her matchless beauty, or as if Death
were amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept
her there for his delight; for she lay yet fresh and
blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when she
swallowed that benumbing potion: and near her lay
Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing,
begged pardon of his lifeless corse, and for Juliet’s
sake called him couszz, and said that he was about
to do him a favour by putting his enemy to death.
Here Romeo took his last leave of his lady’s lips,
kissing them ; and here he shook the burden of his
cross stars from his weary body, swallowing that
poison which the apothecary had sold him, whose
operation was fatal and real, not like that dissembling
potion which Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which
was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake
to complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or
that he had come too soon.

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar
had promised that she should awake; and he, having
learned that his letters which he had sent to Mantua,
by some unlucky detention of the messenger, haa
never reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a
pickaxe and lantern, to deliver the lady from her con-
finement ; but he was surprised to find a light already
burning in the Capulet’s monument, and to see swords

C2
20 Tales from Shakspeare,

and blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breath-
less by the monument.

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine
how these fatal accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke
out of her trance, and seeing the friar near her, she
remembered the place where she was, and the occa-
sion of her being there, and asked for Romeo: but
the friar, hearing a noise, bade her come out of that
place of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a greater
power than they could contradict had thwarted their
intents; and being frighted by the noise of people
coming, he fled; but when Juliet saw the cup closed
in her true love’s hands, she guessed that poison had
been the cause of his end, and she would have
swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she
kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did
hang upon them: then hearing a nearer noise of
people coming, she quickly unsheathed a dagger which
she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her true
Romeo’s side.

The watch by this time had come up to the place.
A page belonging to count Paris, who had witnessed
the fight between his master and Romeo, had given
the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who
went up and down the streets of Verona confusedly,
exclaiming, a Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumour
had imperfectly reached them, till the uproar brought
iord Mountague and lord Capulet out of their beds,
with the prince, to inquire into the causes of the dis-
turbance. ‘The friar had been apprehended by some
of the watch, coming from the churchyard, trembling,
sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A
great multitude being assembled at the Capulet’s
monument, the friar was demanded by the prince to
Romeo and Julie. az

deliver what he knew of these strange and disastrous
accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old lords Moun-
tague and Capulet, he faithfully related the story of
their children’s fatal love, the part he took in pro-
moting their marriage, in the hope in that union to
end the long quarrels between their families: how
Romeo, there dead, was husband to Juliet; and
Juliet, there dead, was Romeo’s faithful wife: how
before he could find a fit opportunity to divulge their
marriage, another match was projected for Juliet, who
to avoid the crime of a second marriage swallowed
the sleeping draught (as he advised), and all thought
her dead: how meantime he wrote to Romeo, ‘to
come and take her thence when the force of the
potion should cease, and by what unfortunate mis-
carriage of the messenger the letters never reached
Romeo: further than this the friar could not follow
the story, nor knew more than that, coming himself
to deliver Juliet from that place of death, he found
the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of
the transactions was supplied by the narration of the
page who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by
the servant who came with Romeo from Verona, to
whom this faithful lover had given letters to be de-
livered to his father in the event of his death, which
made good the friar’s words, confessing his marriage
with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of his parents,
acknowledging the buying of the poison of the poor
apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monu-
ment, to die, ané lie with Juliet. All these circum-
stances agreed together to clear the friar from any
hand he could be supposed to have had in these
complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended
22 Tales from Shakspeare.

consequences of his own well-meant, yet too artificial -
and subtle contrivances.

And the prince, turning to these old lords, Moun-
tague and Cupulet, rebuked them for their brutal and
irrational enmities, and showed them what a scourge
neaven had laid upon such offences, that it had found
means even through the love of their children to
punish their unnatural hate. And these old rivals,
no longer enemies, agreed to bury their long strife in
their children’s graves ; and lord Capulet requested
lord Mountague to give him his hand, calling him by
the name of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the
union of their families by the marriage of the young
Capulet and Mountague; and saying that lord
Mountague’s hand (in token of reconcilement) was
all he demanded for his daughter’s jointure: but lord
Mountague said he would give him more, for he
would raise her statue of pure gold, that while Verona _
kept its name, no figure should be so esteemed for
its richness and workmanship as that of the true and
faithful Juliet. And lord Capulet in return said, that »
he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did
these poor old lords, when it was too late, strive to
outgo each other in mutual courtesies: while so
deadly had been their rage and enmity in past times,
that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their children
(poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions)
could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the
noble families.
King Lear. . . 23

KING LEAR.

Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters; Go-
nerill, 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 Bur-
gundy 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.

Gonerill, 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 confi-
dence 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 fit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her
ausband one-third of his ample kingdom.

_Then calling to him his second daughter, he de-
24 Tales from Shakspeare.

manded what she had to say. Regan, who was made
of the same hollow metal as her sister, was not a wit
behind in her professions, but rather declared that
what her sister had spoken came short of the love
which she professed to bear for. his highness : inso-
much 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 chil-
dren, 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 Gonerill.

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 ingrati-
tude in his favourite child, desired her to consider
her words, and to mend her speech, lest it should mat
ther fortunes. ;

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her
father, that he had given her breeding, and loved her,
King Lear. 25

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 hus-
bands, 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 draw 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 shewed 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 yel
remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia,
and gave it away from her, sharing it equally between
%

20 Zales from Shakspeare.

her two sisters and their husbands, the dukes of
Albany and Cornwall: whom he now called to hin,
and in presence of all his courtiers, bestowing a coro-
net 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 daughter’s 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 Cor-
delia, 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 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 besouglht
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 judg-
ment that Lear’s youngest daughter did not love
= King Lear. 24
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 al-
lotted 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 sister's 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
28 Tales from Shakspeare.

her sist2rs, took this young maid by the hand, and
saying that her virtues were a dowry above a king-
dom, 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 ef 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
disposition 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 Gonerill, the old king began
to find out the difference between promises and per-
formances. 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
King Lear. 29

when the old man wanted to speak with her, she
would feign sickness, or anything to be rid of the
sight of him; for it was plain that she esteemed his
old age a useless burden, and his attendants an un-
necessary 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 altera-
tion in the behaviour of his daughter, but he shut his
eyes against it as long as he could, as people com-
monly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant conse-
quences which their own mistakes and obstinacy have
brought upon them.

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged
by 7Z, than falsehood and hollow-heartedness can
be conciliated- by good usage. This eminently ap-
pears 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
30 Zales from Shakspeare.

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 ot
Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to shew his fidelity.
and love to his royal. master; for Gonerill’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 mis-
tress, Caius not enduring to hear so open an affront
put upon 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

For sudden joy did weep,
And he for sorrow sung,

That such a king should play bo-peep,
And go the fools among.

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of
King Lear. 31

which he had plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured
out his heart even in the presence of Gonerill her-
self 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 fill her court with riot and feastings ; and
she prayed him that he would lessen their number,
and keep none but old men about him, such as him-
self, 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 had 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 and
32 Tales from Shakspeare.

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 Gonerill
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 Gonerill’s husband, the duke of Albany,
beginning to excuse himself for any share which Lear
might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear woula
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 Gonerill 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 dis-
patched 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
Gonerill had been beforehand with him, sending
letters also to Regan, accusing her father of way-
wardness 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 for.
King Lear. 33

merly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behaviour
to Lear. Caius not liking the fellows look, and
suspecting what he came for, began to revile him, and
challenged him to fight,-which the fellow refusing,
Caius, ina fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as
such a mischief-maker and carrier of wicked mes-
sages 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 insist-
ing in a positive and angry manner to see them, they
came to greet him, whom should he see in their com-
pany but the hated Gonerill, 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 Gonerill if she was not ashamed to look upon
his old white beard. And Regan advised him to go
home again with Gonerill and live with her peaceably,
dismissing half of his attendants, and to ask her for-
giveness ; 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 pre-
posterous that would sound, if he were to down on
his knees, and beg of his own daughter fer food and

: D
34 Zales from Shakspeare,

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 Gonerill’s, but mild and kind. And he said that
rather than return to Gonerill 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
Gonerill. As if willing to outdo her sister in unfilial
behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty knights
too many to wait upon him: that five-and-twenty
were enough. Then Lear, nigh heartbroken, turned
to Gonerill, 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 Gonerill 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 hap-
piness, but front a king to a beggar is a hard change,
from commanding millions to be without one at-
tendant ; and it was the ingratitude in his daughters
denying it, more than what he would suffer by the
King Lear. 38

want of it, whicn pierced this poor old king to the
heart : insomuch, that with this double ill usage, and
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 un-
natural 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 in-
juries which wilful men procure to themselves are their
just punishment, suffered him to go in that condition,
and shut their doors upon him.

The winds were high, and the rain and storm in-
creased, when the old man sallied forth to combat
with the elements, less sharp than his daughters’ un-
kindness. 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 mis-
fortune, saying, it was but a naughty night to swim
in, and truly the king had better go in and ask his
daughter’s blessing :

D2
36 Lales from Shakspeare,

But he that has a little tiny wit,

With heigh ho, the wind and the rain !
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
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 fol-
lowed 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 fixed. When the mind is at ease,
the body has leisure to be delicate ; but the tempest
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 chil-
dren.

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 ot
those poor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be
King Lear’, 37

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 any thing 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; fo
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 himseif 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 in-
humanity 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
33 Tales from Shakspeare.

with a sufficient power to subdue these daughters and
their husbands, and restore the 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 ta
beg pardon of his child; and she, good lady, kneeling
King Lear. 39

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
Cordelia! 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
this 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 réturn to say a word or
two about those cruel daughters.

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so
false to their own 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,
42 Tah; from Shakspeare.

and by his wicked practices was now earl himself: a
wicked man, and a fit object for the love of such
wicked creatures as Gonerill and Regan. It falling
out about this time that the duke of Cornwall, Regan’s
husband, died, Regan immediately declared her in-
tention 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 pro-
fessed love, Gonerill found means to make away with
her sister by poison: but being detected in her prac-
tices, 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 fit 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 conclu
sion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and
piety are not always successful in this world. The
forces which Gonerill 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 illus-
trious example of filial duty. Lear did not long sur-
vive this kind child.
King Lear, Al

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 vexa-
tions, 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 Gonerill’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.
42 Tales from Shakspeare.

OTHELL v.

BraBantio, the rich senator of Venice, had a faiz
daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought
to by divers suitors, both on account of her many
virtuous qualities and for her rich expectations. But
among the suitors of her own clime and complexion
she saw none whom she could affect: for this noble
lady, who regarded the mind more than the features
of men, with a singularity rather to be admired than
imitated, had chosen for the object of her affections,
a Moor, a black, whom her father loved, and often
invited to his house. |

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned
for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected
for her lover. Bating that Othello was black, the
noble Moor wanted nothing which might recommend
him to.the affections of the greatest lady. He was a
soldier, and a brave one; and by his conduct in
bloody wars against the Tarks had risen to the rank
of general in the Venetian service, and was esteemed
and trusted by the state.

He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is the
manner of ladies) loved to hear him tell the story of
his adventures, which he would run through from his
earliest recollection ; the battles, sieges, and encounters
which he had passed through ; the perils he had been
exposed to by land and by water; his hair-breadth



Othello. 43

escapes when he had entered a breach, or marched
up to the mouth of a cannon; and how he had been
taken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to
slavery : how he demeaned himself in that state, and
how he escaped: all these accounts, added to the
narration of the strange things he had seen in foreign
countries, the vast wildernesses and romantic caverns,
the quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads
are in the clouds; of the savage nations, the can-
nibals who are man-eaters, and a race of people in
Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders :
these travellers’ stories would so enchain the atten-
tion of Desdemona, that if she were called off at
any time by household affairs, she would dispatch
with all haste that business, and return, and with a
greedy ear devour Othello’s discourse. And once he
took advantage of a pliant hour, and drew from her
a prayer, that he would tell her the whole story of
his life at large, of which she had heard so much,
but only by parts: to which he consented, and
beguiled her of many a tear, when he spoke of some
distressful stroke which his youth suffered.

His story being done, she gave him for his pains
a world of sighs: she swore a pretty oath, that it
was all passing strange, and pitiful, wondrous pitiful :
she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she
wished that heaven had made her such a man: and
then she thanked him, and told him, if he had a
friend who loved her, he had only to teach him how
to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this
hint, delivered not with more frankness than modesty,
accompanied with a certain bewitching prettiness, and
blushes, which Othello could not but understand, he
spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden
44 Tales from Shakspeare.

opportunity gained the consent of the generous lady
Desdemona privately to marry him.

Neither Othello’s colour nor his fortune were such
that it could be hoped Brabantio would accept him
fora son-in-law. He had left his daughter free; but
he did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetian
ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of
senatorial rank or expectations: but in this he was
deceived ; Desdemona loved the Moor, though he was
black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his
valiant parts and qualities : so was her heart subdued
to an implicit devotion to the man she had selected
for a husband, that his very colour, which to all but
this discerning lady would have proved an imsur-
mountable objection, was by her esteemed above ali
the white skins and clear complexions of the young
Venetian nobility, her suitors.

Their marriage, which, though privately carried,
could not long be kept a secret, came to the ears of
the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in a solemn
council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor
Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he maintained)
had seduced the affections of the fair Desdemona
to marry him, without the consent of her father, and
against the obligations of hospitality.

At this juncture of time it happened that the state
of Venice had immediate need of the services of
Othello, news having arrived that the Turks with
mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was
bending its course to the Island of Cyprus, with
intent to regain that strong post from the Venetians,
who then held it: in this emergency the state tumed
its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate
to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks.
Othello. AS

So that Othello, now summoned before the senate,
stood in their presence at once as a candidate for
a great state employment, and as a culprit, charged
with offences which by the laws of Venice were made
capital,

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio
commanded a most patient hearing from that grave
assembly ; but the incensed father conducted his
accusation with so much intemperance, producing
likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when
Othello was called upon for his defence, he had only
to relate a plain tale of the course of his love; which
he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting the
whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above,
and delivered his speech with so noble a plainness
(the evidence of truth), that the duke, who sat as
chief judge, could not help confessing, that a tale so
told would have won his daughter too : and the spelis
and conjurations, which Othello had used in his court-
ship, plainly appeared to have been no more than the
honest arts of men in love; and the only witchcraft
which he had used, the faculty of telling a soft tale to
win a lady’s ear.

This statement of Othello was confirmed by the
-testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, who ap-
peared in court, and professing a duty to her father
for life and education, challenged leave of him to
profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband,
even so much as her mother had shown in preferring

‘him (Brabantio) above Aer father.

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called
the Moor to him with many expressions of sorrow,
and, as an act of necessity, bestowed upon hii his
daughter, whom, if he had been free to withhold her
46 Tales from Shakspeare.

(he told him), he would with all his heart have kept
from him ; adding, that he was glad at soul that he-
had no other child, for this behaviour of Desdemona
would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs
on them for her desertion.

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom
custom had rendered the hardships of a military life
as natural as food and rest are to other men, readily
undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus:
and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord
(though with danger) before the indulgence of those
idle delights in which new-married people usually
waste their time, cheerfully consented to his going.

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in
Cyprus, than news arrived, that a desperate tempest
had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and thus the island
was secure from any immediate apprehension of an
attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer,
was now beginning; and the enemies, which: malice
stirred up against his innocent lady, proved in their
nature more deadly than strangers or infidels,

Among all the general’s friends no one possessed
the confidence of Othello more entirely than Cassio.

. Michael Cassio was a young soldier, a Florentine,
gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite
qualities with women ; he was handsome, and elo-
quent, and exactly such a person as might alarm the
jealousy of a man advanced in years (as Othello in
some measure was), who had married a young and
beautiful wife ; but Othello was as free from jealousy
as he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting, as of
doing, a base action. He had employed this Cassio
in his love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had
been a sort of go-between in his suit: for Othello,
Othello, 47

fearing that himself had not those soft parts of con-
versation which please ladies, and finding these quali-
ties in his friend, would often depute Cassio to go (as
he phrased it) a courting for him : such innocent sim-
plicity being an honour rather than a blemish to the
character of the valiant Moor. So that no wonder,
if next to Othello himself (but at far distance, as be-
seems a virtuous wife) the gentle Desdemona loved
and trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this
couple made any difference in their behaviour to
Michael Cassio. He frequented their house, and his
free and rattling talk was no unpleasing variety to
Othello, who was himself of a more serious temper:
for such tempers are observed often to delight in their
contraries, as a relief from the oppressive excess of
their own: and Desdemona and Cassio would talk
and laugh together, as in the days when he went a
courting for his friend.

Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieu-
tenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the general’s
person. This promotion gave great offence to Iago,
an older officer, who thought he had a better claim
than Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio, as a
fellow fit only for the company of ladies, and one that
knew no more of the art of war, or how to set an
army in array for battle, than a girl, Iago hated
Cassio, and he hated Othello, as well for favouring
Cassio, as for an unjust suspicion, which he had lightly
taken up against Othello, that the Moor was too fond
of Iago’s wife Emilia. From these imaginary provo-
cations, the plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid
scheme of revenge, which should involve both Cassio,
the Moor, and Desdemona in one common ruin.

Tago was artful, and had studied human nature
48 Tales from Shakspeare.

deeply, and he knew that of all the torments which
afflict the mind of man (and far beyond bodily torture),
the pains of jealousy were the most intolerable, and
had the sorest sting. If he could succeed in making
Othello jealous of Cassio, he thought it would be an
exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in the death
of Cassio or Othello, or both; he cared not.

The arrival of the general and his lady in Cyprus,
meeting with the news of the dispersion of the enemy’s
fleet, made a sort of holiday in the island. Every
body gave themselves up to feasting and making
merry. Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went
round to the health of the black Othello, and his lady
the fair Desdemona.

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night,
with a charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from
excess in drinking, that no brawl might arise, to fright
the inhabitants, or disgust them with the new-landed
forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans
of mischief; under colour of loyalty and love to the
general, he enticed Cassio to make rather too free
with the bottle (a great fault in an officer upon guard).
Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long hold
out against the honest freedom which Jago knew how
to put on, but kept swallowing glass after glass (as
Iago still plied him with drink and encouraging songs),
and Cassio’s tongue ran over in praise of the lady
Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirm-
ing that she was a most exquisite lady: until at last
the enemy which he put into his mouth, stole away
brains ; and upon some provocation given him by a
fellow whom Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and
Montano, a worthy officer who interfered to appease
the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot

x
Othello. 49

now began to be general, and Iago, who had set on
foot the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm,
vausing the castle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous
mutiny, instead of a slight drunken quarrel, had arisen):
the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello, who, dressing
in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, ques-
tioned Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to
himself, the effect of the wine having a little gone off,
but was too much ashamed to reply; and Iago, pretend-
ing a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but as it were
forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the
truth, gave an account of the whole matter (leaving
out his own share in it, which Cassio was too far gone
to remember) in such a manner, as while he seemed
to make Cassio’s offence less, did indeed make it
appear greater than it was. The result was, that
Othello, who was a strict observer of discipline, was
compelled to take away Cassio’s place of lieutenant
from him.

Thus did Iago’s first artifice succeed completely:
he had now undermined his hated rival, and thrust
him out of his place: but a further use was hereafter
to be made of the adventure of this disastrous night.

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered,
now lamented to his seeming friend Iago, that he
should have been such a fool as to transform himself
into a beast. He was undone, for how could he ask
the general for his place again! he would tell him he
was a drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, affecting
to make light of it, said that he, or any man living,
might be drunk upon occasion ; it remained now to
make the best of a bad bargain ; the general’s wife
was now the general, and could do anything with
Othello ; that he were best to apply to the lady Des-

E
50 Tales from Shakspeare.

demona to mediate for him with her lord; that she
was of a frank, obliging disposition, and would readily
undertake a good office of this sort, and set Cassio
right again in the general’s favour; and then this
crack in their love would be made stronger than ever.
A good advice of Jago, if it had not been given for
wicked purposes, which will after appear.

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made appli-
cation to the lady Desdemona, who was easy to be
won over in any honest suit; and she promised Cassio
that she would be his solicitor with her lord, and
rather die than give up his cause. This she imme-
diately set about in so earnest and pretty a manner,
that Othello, who was mortally offended with Cassio.
could not put her off When he pleaded delay, and
that it was too soon to pardon such an offender, she
would not be beat back, but insisted that it should be
the next night, or the morning after, or the next
morning to that at farthest. Then she showed how
penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, and that his
offence did not deserve so sharp a check. Andwher
Othello still hung back, “What! my lord,” said she,
“that I should have so much to do to plead for Cassio,
Michael Cassio, that came a courting for you, and
oftentimes, when I have spoken in dispraise of you,
has taken your part? I count this but a little thing to
ask of you. When I mean to try your love indeed,
I shall ask a weighty matter.” Othello could deny
nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting that
Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised ta
receive Michael Cassio again into favour.

It happened that Othello and Iago had entered
into the room where Desdemona was, just as Cassio,
who had been imploring her intercession, was depart.
Othello. 51

ing at the opposite door; and Iago, who was full of
art, said in a low voice, as if to himself, “I lke not
that.” Othello took no great notice of what he said ;
indeed the conference which immediately took place
with his lady put it out of his head: but he remem-
bered it afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone,
Tago, as if for mere satisfaction of his thought, ques-
tioned Othello whether Michael Cassio, when Othello
was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this the
general answering in the affirmative, and adding, that
he had gone between them very often during the
courtship, Iago knitted his brow, as if he had got
fresh light of some terrible matter, and cried, “ In-
deed!” This brought into Othello’s mind, the words
which Iago had let fall upon entering the room, and
_seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to
think there was some meaning in all this: for he
deemed Iago to be a just man, and full of love and
honesty, and what in a false knave would be tricks, in
him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest
mind, big with something too great for utterance: and
Othello prayed Iago to speak what he knew, and
to give his worst thoughts words. “ And what,” said
Tago, “if some thoughts very vile should have intruded
into my breast, as where is the palace into which foul
things do not enter?” Then Iago went on to say,
what a pity it were, if any trouble should arise to
Othello out of his imperfect observations; that it
would not be for Othello’s peace to know his
thoughts; that people’s good names were not to be
taken away for slight suspicions ; and when Othello’s
curiosity was raised almost to distraction with these
hints and scattered words, Iago, as if in earnest care
for Othello’s peace of mind, besought him to beware
E2
52 Zales from Shakspeare.

of jealousy ; with such art did this villain raise sus-
picions in the unguarded Othello, by the very caution
which he pretended to give him against suspicion.
“T know,” said Othello, “that my wife is fair, loves
company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays,
and dances well: but where virtue is, these qualities
are virtuous. I must have proof before I think her
dishonest.” Then Iago, as if glad that Othello was
slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that
he had no proof, but begged Othello to observe her —
behaviour well, when Cassio was by; not to be
jealous nor too secure neither, for that he (Iago)
knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his coun-
trywomen, better than Othello could do; and that in
Venice the wives let heaven see many pranks they
dared not show their husbands. Then he artfully in-
sinuated, that Desdemona deceived her father in mar-
rying with Othello, and carried it so closely, that the
poor old man thought that witchcraft had been used.
Othello was much moved with this argument, which
brought the matter home to him, for if she had
deceived her father, why might she not deceive her
husband ? ~

Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but
Othello, assuming an indifference, while he was really
shaken with inward grief at Iago’s words, begged him
to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as if
unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom
he called his friend: he then came strongly to the
point, and reminded Othello how Desdemona had
refused many suitable matches of her own clime and
complexion, and had married him, a Moor, which
showed unnatural in her, and proved her to have a
headstrong will: and when her better judgment re-
Othello. 53

turned, how probable it was she should fall upon
comparing Othello with the fine forms and clear
white complexions of the young Italians her country-
men. He concluded with advising Othello to put off
his reconcilement with Cassio a little longer, and in
the meanwhile to note with what earnestness Desde-
mona should intercede in his behalf; for that much
would be seen in that, So mischievously did this
artful villain lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities
of this innocent lady into her destruction, and make
a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap her:
first setting Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and
then out of that very mediation contriving stratagems
for her ruin.

The conference ended with Iago’s begging GCihello
to account his wife innocent until he had more deci-
sive proof ; and Othello promised to be patient; but
from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted
content of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandra-
gora, nor all the sleeping potions in the world, could
ever again restore to him that sweet rest which he
had enjoyed, but yesterday. His occupation sickened
upon him. He no longer took delight in arms. Fus
heart, that used to be roused at the sight of troops,
and banners, and battle-array, and would stir and leap
at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing
war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride and
ambition, which are a soldier’s virtue ; and his mili-
tary ardour and all his old joys forsook him. Some-
times he thought his wife honest, and at times he
thought her not so; sometimes he thought Iago just.
and at times he *-ought him not so; then he would
wish that he had never known of it; he was not the
worse for her loving Cassio, so long as he knew it
S4 Zales from Shakspeare.

not: torn in pieces with these distracting thoughts,
he once laid hold on Iago’s throat, and demanded
proof of Desdemona’s guilt, or threatened instant
death for his having belied her. Iago, feigning in-
dignation that his honesty should be taken for a vice,
asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a hand-
kerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife’s hand.
Othello answered, that he had given her such a one,
and that it was his first gift. “That same handker-
chief,” said Iago, “did I see Michael Cassio this day
wipe his face with.” “If it be as you say,” said
Othello, “I will not rest till a wide revenge swallow
them up : and first, fora token of your fidelity, I expect
that Cassio shall be put to death within three days ; and
for that fair devil (meaning his lady), I will withdraw
and devise some swift means of death for her.”

Trifles, light as air, are to the jealous proofs as
strong as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife’s
seen in Cassio’s hand, was motive enough to the
deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them
both, without once inquiring how Cassio came by it.
Desdemona had never given such a present to Cassio,
nor would this constant lady have wronged her lord
with doing so naughty a thing as giving his presents
to another man; both Cassio and Desdemona were
innocent of any offence against Othello: but the
wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance
of villany, had made his wife (a good, but a weak
woman) steal this. handkerchief from Desdemona,
under pretence of getting the work copied, but in
reality, to drop it in Cassio’s way, where he mignt
find it, and give a handle to Iago’s suggestion that it
was Desdemona’s present.

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that
Othello. 55

he had a headache (as he might indeed with truth,)
and desired her to lend him her handkerchief to
hold his temples. She did so. “Not this,” said
Othello, “ but that handkerchief I gave you.” Desde-
mona had it not about her (for indeed it was stolen
as we have related). “How!” said Othello, “this is
a fault indeed. That handkerchief an Egyptian
woman gave to my mother; the woman was a witch,
and could read people’s thoughts : she told my mother,
while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and my
father would love her; but, if she lost it, or gave it
away, my father’s fancy would turn, and he would
loathe her as much as he had loved her. She dying
gave it me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it
to my wife. J did so; take heed of it. Make it a
darling as precious as your eye.” “Is it possible?”
said the frighted lady. “’Tis true;” continued
Othello; “it is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that
had lived in the world two hundred years, in a fit of
prophetic fury worked it; the silkworms that fur-
nished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in
mummy of maidens’ hearts conserved.” Desdemona,
hearing the wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was
ready to die with fear, for she plainly perceived she
had lost it, and with it, she feared, the affections of her
husband. ‘Then Othello started, and looked as if he
were going to do some rash thing, and still he al
manded the handkerchief, which when she could not
produce, she tried to divert her husband from too
serious thoughts, and cheerfully told him, she saw all
his talk. about the handkerchief was only to put her
off from her suit about Michael Cassio, whom she
went on to praise (as Iago had foretoid), till Othello
in perfect distraction burst out of the room, and then
56 Lales from Shakspeare.

Desdemona, though unwillingly, began to suspect her
lord was jealous.

What cause she could have ministered to him she
knew not, and then she accused herself for accusing
the noble Othello, and thought to be sure that some
untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles,
had puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so
sweet as formerly. And she said, “Men are not gods,
and we must not look for that observance from them
when they are married, which they show us on the
bridal day.” And she beshrewed herself for so un-
kindly judging of his unkindness.

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused
her more plainly of being unfaithful, and of loving
another man, but he did not name whom: and Othello
wept, and Desdemona said, “Alas! the heavy day!
why do you weep?” And Othello told her, he could
have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude—poverty,
and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity had
broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that
looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, that the sense
ached at it; and wished she had never been born.
And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so
stupified with wonder at her lord’s untrue suspicion
of her, that a weight-like sleep came over her, and
she only desired her attendant to make her bed, and
to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when
people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means
and easy tasks, and Othello might have chid her so;
for in good faith she was but a child when she was
chidden. And this was all the complaint which this
gentle lady made.

Desdemona being retired to bed, expecting her lord
would follow her, soon fell into a slumber, the effect
Othello. 5?

of her troubled spirits, when Othello entered the
chamber, full of the black purpose which he had
meditated of putting his lady to death. But when he
saw her asleep, he thought he would not shed her
blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, more white
than alabaster. But he was resolved she should die ;
else (as he said) she would live to betray more men,
as she had done him. Then he kissed her for the
last time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, he
must needs kiss her again ; and he wept, but he said
they were cruel tears.

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she
looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under
lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was always
fatal when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for
death, and to say her prayers, for he would not kill
her soul. And this innocent wife, as she lay at his
mercy, begged for compassion, and to know her fault ;
and then he named Cassio, and the handkerchief
which (he said) she had given him; and as the guilt-
less lady was proceeding to clear herself, he suddenly
would hear no more, but covering her up in the bed-
clothes, stifled her till she died.

In this instant of time was brought into the house
Cassio, wounded and bleeding, whom Iago had set
one of his creatures on to assassinate ; but the fellow
not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cassio (whom he
wounded, but not mortally), and being himself killed
by Iago to prevent discovery, in his pockets were
found certain letters, which made the guilt of Iago,
and the innocence of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt:
and Cassio now came to beg pardon of Othello, and
to ask wherein he had offended him, that he had
employed Iago to murder him.
58 Zales from Sharspeare.

This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello,
who now plainly saw that he was no better than a
murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent lady) had
been ever faithful to him; the extreme anguish of
which discovery making life insupportable, he fell
upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body
of his dear injured lady, expired.

These rash acts raised much passion of horror and
amazement in the bystanders, for Othello had borne
a fair reputation, and till he was wrought upon by the
arts of a villain, which his own noble nature never
gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a
doting husband. He had loved, not wisely, but toe
well ; and his manly eyes (when he learned his mis-
take), though not used to weep on every small occa-
sion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian trees their
gum. And when he was dead all his former merits
and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now
remained for his successor, but to put the utmost
censure of the law in force against Iago, who was
executed with strict tortures ; and to send word to the
state of Venice of the lamentable death of their re
nowned general.
Timon of Athens. 59

TIMON OF ATHENS.

Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a
princely fortune, affected a humour of liberality which
knew no limits. His almost infinite wealth could not
flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster upon all
sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only
tasted of his bounty, but great lords did not disdain
_ to rank themselves among his dependants and fol-
lowers. His table was resorted to by all the luxu-
rious feasters, and his house was open to all comers
and goers at Athens. His large wealth combined
with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all hearts
to his love; men of all minds and dispositions ten-
dered their services to lord Timon, from the glass
faced flatterer, whose face reflects as in a mirror the
present humour of his patron, to the rough and un-
bending cynic, who affecting a contempt of mens
persons, and an indifference to worldly things, yet
could not stand out against the gracious manners
and munificent soul of lord Timon, but would come
(against his nature) to partake of his royal entertain-
ments, and return most rich in his own estimation if
he had received a nod or a salutation from Timon.

If a poet had composed a work which wanted a
recommendatory introduction to the world, he had
no more to do but to dedicate it to lord Timon, and
the poem was sure of a sale, besides a present purse
60 Lales from Shakspeare.

from the patron, and daily access to his house and
table. Ifa painter had a picture to dispose of, he had
only to take it to lord Timon, and pretend to consult
his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more was
wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it.
If a jeweller had a stone of price, or a mercer rich
costly stuffs, which for their costliness lay upon his
hands, lord Timon’s house was a ready mart always
open, where they might get off their wares or their
jewellery at any price, and the good-natured lord
would thank them into the bargain, as if they had
done him a piece of courtesy in letting him have the
refusal of such precious commodities. So that by
this means his house was thronged with superfluous
purchases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostenta-
tious pomp; and his person was still more incon-
veniently beset with a crowd of. these idle visiters,
lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies,
needy courtiers, and expectants, who continually
filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in
whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adula-
tion as to a God, making sacred the very stirrup by
which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though
they drank the free air but through his permission
and bounty.

Some of these daily dependants were young men of
birth, who (their means not answering to their ex-
travagance) had been put in prison by creditors, and
redeemed thence by lord Timon ; these young prodi-
gals thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if
by common sympathy he were necessarily endeared
to all such spendthrifts and loose livers, who, not
being able to follow him in his wealth, found it easier
to copy him in prodigality and copious spending ot
Timon of Athens. 6t

what was not their own. One of these flesh-flies
was Ventidius, for whose debts unjustly contracted
Timon but lately had paid down the sum of five
talents.

But among this confluence, this great flood of
visiters, none were more conspicuous than the makers
of presents and givers of gifts. It was fortunate for
these men, if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse,
or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs.
The thing so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be
sent the next morning with the compliments of the
giver for lord Timon’s acceptance, and apologies for
the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse,
or whatever it might be, did not fail to produce, from
Timon’s bounty, who would not be outdone in gifts,
perhaps twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents of
far richer worth, as these pretended donors knew
well enough, and that their false presents were but
the putting out of so much money at large and speedy
interest. In this way lord Lucius had lately sent to
Timon a present of four milk white horses trapped
in silver, which this cunning lord had observed Timon
upon some occasion to commend; and another lord,
Lucullus, had bestowed upon him in the same pre-
tended way of free gift a brace of greyhounds,
whose make and fleetness Timon had been heard to
admire: these presents the easy-hearted lord accepted
without suspicion of the dishonest views of the
presenters ; and the givers of course were rewarded
with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel of
twenty times the value of their false and mercenary
donation.

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a

- more direct way, and with gross and palpable artifice,
62 - Tales from Shakspeare.

which yet the credulous Timon was too bliad to see,
would affect to admire and praise something that
Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or
some late purchase, which was sure to draw from
this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing
commended, for no service in the world done for it
but the easy expense of a little cheap and obvious
flattery. In this way Timon but the other day had
given to one of these mean lords the bay courser
which he himself rode upon, because his lordship had
been pleased to say that it was.a handsome beast
and went well; and Timon knew that no man ever
justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For
lord Timon weighed his friends’ affection with his
own, and so fond was he of bestowing, that he could
have dealt kingdoms to these supposed friends, and
never have been weary.

Not that Timon’s wealth all went to enrich these
wicked flatterers; he could do noble and praise-
worthy actions ; and when a servant of his once loved
the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope
to obtain her by reason. that in wealth and rank the
maid was so far above him, lord Timon freely -be-
stowed upon his servant three Athenian talents, to
make his fortune equal with the dowry which the
father of the young maid demanded of him who
should be her husband. But for the most part,
knaves and parasites had the command of his fortune,
false friends whom he did not know to be such, but,
because they flocked around his person, he thought they
must needs love him; and because they smiled and
flattered him, he thought surely that his conduct was
approved by all the wise and good. And when he
was feasting in the midst of all these flatterers and
Timon of Athens. 63

mock friends, when they were eating him up, and
draining his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest
wines drunk to his health and prosperity, he could
not perceive the difference of a friend from a flatterer,
but to his deluded eyes (made proud with the sight),
it seemed a precious comfort to have so many, like
brothers commanding one another’s fortunes (though
it was his own fortune which paid all the costs), and
with joy they would run over at the spectacle of such,
as it appeared to him, truly festive and fraternal
meeting. ;

But while he thus outwent the very heart of kind-
ness, and poured out his bounty, as if Plutus, the
god of gold, had been but his steward; while thus
he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of
expense that he would neither inquire how he could
maintain it, nor cease his wild flow of riot; his riches,
which were not infinite, must needs melt away before
a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should
tell him so? his flatterers? they had. an interest in
shutting his-eyes. In vain did his honest steward
Flavius try to represent to him his condition, laying
his accounts before him, begging of him, praying of
him, with an importunity that on any other occasion
would have been unmannerly in a servant, beseeching
him with tears, to look into the state of his affairs.
Timon would still put him off, and turn the discourse
to something else ; for nothing is so deaf to remon-
strance as riches turned to poverty, nothing so un-
willing to believe its situation, nothing is so incredu-
lous to its own true state, and hard to give credit to a
reverse, Often had this good steward, this honest
creature, when all the rooms of Timon’s great house
have been choked up with riotous feeders at his
64 Tales from Shakspeare.

master’s cost, when the floors have wept with drunken
spilling of wine, and every apartment has blazed with
lights and resounded with music and feasting, often
had he retired by himself to some solitary spot, and’
wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful casks
within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, and to
think, when the means were gone which brought him
praises from all sorts of people, how quickly the
breath would be gone of which the praise was made ;
praises won in feasting would be lost in fasting, and
at one.cloud of winter-showers these flies would dis-
appear.

But now the time was come that Timon could shut
his ears no longer to the representations of this faithful
steward. Money must be had: and when he ordered
Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose,
Flavius informed him, what he had in vain en-
deavoured at several times before to make him listen
to, that most of his land was already sold or forfeited,
and that all he possessed at present was not enough
to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with
wonder at this representation, Timon hastily replied,
“My lands extended from Athens to Lacedemon.”
“O my good lord,” said Flavius, “the world is but a
world, and has bounds; were it all yours to give it in
a breath, how quickly were it gone!”

Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty
had yet come from him, that if he had given his
wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowed to
feed his vices, but to cherish his friends ; and he bade
the kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take
comfort in the assurance that his master could never
lack means, whiie he had so many noble friends ; and
this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had
Limon of Athens, 65

nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every
man’s fortune (that had ever tasted his bounty) in
this extremity, as freely as his own. Then with a
cheerful look, as if confident of the trial, he seve-
rally dispatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords
Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon whom he had
lavished his gifts in past times without measure or
moderation ; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately
released out of prison by paying his debts, and who
by the death of his father was now come in to the
possession of an ample fortune, and well enabled to
requite .Timon’s courtesy; to request of Ventidius
the return of those five talents which he had paid for
him, and of each of these noble lords the loan of fifty
talents : nothing doubting that their gratitude would
supply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount of
five hundred times fifty talents.

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord
had been dreaming overnight of a silver bason and
cup, and when Timon’s servant was announced, his
sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely a
making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent
him such a present: but when he understood the
truth of the matter, and that Timon wanted money,
the quality of his faint and watery friendship showed
itself, for with many protestations he vowed to the
servant that he had long foreseen the ruin’ of his
master’s affairs, and many a time had he come to
dinner, to tell him of it, and had come again to sup-
per, to try to persuade him to spend less, but he
would take no counsel nor warning by his coming:
and true it was that he had been a constant attender
(as he said) at Timon’s feasts, as he had in greater
things tasted his bounty, but that he ever came with.

F
65 Tales from Shakspeare.

that intent, or gave good counsel or reproof to Timon,
was a base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed
up with meanly offering the servant a bribe, to go
home to his master and tell him that he had not
found Lucullus at home.

As little success had the messenger who was sent to
lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was full of Timon’s
meat, and enriched almost to bursting with Timon’s
costly presents, when he found the wind changed,
and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stop-
ped, at first could hardly believe it; but on its being
confirmed, he affected great regret that he should not
have it in his power to serve lord Timon, for unfor-
tunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made a
great purchase the day before, which had quite dis-
‘furnished him of the means at present, the more
beast he, he called himself, to put it out of his power
to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of
his greatest afflictions that his ability should fail him
to pleasure such an honourable gentleman,

Who can call any man friend that dips in the same
dish with him? just of this metal is every flatterer.
Sn the recollection of every body Timon had been a
father to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with his
purse ; Timon’s money had gone to pay the wages of
his servants, to pay the hire of the labourers who had
sweat to build the fine houses which Lucius’s pride
had made necessary to him: yet, oh! the monster
which man makes himself when he proves ungrate-
ful! this Lucius now denied to Timon a sum, which,
in respect of what Timon had bestowed on him, was
less than charitable men afford to beggars.

Sempronius and every one of those mercenary
lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, returned
Timon of Athens. : 67

the same evasive answer or direct denial ; even Ven-
tidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused
to assist him with the loan.of those five talents which
Timon had not lent but generously given him in his
distress. :

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as
he had been courted and resorted to in his riches.
Now the same tongues which had been loudest in
his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and
openhanded, were not ashamed to censure that very
bounty as folly, that liberality as profuseness, though it
had shown itself folly in nothing so truly as in the
selection of such unworthy creatures as themselves
for its objects. Now was Timon’s princely mansion
forsaken, and become a shunned and hated place, a
place for men to pass by, not a place as formerly
where every passenger must stop and taste of his
wine and good cheer ; now, insteaa of being thronged
with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was beset with
impatient and clamorous creditors, usurers, extor-
tioners, fierce and intolerable in their demands, plea-
ding bonds, interest, mortgages, iron-hearted men that
would take no denial nor putting off, that Timon’s
house was now his jail, which he could not pass, nor
go in nor out for them; one demanding his due of
fifty talents, another bringing in a bill of five thousand
crowns, which if he would tell out his blood by drops,
and pay them so, he had not enough in his body to
discharge, drop by drop.

Jn this desperate and irremediable state (as it
seemed) of his affairs, the eyes .of all men were sud-
denly surprised at a néw and incredible lustre, which
. this setting sun put forth. Once more lord Timon
proclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed

F 2
68 Zales from Shrakspeare.

guests, lords, ladies, all that was great or fashionable
in Athens. Lords Lucius and Lucullus came, Ven-
tidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who more sorry
now than these fawning wretches, when they found (as
they thought) that lord Timon’s poverty was all pre-
tence, and had been only put on to make trial of their
loves, to think that they should not have seen through
the artifice at the time, and have had the cheap credit
of obliging his lordship? yet who more glad to find
the fountain of that noble bounty, which they had
thought dried up, still fresh and running? They cama
dissembling, protesting, expressing deepest sorrow
and shame, that when his lordship sent to them, they
should have been so unfortunate as to want the pre-
sent means to oblige so honourable a friend. But
Timon begged them not to give such trifles a thought,
for he had altogether forgotten it. And these base
fawning lords, though they had denied him money in
his adversity, yet could not refuse their presence at
this new blaze of his returning prosperity. For the
swallow follows not summer more willingly than men
of these dispositions follow the good fortunes of the
great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these
shrink from the first appearance of a reverse: such
summer birds are men. But now with music and
state the banquet of smoking dishes was served up;
and when the guests had a little done admiring ~
whence the bankrupt Timon could find means to
furnish so costly a feast, some doubting whether the
scene which they saw was real, as scarce trusting their
pwn eyes; at a signal given, the dishes were unco
vered, and Timon’s drift appeared: instead of those
varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected,
that Timon’s epicurean table in past times had sa
Timon of Athens. 39

liberally presented, now appeared under the covers of
these dishes a preparation more suitable to Timon’s
poverty, nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm
water, fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose
professions were indeed smoke, and their hearts luke-
warm and slippery as the water with which Timon
welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them, “ Un
cover dogs, and lap ;” and before they could recover
their surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they
might have enough, and throwing dishes and all after
them, who now ran huddling out, lords, ladies, with
their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid confusion,
Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they
were, “Smooth smiling parasites, destroyers under the
mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools of
fortune, feast-friends, time-flies.”. They, crowding our |
to avoid him, left the house more willingly than they
had entered it: some losing their gowns and caps,
and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escaps
but of the presence of such a mad lord, and the
ridicule of his mock banquet.

This was the last feast which ever Timon made,
and in it he took farewell of Athens and the society
of men, for after that he betook himself to the woods,
turning his back upon the hated city and upon all
mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city
might sink, and their houses fall upon their owners,
wishing all plagues which infest humanity, war, out-
rage, poverty, and diseases, might fasten upon its
nhabitants, praying the just gods to confound all
Athenians, both young and old, high and low; so
wishing, he went to the woods, where he said he
should find the unkindest beast much kinder than
mankind. He stripped himself naked, that he might
70 Tales from Shakspeare.

retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in,
and lived solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the
wild roots, and drinking water, flying from the face of
his kind, and choosing rather to herd with wild beasts, |
as more harmless and friendly than man.

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord
Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon the naked,
Timon the man-hater! Where were his flatterers
now? Where were his attendants and retinue
Would the bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his
chamberlain, to put his shirt on warm? Would those
stiff trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn young and
airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade
them? Would the cold brook, when it was iced with:
winter, administer to him his warm broths and caudles
when sick of an overnight’s surfeit? Or would the
creatures that lived in those wild woods come and
lick his hand and flatter him ?

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, iis
poor sustenance, his spade struck against something
heavy, which proved to be gold, a great heap which
some miser had probably buried in a time of alarm,
thinking to have come again and taken it from its
prison, but died before the opportunity had arrived,
without making any man privy to the concealment»
so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, in the bowels
of the earth, its mother, as if it had never come from
thence, till the accidental striking of Timon’s spade
against it once more brought it to light.

Here was a mass of treasure which if Timon had
retained his old mind, was enough to have purchased
him friends and flatterers again ; but Timon was sick
of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonous
to his eyes; and he would have restored it to the
Timon of Athens. 71

-earth, -but that, thinking of the infinite calamitics
which by means of gold happen to mankind, how the
lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice,
briberies, violence, and murder among them, he had
a pleasure in imagining (such a rooted hatred did he
bear to his species) that out of this heap which in
digging he had discovered, might arise some mischief!
to plague mankind. And some soldiers passing
through the woods near to his cave at that instant,
which proved to be a part of the troops of the Athe-
mian captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust taken
against the senators at Athens (the Athenians were
ever noted to be a thankless and ungrateful people,
giving disgust to their generals and best friends), was
marching at the head of the same triumphant army
which he had formerly headed in their defence, to war
. against them: Timon, who liked their business well,
bestowed upon their captain the gold to pay his
soldiers, requiring no other service from him, than
that he should with his conquering army lay Athens
level with ‘the ground, and burn, slay, kill all her
inhabitants ; not sparing the old men for their white
beards, for (he said) they were usurers, nor the young
children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those
(he said) would live, if they grew up, to be traitors ;
but to steel his eyes and ears against any sights or
sounds that might awaken compassion ; and not to |
let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him
from making one universal massacre of the city, but
to confound them all in his conquest ; and when he
had conquered, he prayed that the gods would con-
found him also, the conqueror: so thoroughly did
Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind.
While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life
42 Tales from Shakspiare.

more brutal than human, he was suddenly surprised
one day with the appearance of a man standing in an
admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was
Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous -
affection to his master had led to seek him out at his
wretched dwelling, and to offer his services ; and the
first sight of his master, the once noble Timon, in that
abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the
manner of a beast among. beasts, looking like his own
sad ruins and a monument of decay, so affected this
good servant, that he stood speechless, wrapped up in
horror and confounded. And when he found utter
ance at last to his words, they were so choked witn
tears, that Timon had much ado to know him again,
or to make out who it was that had come (so contrary
to the experience he had had of mankind) to offer him
service in extremity. And being in the form and
shape of a man, he suspected him for a traitor, and his
tears for false; but the good servant by so many
tokens confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and made it
clear that nothing but love and zealous duty to his
once dear master had brought him there, that Timon
wis forced to confess that the world contained one
honest man; yet, being in the shape and form of a
man, he could not look upon his man’s face without
abhorrence, or hear words uttered from his man’s lips
without loathing ; and this singly honest man was
forced to depart, because he was a man, and because,
with a heart more gentle and compassionate than is
usual to man, he bore man’s detested form and
outward feature.

But greater visitants than a poor steward were
about to interrupt the savage quiet of Timon’s soli-
tude. For now the day was come when the ungrate-
Timon of Athens. 13

ful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice which
they had done to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades,
like an incensed wild boar, was raging at the walls of
their city, and with his hot siege threatened to lay
fair Athens in the dust. And now the memory of
lord Timon’s former prowess and military conduct
came fresh into their forgetful minds, for Timon had
been their general in past times, and was a valiant and
expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was
deemed able to cope with a besieging army such as
then threatened them, or to drive back the furious
approaches of Alcibiades.

A deputation of the senators was chosen in this
emergency to wait upon Timon. To him they come
in their extremity, to whom, when he was in extremity,
they had shown but small regard; as if they pre-
sumed upon his gratitude whom they had dis-
obliged, and had derived a claim to his courtesy from
their own most discourteous and wunpiteous treat-
ment. :

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with
tears, to return and save that city, from which their
ingratitude had so lately driven him ; now they offer
him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for past
injuries, and public honours and the public love ;
their persons, lives, and fortunes, to be at his dis-
posal, if he will but come back and save them. But
Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longer
lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour,
their defence in war, their ornament in peace. If
Alcibiades killed his countrymen, Timon cared not.
If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men and
her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them ;
and that there was not a knife in the unruly camp
A Tales from Shakspeave.

which he did not prize above the reverendest throat
in Athens.

This was ali the answer he vouchsafed to the weep-
ing disappointed senators ; only at parting, he bade
them commend him to his countrymen, and tell them,
that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and
to prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades’
wrath, there was yet a way left, which he would teach
them, for he had yet so much affection left for his
dear countrymen as to be willing to do them a’kind-
ness before his death. These words a little revived
the senators, who hoped that his kindness for their
city was returning. Then Timon told them that he
had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should
shortly have occasion to cut down, and he invited all
his friends in Athens, high or low, of what degree
soever, who wished to shun affliction, to come and
take a taste of his tree before he cut it down ; mean-
ing that they might come and hang themselves on it,
and escape affliction that way.

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble
bounties, which Timon showed to mankind, and this
the last sight of him which his countrymen had : for
not many days after, 2 poor soldier, passing by the
seabeach, which was at a little distance from the
woods which Timon frequented, found a tomb on the
verge of the sea, with an inscription upon it, purport-
ing that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater,
who, “While he lived, did hate all living men, and
dying, wished a plague might consume all caitiffs
left 1”

Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether
mere distaste of life and the loathing he. had for
mankind brought Timon to his conclusion, was not
Timsn of Athens, 78

clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his epitaph,
and the consistency of his end; dying, as he lwé
lived, a hater of mankind: and some there were whe
fancied a conceit in the-very choice which he made
of the seabeach for his-place of burial, where the vast
sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as in contempt
for the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and
deceitful mankind.
96 Tales from Shakspeare.

MACBETH.

Wuen Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland,
there lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth.
This Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in
great esteem at court for his valour and conduct in
the wars ; an example of which he had lately given,
in defeating a rebel army assisted by the troops of
Norway in terrible numbers,

-The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo,
returning victorious from this great battle, their way
lay over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by
the strange appearance of three figures like women,
except that they had beards, and their withered skins
and wild attire made them look not like any
earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed them,
when they, seemingly offended, laid each one her
choppy finger upon her skinny lips, in token of
silence: and the first of them saluted Macbeth witt
the title of thane of Glamis. The general was not a
little startled to find himself known by such creatures ;
but -how much more, when the second of them
followed up that salute by giving him the title of
‘thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no pre-
tensions ; and again the third bid him, “ All hail!
king that shall be hereafter!” Such a prophetic
greeting might well amaze him, who knew that while
the king’s sons lived he could not hope to succeed to



Macbeth. 44

the throne. Then turning to Banquo, they pro-
nounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be Zesser
than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, but much
happier / and prophesied that though he should never
reign, yet his sons after him should be kings in
Scotland. ‘They then turned into air, and vanished :
by which the generals knew them to be the weird
sisters, or witches.

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of
this adventure, there arrived certain messengers from
the king, who were empowered by him to confer upon
Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor. An event
so miraculously corresponding with the prediction of
the witches astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped
in amazement, unable to make reply to the mes-
sengers; and in that point of time swelling hopes
arose in his mind, that the prediction of the third
witch might in like manner have its accomplishment,
and that he should one day reign king in Scotland.

Turning to Banquo, he said, “Do you not hope
that your children shall be kings, when what the
witches promised to me has so wonderfully come to
pass?” ‘That hope,” answered the general, “ might
enkindle you to aim at the throne; but oftentimes
these ministers of darkness teli us truths in’ little
things, to betray us into deeds of greatest conse-
quence.”

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk
too deep into the mind of Macbeth to allow him to
attend to the warnings of the good Banquo... From
that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the
throne of Scotland.

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated
the strange prediction of the weird sisters, and its
78 Tales from Shakspeare.

partial accomplishment. She was a bad ambitious
woman, and so as her husband and herself could
ative at greatness, she cared not much by what means.
‘She spurred on the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who
elt compunction at the thoughts of blood, and did
net cease to represent the murder of the king as a
step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flat-
tering prophecy.

It happened at this time that the ines who out of
his royal condescension would oftentimes visit his
principal nobility upon gracious terms, came to Mac-
beth’s house, attended by his two sons, Malcolm and
Donalbain and a numerous train of thanes and atten-°
dants, the more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal
success of his wars.

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and
the air about it was sweet and wholesome, which
appeared by the nests which the martlet, or swallow,
had built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses
of the building, wherever it found a place of advan- -
tage: for where those birds most breed and haunt,
the air is observed to be delicate. The king entered -
well pleased with the place, and not less so with the
attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady
Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous
purposes with smiles: and could look like the in-
nocent flower, while she was indeed the serpent under
it.

The king, being tired with his journey, went early
to bed, and in his stateroom two grooms of his
chamber (as was the custom) slept beside him. He
had been unusually pleased with his reception, and
had made presents before he retired to his principal
officers ; and among the rest, had sent a rich diamond
Macbeth, "9

to lady Macbeth, greeting her by the name of his
most kind hostess.

Now was the middle of night, when over half the
world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
men's minds asleep, and none but the wolf and the
murderer is abroad. This was the time when lady
Macbeth waked to plot the murder of the king. She
would not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent to
her sex, but that she feared her husband’s nature,
that it was too full of the milk of human kindness, to
do a contrived murder. She knew him to be ambi-
tious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet pre-
pared for that height of crime which commonly in the
end accompanies inordinate ambition. She had won
him to consent to the murder, but she doubted his
resolution: and she feared that the natural tenderness
of his disposition (more humane than her own) would
come between, and defeat the purpose. So with her
own hands armed with a dagger, she approached the
king’s bed ; having taken care to ply. the grooms of
his chamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated,
and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan, ina
sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as
she viewed him earnestly, there was something in his
face, as he slept, which resembled her own father
and she had not the courage to proceed.

She returned to confer with her husband. His
resolution had begun to stagger. He considered that
there were strong reasons against the deed. In the
first place, he was not only a subject, but a near kins-
man to the king; and he had been his host and
entertainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of
hospitality, it was to shut the door against his mur-
derers, not bear the knife himself. Then he con-
80 Lales from Shakspeare.

sidered how just and merciful a king this Duncan
had been, how clear of offence to his subjects, how
loving to his nobility, and in particular to him; that
such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, and their
subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. Be-
sides, by the favours of the king, Macbeth stood high
in the opinion of all sorts of men, and how would
those honours be stained by the reputation of so foul
a murder !

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found
her husband, inclining to the better part, and resolv
_ ing to proceed no further. But she being a woman
not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to
pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of
her own spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon
reason why he should not shrink from what he had
undertaken ; how easy the deed was; how soon it
would be over; and how the action of- one short
night would give to all their nights and days to come
a sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw con-
tempt on his change of purpose, and accused him of
fickleness and cowardice ; and declared that she had
given suck, and knew how tender it was to love the
babe that milked her, but she would, while it was
smiling in her face, have plucked it from her breast,
and dashed its brains out, if she had so sworn to do
it, as he had sworn to perform that murder. Then
she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt of
the deed upon the drunken sleepy grooms. And with
the valour of her tongue she so chastised his sluggish
resolutions, that he once more summoned up courage
to the bloody business,

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in
the dark, to the room where Duncan lay ; and as he
Macbeth. 81

went, he thought he saw another dagger in the air,
with the handle towards him, and on the blade and at
the point of it, drops of blood: but when he tried to
grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm
proceeding from his own hot and oppressed brain
and the business he had in hand.

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king’s room,
whom he dispatched with one stroke of his dagger.
Just as he had done the murder, one of the grooms,
who slept in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and
the other cried, “ Murder,” which woke them both ;
but they said a short prayer; one of them said, “God
bless us!” and the other answered, “Amen;” and
addressed themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, who
stood listening to them, tried to say, “ Amen,” when
the fellow said, “God bless us!” but, though he had |
most need of a blessing, the word stuck in his throat,
and he could not pronounce it.

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried
“Sleep no more: Macbeth doth murder sleep, the
jonocent sleep, that nourishes life.” Still it cried,
“Sleep no more,” to all the house, “Glamis hath
murdered sleep, and therefore Candor shall sleep no
more, Macbeth shall sleep no more.”

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth seed
to his listening wife, who began to think he had failed
of his purpose, and that the deed was somehow frus-
trated. He came in so distracted a state, that she
reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent
him to wash his hands of the blood which stained
them, while she took his dagger, with purpose to stain
the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem
their guilt.

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the
82 ales from Shakspeare,

raurder, which could not be concealed; and though
Macbeth and his lady made great show of grief, and
the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being pro-
duced against them and their faces smeared with
blood) were sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspi-
cion feli upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such
a deed were so much more forcible than such poor
silly grooms could be supposed to have; and Duncan’s
two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought for refuge
in the English court ; and the youngest, Donalbain,
made his escape to Ireland.

The king’s sons, who.should have succeeded him,
having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir
was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the
weird sisters was literally accomplished,

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen
could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters,
that, though Macbeth should be king, yet not his
- children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings
after him. The thought of this, and that they had
defiled their hands with blood, and done so great
crimes, only to place the posterity of Banquo upon
the throne, so rankled within them, that they deter-
mined to put to death both Banquo and his son, to
make void the predictions of the weird sisters, which
in their own case had been so remarkably brought to
pass.

For this purpose they made a great supper, to
which they invited all the chief thanes; and, among
the rest, with marks of particular respect, Banquo
and his son Fleance were: invited... The way by which
Banquo was to pass to the palace at night, was beset
by murderers appointed by Macbeth, whe -stabbed
Banquo; but in-thé 'sciffle: Fleancesescaped,,:. Fro
Macbeth, $3

that Fleance descended a race of monarchs who
afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending with
James the Sixth of'Scotland and the First of England,
under whom the two crowns of England and Seqtland
were united. :

At supper the queen, whose manners were in the
highest degree affable and royal, played the hostess
with a gracefulness and attention which conciliated
every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely
with his thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was
honourable in the country was under his roof, if he
had but his good friend Banquo present, whom yet he
hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect,
than to lament for any mischance. Just at these
words the ghost of Banquo, whom he had caused to
be murdered, entered the room, and placed himself
on the chair which Macbeth was about to occupy.
Though Macbeth was a bold man, and one that could
have faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible
sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood
quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost.
His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but
perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an
empty chair, took it for a fit of distraction; and she
reproached him, whispering that it was but the same
fancy which had made him see the dagger i in the alr,
when he was about to kill Duncan. But Macheth
continued to see the ghost, and gave no heed to all
they could say, while he addressed it with distracted
words, yet so significant, that his queen, fearing the
dreadful secret would be disclosed, in, great haste dis-
missed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Macbeth
48,,a disorder, he was often troubled, with. , |

To, such dreadful fancies. Macbeth. was subject

G2
84 Tales from Shakspeare.

His queen and he had their sleeps afflicted with
terrible dréams, and the blood of Banquo troubled
them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom
now they looked upon as father to a line of kings,
who should keep their posterity out of the throne
With these miserable thoughts they found no peace
and Macbeth determined once more to seek out the
weird sisters, and know from them the worst.

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where

they, who knew by foresight of his coming, were
engaged in preparing their dreadful charms, by which
they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them
futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats,
and serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of a
dog, the leg of a lizard, and the wing of the night- .
owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the
maw of the ravenous salt sea shark, the mummy of a
witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to
have effect must be digged in the dark), the gall of a.
goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew-
tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a
dead child: all these were set on to boil in a great
_kettle, or caldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot,
was cooled with a baboon’s blood: to these they
poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten her
young, and they threw into the flame the grease that
had sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By these
charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer theit
questions.

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would
have his doubts resolved by them, or by their masters,
the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful
ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, “ Where
are they? let me see them.” And they called the
Macbeth. 85

spirits, which were three. And the first arose in the
likeness of an armed head, and he called Macbeth
by name, and bid him beware of the thane of Fife ;
for which caution Macbeth thanked him : for Macbeth
had entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the thane of
Fife.

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a
bloody child, and he called Macbeth by name, and
bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of
man, for none of woman born should have power to
hurt him: and he advised him.to be bloody, bold,
and resolute. “Then live, Macduff!” cried the king ;
“what need I fear of thee? but yet I will make
assurance doubly sure. Thou shalt not live; that I
may tell pale-hearted Feur it lies, and sleep in spite of
thunder.”

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the
form of a child crowned; with a tree in hishand. He
called Macbeth by name, and comforted him against
conspiracies, saying, that he should never be van-
quished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane
Hill should come against him. ‘Sweet bodements!
good!” cried Macbeth; “who can unfix the forest,
and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall
live the usual period of man’s life, and not be cut off
by a violent death, But my heart throbs to know
one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell so much, if
Banquo’s issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?”
Here the caldron sunk into the ground, and a noise
of music was heard, and eight shadows, like kings,
passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a
glass which showed the figures of many more, and
Banquo all bloody siniled upon Macbeth, and pointed
to them; by which Macbeth knew, that these were
(86 Tales from Shakspeare.

the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after him
in Scotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft
music, and with dancing, making a show of duty,
and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And from this
time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and
dreadful.

The first thing he heard when he got out of the
witches’ cave, was, that Macduff, thane of Fife, had
fled to England, to join the army which was forming
against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late
king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Mal-
colm, the right heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung
with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff, and put his
wife and children, whom the thane had left behind,
to the sword, and extended the slaughter to.all who
claimed the least relationship to Macduff.

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of
all his chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled
to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were now
approaching with a powerful army which they had
raised in England; and the rest secretly wished suc-
cess to their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they
could take no active part. His recruits went on
slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant, nobody loved
or honoured him, butall suspected him, and he began
to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he had
murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against
whom treason had done its worst: steel nor poison,
domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him
any longer.

While these things were acting, the queen, who had
been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose
bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary repase
from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both
Macheth. . 37

nightly, died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable
to bear the remorse of guilt, and public hate; by
which event he was left alone, without a soul to love
or care for him, or a friend to whom he could confide
his wicked purposes.

He grew careless of life, and wished for death ; but
the near approach of Malcolm’s army roused in him
what remained of his ancient courage, and he deter-
mined to die (as he expressed it) “with armour on
his back.” Besides this, the hollow promises of the
witches had filled him with false confidence, and he
remembered the sayings of the spirits, that none cf
woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never
to be vanquished till Birnam wood should come to
Dunsinane, which he thought could never be. So
he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable
strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly
waited the approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day,
there came a messenger to him, pale and shaking with
fear, almost unable to report that which he had seen:
for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the
hill, he looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking
the wood began to move! “Liar and slave,” cried
Macbeth, “if thou speakest false, thou shalt hang
alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If
thy tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much
by me:” for Macbeth now began to faint in resolu-
tion, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of the
spirits. He was not to fear, till Birnam wood should
come to Dunsinane: and now a wood did move!
:* However,” said he, “if this which he avouches be
true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence, nor
staying here. I begin to be weary of the sun, and
wish my life at an end.” With these desperate speeches
88 Tales from Shaksprare.

he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who had now come
up to the castle.

The strange appearance, which had given the mes-
senger an idea of a wood moving, is easily solved.
When the besieging army marched through the wood
of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed
his soldiers to hew down every one a bough and bear
it before him, by way of concealing the true numbers
of his host. This marching of the soldiers with boughs
had at a distance the appearance which had fright-
ened the messenger. Thus were the words of the
spirit brought to pass, in a sense different from that
in which Macbeth had understood them, and one
great hold of his confidence was gone.

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which
Macbeth, though feebly supported by those who called
themselves his friends, but in reality hated the tyrant
and inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff,
yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting
to pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to
where Macduff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and re-
membering the caution of the spirit who had coun-
selled him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would
have turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him
through the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a
fierce contest ensued ; Macduff giving him many foul
reproaches for the murder of his wife and children.
Macbeth, whose soul was charged enough with blood
of that family already, would still have declined the
combat ; but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him
tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain.

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit,
how none of woman born should hurt him; and
smiling confidently he said to Macduff, “Thou
Macbeth. 89

fosest thy Iabour, Macduff. As easily thou mayest
impress the air with thy sword, as make me vulnerable.
I bear a charmed. life, which must not yield to one of
‘woman born.”

“Despair thy charm,” said Macduff, “and let that
lying spirit, whom thou hast served, tell thee, that
Macduff was never born of woman, never as the ordi-
nary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely
taken from his mother.”

“* Accursed be the tongue which tells me so,” said the
trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence
give way; “and let never man in future believe the
lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits, who
deceive us in words which have double senses, and while

‘they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes
with a different meaning. I will not fight with thee.”

“Then live!” said the scornful Macduff ; “ we will
have a show of thee, as men show monsters, and a
painted board, on which shall be written, ‘ Here men
may see the tyrant !’”

“ Never,” said Macbeth, whose courage returned
with despair; “I will not live to kiss the ground before
young Malcolm’s feet, and to be baited with the curses
of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dun-
sinane, and thou opposed to me who wast never born

_ of woman, yet will I try the last.” With these frantic
words he threw himself upon Macduff, who after a
severe struggle in the end overcame him, and cutting
off his head, made a present of it to the young and
lawful king, Malcolm; who took upon him the
government which, by the machinations of the usurper,
he had so long been deprived of, and ascended the
throne of Duncan the Meek amid the acclamations of
the nobles and the people.
92 Zales from: Shakspeare.,

TITE MERCHANT OF VENICE,

SHYLOCK, the Jew, lived at Venice; he was an
usurer, who had amassed an immense fortune by
lending money at great interest to Christian merchants.
Shylock, being a hard-hearted man, exacted the pay-
ment of the money he lent with such severity, that he
was much disliked by all good men, and particularly
oy Anthonio, a young merchant of Venice ; and Shy-
*ock as much hated Anthonio, because he used to lend
money to people in distress, and would never take any
interest for the money he lent; therefore there was
great enmity between this covetous Jew and the gene-
rous merchant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met
Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he used to re-
proach him with his usuries and hard dealings ; which
the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he
secretly meditated revenge.

Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, the best
conditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in
doing courtesies; indeed he was one in whom the
ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any that
drew breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all
his fellow citizens ; but the friend who was nearest and
dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian,
who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly ex.
hausted his little fortune by living in too expensive
a manner for his slender means, as young men
of high rank with small fortunes, are too apt to do,
The Merchant of Venice. Gi

Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Anthonio assisted
him ; and it seemed as if they had but one heart and
one purse between them.

One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and told him
that he wished to repair his fortune by a wealthy
marriage with a lady whom he dearly loved, whose
father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to
a large estate ; and that in her father’s lifetime he used
to visit at her house, when he thought he had observed
this lady had sometimes from her eyes sent speech-
less messages, that seemed to say he would be no
unwelcome suitor; but not having money to furnish
himself with an appearance befitting the lover of so
rich an heiress, he besought Anthonio to add to the
many favours he had shown ey by lending him three
thousand ducats.

Anthonio had no money by him at that time to
lend his friend; but expecting soon to have some
ships come home laden with merchandise, he said
he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and
borrow the mqney upon the credit of those ships.

Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock,
and Anthonio asked the Jew to lend him three thou-
sand ducats upon an interest he should require, to be
paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at
sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself, “ If I
can once catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the
ancient grudge I bear him: he hates our Jewish
nation ; he lends out money gratis; and among the
merchants he rails at me and my well-earned bargains,
which he calls interest. Cursed .be my tribe if I for-
give him!” Anthonio finding he was musing within
himself and did not answer, and being impatient for
the money, said, “Shylock, do you hear? will you
g2 Tales from Shakspeare.

lend the money?” To this question the Jew replied,
“ Signio: Anthonio, on the Rialto many a time and
often you have railed at me about my monies and my
usuries, and I have borne it with a patient shrug, for
sufferance is the badge of all our tribe; and then you
have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit
upon my Jewish garments, and spurned at me with
your foot, as if I was a cur. Well then, it now ap-
pears you need my help ; and you come to me, and
say, Shylock, lend me monies. Has a dog money? Is
it possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats ,
Shall I bend low and say, Fair Sir, you spit upon me
on Wednesday last, another time you called me dog,
and for these courtesies Iam to lend you monies?”
Anthonio replied, “ I am as like to call you so again, to
spit on you again, and spurn you too. If you will lend
me this money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but
rather lend it to me as to an enemy, that, if I break,
you may with better face exact the penalty.” “ Why,
look you,” said Shylock, “ How you storm! I would
be friends with you, and have your love. I will forget
the shames you have put upon me. I will supply your
wants, and take no interest for my money.” This
seemingly kind offer greatly surprised Anthonio
and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that
all he did was to gain Anthonio’s love, again said he
would lend him the three thousand ducats, and take
no interest for his money; only Anthonio should go
with him to a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport
a bond, that if he did not repay the money by a cer-
fain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut
off from any part of his body that Shylock pleased.
“Content,” said Anthonio: I will sign to this
pond, and say there is much kindness in the Jew.”
The Merchant of Venice. 93

Bassanio said, Anthonio should not sign to such a
bond for him; and still Anthonio insisted that he
would sign it, for that before the day of payment
came, his ships would return laden with many times
the value of the money.

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, “ O father
Abraham, what suspicious people these Christians
are! Their own hard dealings teach them to suspect
the thoughts of others. JI pray you tell me this,
Bassanio: if he should break this day, what should I
gain by the execution of the forfeiture? A pound of
man’s flesh, taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor
profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton or of beef.
I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he
will take it, so ; if not, adieu.”

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, not-
withstanding all the Jew had said of his kind inten-
tions, did not like his friend should run the hazard of
this shocking penalty for his sake, Anthonio signed
the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said)
merely in sport.

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry
lived near Venice, at a place called Belmont: her
name was Portia, and in the graces of her person and
her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of

,whom we read, who was Cato’s daughter, and the

jwife of Brutus.

,. Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by
his friend Anthonio, at the hazard of his life, set out
for Belmont with a splendid train, and attended by a
gentleman of the name of Gratiano.

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a
short time consented to accept of him for a husband.

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune,
94 Tales from Shakspeare.

and that his high birth and noble ancestry was ail
that he could boast of ; she, who ioved him for his
worthy qualities, and had riches enough not to re-
‘gard wealth in a husband, answered with a graceful
modesty, that she would wish herself a thousand times
wore fair, and ten thousand times more rich, to be
more worthy of him; and then the accomplished
Portia prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an
unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised, yet not so
old but that she could learn, and that she would com
mit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed by
him in all things ; and she said, “ Myself and what is ~
mine, to you and yours is now converted. But yes-

terday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair mansion,

queen of myself, and mistress ovér these servants ;

and now this house, these servants, and myselt, are

yours, my lord’; I give them with this ring :” pre-

senting a ring to Bassanio.

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and
wonder at the gracious manner in which the rich and
noble Portia accepted of a man of his humble for-
tunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence
- to the dear lady who so honoured him, by any thing
but broken words of love and thankfulness; and
‘aking the ring, he vowed never to part with it.

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia’s waiting-maid, were
in attendance upon their lord and lady, when Portia
so gracefully promised to become the obedient wife
of Bassanio ; and Gratiano, Wishing Bassanio and the
generous lady joy, desired permission to be married
at the same time. Lge

te, Ay all my Hearty Gita no,” i ad Hassani, fork
cavite.” “
Gratiano then. said: that. he “eve nie lady, Baines


The Merchant of Venice. 95

fair waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that she had
promised to be his wife, if her lady married Bassanio.
Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied,
“Madam, it is so, if you approve of it.” Portia
willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, “ “Then
our wedding-feast shall be much honoured by your
marriage, Gratiano.”

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at
this moment by the entrance of a messenger, who
brought a letter from Anthonio containing fearful
tidings. When Bassanio read Anthonio’s letter, Portia
feared it was to tell him of the death of some dear
friend, he looked so pale; and inquiring what was
the news which had so distressed him, he said, “ O
sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest
words that ever blotted paper: gentle lady, when I
first imparted my love to you, I freely told you all
the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should have
told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt.”
Bassanio then told Portia what has been here related,
of his borrowing the money of Anthonio, and of
Anthonio’s procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of
the bond by which Anthonio had engaged to forfeit a
pound of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day;
and then Bassanio read Anthonio’s letter ; the words
of which were, “ Szeet Bassanio, my ships are all
lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in pay-
ing it.is impossible I should live, I could wish to see you
at my death; notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if
your love for me do not persuade you to come, let not my
letter”. “Qhemy. dear love,” said -Portia,’ “dispatch
the business and be gone; you shall have gold to pay
the money: twenty times over, before this kind-friend
snalltlosezachairby.myBassanio's fault; and.as you
96 Tales from Shakspeare.

are so dearly bought, I will dearly love you.” Portia
then said she would be married to Bassanio before he
set out, to give him a legal right to her money ; and
that same day they were married, and Gratiano was
also married to Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano,
the instant they were married, set out in great haste
for Venice, where Bassanio found Anthonio in prison.

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew
would not accept of the money which Bassanio
offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of
Anthonio’s flesh, A day was appointed to try this
shocking cause before the duke of Venice, and
Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the event of
the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke
cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his dear
friend along with him when he returned; yet she
feared it would go hard with Anthonio, and when
she was left alone, she began to think and consider
within herself, if she could by any means be instru-
mental in saving the life of her -dear Bassanio’s
friend; and notwithstanding, when she wished to
honour her Bassanio, she had said to him with such
a meek and wife-like grace, that she would submit
in all things to be governed by his superior wisdorn,
yet being now called forth into action by the peril of .
her honoured husband’s friend, she did nothing doubt
her own powers, and by the sole guidance of her own
true and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go her-
self to Venice, and speak in Anthonio’s defence.

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the
law; to this gentleman, whose name was Bellario,
she wrote, and stating the case to him, desired his
opinion, and that with his advice he would also send
The Merchant of Venice. OT

her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the mes-
senger returned, he brought letters from Bellario of
advice how to proceed, and also every thing necessary
for her equipment.

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in
men’s apparel, and putting on the robes of a counsel-
lor, she took Nerissa along with her as her clerk ;
and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice
on the very day of the trial The cause was just
going to be heard before the duke and senators of
Venice in the senate-house, when Portia entered this
high court of justice, and presented a letter from
Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to
the duke, saying, he would have come himself to
plead for Anthonio, but that he was prevented by
sickness, and he requested that the learned young
doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be per-
mitted to plead in his stead. This the duke granted,
much wondering at the youthful appearance of the
stranger, who was prettily disguised by her counsel-
lor’s robes and her large wig.

And now began this important trial. Portia looked
around her, and she saw the merciless Jew ; and she
saw Baseanio, but he knew her not in her disguise.
We was standing beside Anthonio, in an agony of
vJistress and fear for his friend.

The importance of the arduous task Portia had
engaged in gave this tender lady courage, and she
boldly proceeded in the duty she had undertaken to
perform; and first of all she addressed herself to
Shylock ; and allowing that he had a right by the
Venetian law to have the forfeit expressed in the
bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble quality of
mercy, as would have softened any heart but the

B
98 Tales from Shakspeare.

unfeeling Shylock’s ; saying, that it dropped as the
gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath;
and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him
that gave, and him that received it; and how it
became monarchs better than their crowns, being an
attribute of God himself; and that earthly power
came nearest to God’s, in proportion as mercy tem-
pered justice: and she bid Shylock remember that
as we all pray for mercy, that same prayer should
teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered het
by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond.
“Ts he not able to pay the money?” asked Portia.
Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment of the
three thousand ducats as many times over as he
should desire; which Shylock refusing, and_ still
insisting upon having a pound of Anthonio’s flesh,
Bassanio begged the learned young counsellor would
endeavour to wrest the law a little, to save Anthonio’s
life. But Portia gravely answered, that laws once
established must never be altered. Shylock hearing
Portia say that the law might not be altered, it seemed
to him that she was pleading in his favour, and he
said, “ A Daniel is come to judgment! O wise young
judge, how I do honour you! How much elder are
you than your looks !”

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the
bond; and when she had read it, she said, “ This
bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew may lawfully
claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest
Anthonio’s heart.” Then she said to Shylock, “ Be
; merciful ; take the money, and bid me tear the bond.”
, But no mercy would the cruel Shylock show : and he
‘said, “ By my soul I swear there is no power in the
tongue of man to alter me.” “Why then, Anthonio,”
The Merchant of Ventce. 9g

raid Portia, “you must prepare your bosom for the
knife;” and while Shylock was sharpening a long
knife with great eagerness to cut off the pound of
flesh, Portia said to Anthonio, “ Have you anything to
say?” Anthonio with a calm resignation replied, that
he had but little to say, for that he had prepared his
mind for death, Then he said to Bassanio, “ Give
me your hand, Bassanio! Fare youwell! Grieve not
that I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Com-
mend me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I
have loved you!” TBassanio in the deepest affliction
replied, “ Anthonio, I am married to a wife, who is as
dear to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and
all the world, are not esteemed with me above your
“life: I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this
' devil here, to deliver you.”

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady
was not at all offended with her husband for express-
ing the love he owed to so true a friend as Anthonio
in these strong terms, yet could not help answering,
* Your wife would give you little thanks if she were
present, to hear you make this offer.” And then Gra-
tiano, who loved to copy what his lord did, thought he
must make a speech like Bassanio’s, and he said, in
Nerissa’s hearing, who was writing in her clerk’s dress
by the side of Portia, ‘I have a wife, whom I protest I
love ; I wish she were in heaven, ifshe could but entreat
some power there to change the cruel temper of this
curtish Jew.” “ Itis well you wish this behind her back,
else youwould have but an unquiet house,” said Nerissa,

Shylock now cried out impatiently, “We trifle time ;
I pray pronounce the sentence.” And now all was
awful expectation in the court, and every heart was full
of grief for Anthonio.

H2
160 Tales from Shakspeare.

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the
flesh ; and she said to the Jew, “Shylock, you must
have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to death.” Shy-
lock, whose whole intent was that Anthonio should
bleed to death, said, “It is not so named in the
bond.” Portia replied, “It is not so named in the
bond, but what of that? It were good you did so
much for charity.” To-this all the answer Shylock
would make was, “I cannot find it; it is not in the
bond.” “Then,” said Portia, “a pound of Anthonio’s
flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards
it, And you may cut this flesh from off his breast.
The law allows it, and the court awards it.” Again
Shylock exclaimed, “ O wise and upright judge! A
Daniel is come to judgment !” And then he sharpened
his long knife again, and looking eagerly on Anthonio,
he said, ‘ Come, prepare !”

“ Tarry a little, Jew,” said Portia ; “‘ there is some-
thing else. This bond here gives you no drop of
blood ; the words expressly are, ‘a pound of flesh.’ If
in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop
of Christian blood, your land and goods are by the law
to be confiscated to the state of Venice.” Now as it
was utterly impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound
of flesh without shedding some of Anthonio’s blood,
this wise discovery of Portia’s, that it was flesh and not
blood that was named in the bond, saved the life of
Anthonio ; and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of
the young counsellor who had so happily thought of
this expedient, plaudits resounded from every part
of the senate-house ; and Gratiano exclaimed,-in the
words which Shylock had used, “ O wise and upright
judge ! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to judgment!”

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent,
The Merchant of Venice. tol

said with a disappointed look, that he would take the
money ;. and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at
Anthonio’s unexpected deliverance, cried out, ‘“ Here
is the money!” But Portia stopped him, saying,
“ Softly ; there is no haste ; the Jew shall have nothing
but the penalty : therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off
the flesh ; but mind you shed no blood ; nor do not
cut off more nor less than just a pound; be it more or
less by one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn but by
the weight of a single hair, you are condemned by the
laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth is for-
feited to the senate.” “Give me my money, and let
me go,” said Shylock.” “TI have it ready,” said Bas-
sanio: “ Here it is.”

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia
again stopped him, saying, “ Tarry, Jew; I have yet
another hold upon you. By the laws of Venice, your
wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired
against the life of one of its citizens, and your life
lies at the mercy of the duke; therefore down on
your knees, and ask him to pardon you.”

The duke then said to Shylock, “That you may
see the difference of our Christian spirit, I pardon
you your life before you ask it; half your wealth
belongs to Anthonio, the other half comes to the
state.”

The generous Anthonio then said, that he would —
give up his share of Shylock’s wealth, if Shylock
would sign a deed to make it over at his death to
his daughter and her husband; for Anthonio knew
that the Jew had an only daughter, who had lately
married against his consent to a young Christian,
named Lorenzo, a friend of Anthonio’s, which had so
offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her.
102 Tales from Shakspeare,

The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disap.
pointed in his revenge, and despoiled of his riches,
he said, “Iam ill, Let me go home: send the deed
after me, ar daughter.” “Get thee gone, then,” said the duke, “and
sien it; and if you repent your cruelty and turn
Christian, the state will forgive you the fine of the
other half of your riches.”

The duke now released Anthonio, and dismissed the
court. He then highly praised the wisdom and inge-
nuity of the young counsellor, and invited him home
to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont
before her husband, replied, “I humbly thank your
grace, but I must away directly.” The duke said he
was sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine with him ;
and turning to Anthonio, he added, “ Reward this gen-
tleman ; for in my mind you are much indebted to
him.”

The duke and his senators left the court; and then
Bassanio said to Portia, “ Most worthy gentleman, I
and my friend Anthonio have by your wisdom been
this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you
will accept of three thousand ducats due unto the Jew.”
“ And we shall stand indebted to you over and above,”
said Anthonio, ‘‘in love and service evermore.”

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the
nioney ; but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept
of some reward, she said, “Give me your gloves; I
will wear them for your sake;” and then Bassanio
taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had
given him upon his finger; now it was the ring the
wily lady wanted to get from him to make a merry jest
when she saw Bassanio again, that made her ask him
for his gloves ; and she said, when she saw the ring;
The Merchant of Venice. 103

“And for your love I will take this ring from you.
Bassanio was sadly distressed, that the counsellor
should ask him for the only thing he could not part
with, and he replied in great confusion, that he could
not give him that ring, because it was his wife’s gift,
and he had vowed never to part with it; but that he
would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, and
find it out by proclamation. On this Portia affected
to be affronted, and left the court, saying, “ You teach
me, sir, how a beggar should be answered.”

“ Dear Bassanio,” said Anthonio, “let him have the
ring ; let my love and the great service he has done
for me be valued against your wife’s displeasure.”
Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded,
and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring ; and then
the clerk Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring,
she begged his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to
be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave it to her.
And there was laughing among these ladies, to
think, when they got home, how they would tax their
husbands with giving away their rings, and swear
that they had given them as a present to some
woman.

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy tem-
per-of mind which never fails to attend the conscious-
ness of having performed a good action; her cheerful
spirits enjoyed every thing she saw: the moon never
seemed to shine so bright before; and when that
pleasant moon was hid behind a cloud, then.a light
which she saw from her house at Belmont as well
pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa,
“That light we see is burning in my hall; how far
that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good
deed in a naughty world:” an‘ hearing the sound of
Â¥O4 Tales from Shakspeare.

music from her house, she said, “ Methinks that music
sounds muvh sweeter than by day.”

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and
dressing themselves in their own apparel, they awaited
the arrival of their husbands, who soon followed them
with Anthonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear
friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and
welcomings of that lady were hardly over, when they
perceived Nerissa and her husband quarrelling in a
corner of the room, “A quarrel already?” said
Portia. “What is the matter?” Gratiano replied,
“Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring that Netissa gave
me, with words upon it like the poetry on a cutler’s
knife : Zove me, and leave me not.”

“What does the poetry or the value of the ring
signify?” said Nerissa. “You swore to me, when I
gave it to you, that you would keep it till the hour of
death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer’s
clerk. I know you gave it toa woman.” “ By this
hand,” replied Gratiano, “I gave it to a youth, a
kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy no higher than
yourself ; he was clerk to the young counsellor, that
by his wise pleading saved Anthonio’s life: this pra-
ting boy begged it for a fee, and I could not for my
life deny him.” Portia said, ‘You were to blame,
Gratiano, to part with your wife’s first gift. I gave
my lord Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not
part with it for all the world.” Gratiano in excuse
for his fault now said, ‘My lord Bassanio gave his
ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his
clerk, that took same pains in writing, he begged my
ring.”

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and re-
proached Bassanio for giving away her ring ; and she
The Merchant of Venice. 105

said, Nerissa had taught her what to believe, and that
she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio wag
very unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and
he said with great earnestiess, “ No, by my honour,
no woman had it, but a civil doctor, who refused
three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring,
which when I denied him, he went displeased away,
What could I do, sweet Portia? I was so beset with
shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced
to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady,
had you been there, I think you would have begged
the ring of me to give the worthy doctor.”

“ Ah!” said Anthonio, “I am the unhappy cause

of these quarrels.”

Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for that
he was welcome notwithstanding ; and then Anthonio
said, “I once did lend my body for Bassanio’s sake ;
and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring,
I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again,
my soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never more
break his faith with you.” “Then you shall be his
surety,” said Portia ; “ give him this ring, and bid him
keep it better than the other.”

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely
surprised to find it was the same he gave away; and
then Portia told him, how she was the young counsel-
lor, and Nerissa’ was her clerk; and Bassanio found,
to his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was
by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that
Anthonio’s life was saved.

And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and gave
him letters which by some chance had fallen into her
hands, which contained an account of Anthanio’s
ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in
100 Zales from Shakspeare.

the harbour, So these tragical beginnings of this
rich merchant’s story were all forgotten in the unex-
pected good fortune which ensued; ‘and there was
zeisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings,
and the husbands that did not know their own wives:
Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech,
that

—~———while he lived, he’d fear no other thing,
So sore, as kceping safe Nerissa’s ring,
Lhe Comedy of Errors. Loy

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

Tue states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at
variance, there was a cruel law made at Ephesus, ordain-
ing that if any merchant of Syracuse was seen in the
city of Ephesus, he was to be put to death, unless ‘he
could pay a thousand marks for the ransom of his life.

4ageon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was dis-
covered in the streets of Ephesus, and brought before
the duke, either to pay this heavy fine, or to receive
sentence of death.

4egeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke,
before he pronounced the sentence of death upon
him, desired him to relate the history of his life, and
to tell for what,cause he had ventured to come to the
city of Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan -
merchant to enter.

/igeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sorrow
had made him weary of his life, but that a heavier
task could not have been imposed upon him than to
relate the events of his unfortunate life. He then
began his own history, in the following words:

“YT was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the
yrofession of a merchant. I married a lady with
vhom I lived very happily, but being obliged to go
o Epidamnium, I was detained there by my business
six months, and then, finding I should be obliged to
stay some time longer, I sent for my wife, who, as
108 Tales from Shakspeare,

soon as she arrived, was brought to bed of two sons,
and what was very strange, they were both so exactly
alike, that it was impossible to distinguish the one
from the other. At the same time that my wife was
brought to bed of these twin boys, a poor woman in
the inn where my wife lodged was brought to bed of
two sons, and these twins were as much like each
other as my two sons were. The parents of these
children being exceeding poor, I bought the two
boys, and brought them up to attend upon my sons.

“ My sons were very fine children, and my wife
was not a little proud of two such boys: and she
daily wishing to return home, I unwillingly agreed,
and in an evil hour we got on shipboard; for we had
not sailed above a league from Epidamnium before
a dreadful storm arose, which continued with such
violence, that the sailors seeing no chance of saving
the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own
lives, leaving us alone in the ship, which we every
moment expected would be destroyed by the fury of
the storm.

“The incessant weeping of my wife, and the pite-
ous complaints of the pretty babes, who not knowing
what to fear, wept for fashion, because they saw their
mother weep, filled me with terror for them, though I
did not for myself fear death ; and all my thoughts
were bent to contrive means for their safety ; I tied
my youngest son to the end of a small spare mast,
such as seafaring men provide against storms; at the —
other end I bound the youngest of the twin slaves,
and at the same time I directed my wife how to fasten
the other children in like manner to another mast
She thus having the care of the two eldest children,
and I of the two younger, we hound ourselves se
The Comedy of Errors. Tog

parately to these masts with the children; and but
for this contrivance we had all been lost, for the ship
split on a mighty rock and was dashed in pieces, and
we clinging to these slender masts were supported
above the water, where I, having the care of two
children, was unable to assist my wife, who with the
other children was soon separated from me ; but while
they were yet in my sight, they were taken up by a
boat of fishermen, from Corinth (as I supposed), and
seeing them in safety, I had no care but to struggle
with the wild sea-waves, to preserve my dear son and
the youngest slave. At length we in our turn were
taken up by a ship, and the sailors, knowing me, gave
us kind welcome and assistance, and landed us in
safety at Syracuse ; but from that sad hour I have never
known what became of my wife and eldest child.
“My youngest son, and now my only care, when

he was eighteen years of age, began to be inquisitive

after his mother and his brother, and often impor-
tuned me that-he might take his attendant, the young
slave, who had also lost his brother, and go in search
of them: at length I unwillingly gave consent, for
though I anxiously desired to hear tidings of my wife
and eldest son, yet in sending my younger one to find
them, I hazarded the loss of him also. It is now
seven years since my son left me; five years have I
passed in travelling through the world in search of
him: I have been in farthest Greece, and through
the bounds of Asia, and coasting homewards, I
landed here in Ephesus, being unwilling to leave
any place unsought that harbours men ; but this day
must end the story of my life, and happy should I
think myself in my death, if I were assured my wife
and sons were living.”

ip
Â¥Io Tales from Shakspeare.

Here the hapless /Egeon ended the account of his
misfortunes ; and the duke, pitying this unfortunate
father, who had brought upon himself this great peril
by his love for his lost son, said, if it were not against

_ the laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit
him to alter, he would freely pardon him ; yet, in-
stead of dooming kira to instant death, as the strict
letter of the law required, he would give him that
day, to try if he could beg or borrow the money to
pay the fine.

This day of grace did seem no great favour to
4Egeon, for not knowing any man in Ephesus, there
seemed to him but little chance that any stranger
would lend or give him a thousand marks to pay
the fine: and helpless and hopeless of any relief, he
retired from the presence of the duke in the custody
of a jailor. ;

fEgeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus ;
but at the very time he was in danger of losing his
life through the careful search he was making after
his youngest son, that son and his eldest son also were
both in the city of Ephesus.

fégeon’s sons besides being exactly alike in face
and person, were both named alike, being both called
Antipholis, and the two twin slaves were also both
named Dromio. Aigeon’s youngest son Antipholis of
Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus
to seek, happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave
Dromio, that very same day that Algeon did; and he
being also a merchant of Syracuse, he would have
been in the same danger that his father was, but by
good fortune he met a friend who told him the peril
an old merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised
him to pass for a merchant of Epidamnium; this
The Comedy of Errors. ee

Antipholis agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear
one of his own countrymen was in this danger, but
he little thought this old merchant was his own
father.

- The oldest son of Aégeon (who must be called
Antipholis of Ephesus, to distinguish him from his
brother Antipholis of Syracuse) had lived at Ephesus
twenty years, and, being a rich man, was well able to
have paid the money for the ransom of his father’s
life ; but Antipholis knew nothing of his father, being
so young when he was taken out of the sea with his
mother by the fishermen, that he only remembered
he had been so preserved, but he had no recollection
of either his father or his mother ; the fishermen, who
took up this Antipholis and his mother and the young
slave Dromio, having carried the two children away
from her (to the great grief of that unhappy. lady),
intending to sell them.

Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them to duke
Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was uncle to the
duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys to Ephesus,
when he went to visit the duke his nephew.

The duke of Ephesus taking a fancy to young An-
tipholis, when he grew up, made him an officer in his
army, in which he distinguished himself by his great
bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of his
patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying
him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus; with whom
he was living (his slave Dromio still attending him)
at the time his father came there.

Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted with his
friend, who advised him to say he came from Epi-
damnium, gave his slave Dromio some money to
carry to the inn where he intended to dine, and in the
Y12 Tales from Shakspeate.

mean time he said he would walk about and view the
city, and observe the manners of the people.

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholis
was dull and melancholy, he used to divert himself
with the odd humours and merry jests of his slave,
so that the freedoms of speech he allowed in Dromio
were greater than is usual between masters and their
servants. :

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent Dromio
away, he stood awhile thinking over his solitary
wanderings in search of his mother and his brother,
of whom in no place where he landed could he hear
the least tidings ; and he said sorrowfully to himself,
“Tam like a drop of water in the ocean, which seek-
ing to find its fellow drop, loses itself in the wide sea,
So I unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, do
lose myself.”

While he was thus meditating on his weary ee
which had hitherto been so useless, Dromio (as he
thought) returned. Antipholis, wondering that he
came back so soon, asked him where he had left the

“money. Now it was not his own Dromio, but the
twin-brother that lived with Antipholis of Ephesus,
that he spoke to. The two Dromios and the two
Antipholises were still as much alike as Zgeon had
said they were in their infancy; therefore no wonder
Antipholis thought it was his own slave returned,
and asked him why he came back so soon. Dromio
replied, “My mistress sent me to bid you come to
dinner. The capon burns, and the pig falls from the
spit, and the meat will be all cold if you do not come
home.” “These jests are out of season,” said Anti-
pholis : “where did you leave the money?” Dromio
still answering, that his mistress had sent him to
The Comedy of Errors. Itt

fetch Antipholis to dinner: “What mistress?” said
Antipholis. ‘Why your worship’s wife, sir,” replied
Dromio. Antipholis having no wife, he was very
angry with Dromio, and said, “Because T familiarly
sometimes chat with you, you presume to jest with
me in this free manner. I am not in a sportive
humour now: where is the money? we being stran-
-gers here, how dare you trust so great a charge from
your own custody?” Dromio hearing his master, as
he thought him, talk of their being strangers, sup-
posing Antipholis was jesting, replied merrily, “I
‘ pray you, sir, jest as you sit at dinner: I had no
charge but to fetch you home, to dine with my mis
tress and her sister.” Now Antipholis lost all patience,
and beat Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress
that his master had refused to come to dinner, and
said that he had no wife. .

Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, was
very angry, when she heard that her husband said he
had no wifé ; for she was of a jealous temper, and she
said her husband meant that he loved another lady
better than herself; and she began to fret, and say
unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her hus-
band; and her sister Luciana, who lived with her,
tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless
suspicions.

Antipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and found
Dromio with the money in safety there, and seeing
his own Dromio, he was going again to chide him for
his free jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not
doubting but it was her husband she saw, she began
to reproach him for looking strange upon her (as well
he might, never having seen this angry lady before) ;
and then she told him ‘how well he loved her before

I
II4 Zales from Shakspeare,

they were married, and that now he loved some othez
lady instead of her. “How comes it now, my hus-
band,” said she, “Oh how comes it that I have lost
your love?” “Plead you to me, fair dame?” said
the astonished Antipholis. It was in vain he told
her he was not her husband, and that he had been in
Ephesus but two hours; she insisted on his going
home with her, and Antipholis at last, being unable
to get away, went with her to his brother's house,
and dined with Adriana and her sister, the one
calling him husband, and the other, brother, he, all
amazed, thinking he must have been married to her -
in his sleep, or that he was sleeping now. And Dro-
mio, who followed them, was no less surprised, for
the cook-maid, who was his brother’s wife, also
claimed him for her husband.

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining with his
brother’s wife, his brother, the real husband, returned
home to dinner with his slave Dromio; but the ser
vants would not open the door, because their mistrese
had ordered them not to admit any company; and
when they repeatedly knocked, and said they were
Antipholis and Dromio, the maids laughed at them,
and said that Antipholis was at dinner with their mis-
tress, and Dromio was in the kitchen ; and though
they almost knocked the door down, tney could not
gain admittance, and at last Antipholis went away
very angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a gen-
tleman was dining with his wife.

When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished his din-
ner, he was so perplexed at the lady’s still persisting
in calling him husband, and at hearing that Dromio
had also been claimed by the cook-maid, that he left
the house, as soon as he could find any pretence to
The Comedy of Errors. 118

get away ; for though he was very much pleased with
Luciana, the sister, yet the jealous tempered Adriana
he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all better
satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen; therefore
both master and man were glad to get away from
their new wives as fast as they could.

The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left the
house, he was met by a goldsmith, who mistaking
him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholis of Ephesus,
gave him a gold chain, calling him by his name; and
when Antipholis would have refused the chain, saying
it did not belong to him, the goldswith replied he
made it by his own orders ; and went away, leaving
the chain in the hand of Antipholis, who ordered his
man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not
choosing to stay in a place any longer, where he met
with such strange adventures that he surely thought
himself bewitched.

The goldsmith who had given the chain to the
wrong Antipholis, was arrested immediately after for
asum of money he owed; and Antipholis, the mar-
tied brother, to whom the goldsmith thought he had
given the chain, happened to come to the place
where the officer was arresting the goldsmith, who,
when he saw Antipholis, asked him to pay for the
gold chain he had just delivered to him, the price
amounting to nearly the same sum as that for which
he had been arrested. Antipholis denying the having
received the chain, and the goldsmith persisting to
declare that he had but a few minutes before given
it to him, they disputed the matter a long time, both
thinking they were right, for Antipholis knew the
goldsmith never gave him the chain, and, so like
were the two brothers, the goldsmith was as certain

]
116 Tales from Shakspeare.

he had delivered the chain into his hands, till at last
the officer took the goldsmith away to prison for the
debt he owed, and at the same time the goldsmith
made the officer arrest Antipholis for the price of the
chain ; so that at the conclusion of their dispute, An-
tipholis and the merchant were both taken away to
prison together. -

As Antipholis was going to prison, he met Dromio
of Syracuse, his brother’s slave, and mistaking him
for his own, he ordered him to go to Adriana, his
wife, and tell her to send the money for which he
was arrested. Dromio wondering that his master
should send him back to the strange house where he
dined, and from which he had just before been in
such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though he
came to tell his master the ship was ready to sail;
for he saw Antipholis was in no humour to be jested
with. Therefore he went away, grumbling within
himself that he must return to Adriana’s house,
“ Where,” said he, “‘ Dowsabel claims me for a hus-
band: but I must go, for servants must obey their
master’s commands.”

Adriana gave him the. money, and as Dromio was
returning, he met Antipholis of Syracuse, who was
still in amaze at the surprising adventures he met
with ; for his brother being well known in Ephesus,
there was hardly a man he met in the streets but
saluted him as an old acquaintance: some offered
him money which they said was owing to him, some
invited him to come and see them, and some gave
him thanks for kindnesses they said he had done
them, all mistaking him for his brother. A tailor
showed him some silks he had bought for him, and
insisted upon taking measure of him for some clothes.
The Comedy of Errors. 114

Autipholis began to think he was among a nation
of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio did not at all
relieve his master from his bewildered thoughts, by
asking him how he got fiee from the officer who was
carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of
gold which Adriana had sent to pay the debt with.
This talk of Dromio’s of the arrest and of a prison,
and of the money he had brought from Adriana,
perfectly: confounded Antipholis, and he said, “This
fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wander
here in illusions ;” and quite terrified at his own
confused thoughts, he cried. out, “Some blessed
power deliver us from this strange place !”

And now another stranger came up to him, and
she was a lady, and she too called him Antipholis,
and told him he had dined with her that day, ang’
asked him for a gold chain which she said he had
promised to give her. Antipholis now lost all
patience, and calling her a sorceress, he denied
that he had ever promised her a chain, or. dined
with her, or had ever seen her face before that
moment. ‘The lady persisted in affirming he had
dined with her, and had promised her a chain, which
Antipholis still denying, she farther said, that she
had given him a valuable ring, and if he would not
give her the gold chain, she insisted upon having her
own ring again. On this Antipholis became quite
frantic, and again calling her sorceress and witch,
and denying all knowledge of her and her ring, ran
away from her, leaving her astonished at his words
and his wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more
certain than that he had dined with her, and that she
had given him a ring, in consequence of his promising
to make her a present. of a gold chain. But this lady
118 Tales from Shakspeare.

had fallen into the same mistake the others had done,
for she had taken him for his brother: the married
Antipholis had done all the things she taxed this
Antipholis with.

When the married Antipholis was denied entrance
into his own house (those within supposing him to
be already there,) he had gone away very angry,
believing it to be one of his wife’s jealous. freaks, to
which she was very subject, and remembering that
she had often falsely accused him of visiting other
ladies, he to be revenged on her for shutting him out
of his own house, determined to go and dine with
this lady, and she receiving him with great civility,
and his wife having so highly offended him, Antipho-
lis promised to give her a gold chain, which he had
intended.as a present for his wife; it was the same
chain which the goldsmith by mistake had given to
his brother. The lady liked so well the thoughts of
having a fine gold chain, that she gave the “married
Antipholis a ring; which when, as she supposed
(taking his brother for him), he denied, and said he
did not know her, and left her in such a wild pas-
sion, she began to think he was certainly out of his
senses; and presently she resolved to go and tell
Adriana that her husband was mad. And while she
was telling it to Adriana, he came, attended by the
jailor (who allowed him to come home to get the
money to pay the debt), for the purse of money
which Adriana had sent by Dromio, and he had de-
livered to the other Antipholis.

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her
husband’s madness must be true, when he reproached
ber for shutting him out of his own house; and re-
membering how he had protested all dinner-time that
The Comedy of Errors. 119

he was not her husband, and had never been in
Ephesus till that day, she had no doubt that he was
mad; she therefore paid the jailor the money, and
having discharged him, she ordered her servants to
bind her husband with ropes, and had him conveyed
into a dark room, and sent for a doctor to come and
cure him of his madness: Antipholis all the while
hotly exclaiming against this false accusation, which
the exact likeness he bore to his brother had brought
upon him. But his rage only the more confirmed
them in the belief that he was mad; and Dromio
persisting in the same story, they bound him also,
and took him away along with his master.

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into con-
finement, a servant came to tell her that Antipholis
and Dromio must have broken loose from their keep-
ers, for that they were both walking at liberty in the
next street.‘ On hearing this, Adriana ran out to
fetch him home, taking some people with her to se-
cure her husband again ; and her sister went along
with her. When they came to the gates of a convent
in their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholis
and Dromio, as they thought, being again deceived
by the likeness of the twin-brothers.

Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with the
perplexities this likeness had brought upon him.
The chain which the goldsmith had given him was
about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching
him for denying that he had it, and refusing to pay
for it, and Antipholis was protesting that the gold-
smith freely gave him the chain in the morning, and
that from that hour he had never seen the goldsmith
again.

And now Adriana came up to him, and claimed
120 Tales from Shakspeare.

him as her lunatic husband, who had escaped from
his keepers; and the men she brought with her
were going to lay violent hands on Antipholis and
Dromio ; but they ran into the convent, and Anti-
pholis begged the abbess to give him shelter in her
house.

And now came out the lady abbess herself to in
quire into the cause of this disturbance. She was a
grave and venerable lady, and wise to judge of what
she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the
men who had sought protection in her house ; so she
strictly questioned the wife about the story she told
of her husband’s madness, and she said, “What is
the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's ?
Has he lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of
some dear friend that has disturbed his mind?”
Adriana replied, that no such things as these had
been the cause. “Perhaps,” said the abbess, “he has
fixed his affections on some other lady than you his
wife ; and that has driven him into this state.” Adri-
ana said she had long thought the love of some other
lady was the cause of his frequent absences from
home. Now it was not his love for another, but the
teasing jealousy of his wife’s temper, that oftey
obliged Antipholis to leave his home; and (the ab-
bess suspecting this from the vehemence of Adriana’s
manner) to learn the truth, she said, “ You should
have reprehended him for this.” “ Why so I did,”
replied Adriana. “ Ay,” said the abbess, “ but per-
haps not enough.” Adriana, willing to convince the
abbess that she had said enough to Antipholis on this
subject, replied, “It was the constant subject of our
conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep for
speaking of it. At table I would not let him eat for
The Comedy of Errors. r2z

speaking of it When I was alone with him, I talked
of nothing else ; and in company I gave him frequent
pints of it. Still all my talk was how vile and bad it
was in him to love any lady better than me.”

The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession
from the jealous Adriana, now said, “And therefore
comes it that your husband is mad. The venomous
clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison
than a mad dog’s tooth. It seems his sleep was hin-
dered by your railing ; no wonder that his head is
light: and his meat was sauced with your upbraid-
ings ; unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has
thrown him into this fever. You say his sports were
disturbed by your brawls; being debarred from the
enjoyment of society and recreation, what could en-
sue but dull melancholy and comfortless despair ?
The consequence is, then, that your jealous fits have
made your husband mad.”

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she
always reprehended her husband mildly ; and she
said to her sister, “ Why do you hear these rebukes
without answering them?” But the abbess had
made her so plainly perceive her fault, that she could
only answer, “She has betrayed me to my own re-
proof.”

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still
insisted on having her husband delivered up to her -
Dut the abbess would suffer no person to enter her
house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to
the care of the jealous wife, det ermining herself to use
gentle means for his recovery, and she retired into her
house again, and ordered her gates to be shut against
them.

During the course of this eventful day, in which so
122 Tales from Shakspeare.

many errors tad happened from the likeness the twin
brothers bore to each other, old Aégeon’s day of grace
was passing away, it being now near sunset; and at
sunset he was doomed to die if he could not pay the
money.

The place of his execution was near this convent,
and here he arrived just as the abbess retired into the
convent; the duke attending in person, that if any
offered to pay the money, he might be present to
pardon him.

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and
cried out to the duke for justice, telling him that the
abbess had refused to deliver up her lunatic husband
to her care. While she was speaking, her real husband
and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came
before the duke to demand justice, complaining that
his wife had confined him on a false charge of lunacy ;
and telling in what manner he had broken his bands,
and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was
strangely surprised to see her husband, when she
thought he had been within the convent.

fEgeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son
who had left hira to go in search of his mother and
his brother ; and he felt secure that this dear son
would readily pay the money demanded for his ransom.
He therefore spoke to Antipholis in words of fatherly
affection, with joyful hope that he should now be te
leased. But to the utter astonishment of A‘geon, his
son denied all knowledge of him, as well he might, for
this Antipholis had never seen his father since they
were separated in the storm in his infancy ; but while
the poor old Afgeon was in vain endeavouring ta
make his son acknowledge him, thinking surely that
either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had
The Comedy of Errors. - 193

so strangely altered him that his son did not know
him, or else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his
father in his misery ; in the midst of this perplexity,
the lady abbess and the other Antipholis and Dromio
came out, and the wondering Adriana saw two hus-
bands and two Dromios standing before her.

And now these riddling errors, which had so per-
plexed them all, were clearly made out. When the
duke saw the two Antipholises and the two Dromios
both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright of
these seeming mysteries, for he remembered.the story
4igeon had told him in. the morning; and he said,
these men must be the two sons of AXgeon and their
twin slaves.

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the
history of AZgeon ; and the tale he had in the morning
toid in sorrow, and under sentence of death, before the
setting sun went down, was brought to a happy con-
clusion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself
known to be the long-lost wife of A?geon, and the fond
mother of the two Antipholises.

When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholis and
Dromio away from her, she entered a nunnery, and by
her wise and virtuous conduct she was at.length made
lady abbess of this convent, and in discharging the
rights of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had
unknowingly protected her own son.

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings be-
tween these long-separated parents and their children,
made them for awhile forget that Aégeon was yet
under sentence of death ; but when they were become
a little calm, Antipholis of Ephesus offered the duke
the ransom money for his father’s life; but the duke
freely pardoned Egeon, and would not take the
£24 Tales from Shakspeare,

money. And the duke went with the abbess and her
newly-found husband and children into the convent,
‘o hear this happy family discourse at leisure of the
blessed ending of their adverse fortunes. And thé two
Dromios’ humble joy must not be forgotten; they
had their congratulations and greetings too, and each
Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother on his
good looks, being well pleased to see his own
person (as in a glass) show so handsome in his
brother.

Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel
of her mother-in-law, that she never after cherished
unjust suspicions, or was jealous of her husband.

Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the
sister of his brother’s wife ; and the good old Atgeon,
with his wife and sons, lived at Ephesus many years.
Nor did the unravelling of these perplexities so entirely
remove every ground of mistake for the future, but
that sometimes, to remind them of adventures past,
comical blunders would -happen, and the one Anti-
pholis, and the one Dromio, be mistaken for the other,
making altogether a pleasant and diverting Comedy of
Errors. :

Hamlet. 125

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK,

GERTRUDE, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow
by the sudden death of king Hamlet, in less than two
months after his death married his brother Claudius,
which was noted by all people at the time for a strange
act of indiscretion, or unfeelingness, or worse : for this
Claudius did noways resemble her late husband in the
qualities of his person or his mind, but was as con-
temptible in outward appearance, as he was base and.
unworthy in disposition ; and suspicions did not fail
to arise in the minds of some, that he had privately
made away ‘with his brother, the late king, with the
view of marrying his widow, and ascending the throne
of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the
son of the buried king, and lawful successor to the
throne.

But upon no one did this unadvised action of the
queen make such impression as upon this young
prince, who loved and venerated the memory of his
dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a nice
sense of honour, and a most exquisite practiser of
propriety himself, did sorely take to heart this un-
worthy conduct of his mother Gertrude: insomuch
that, between grief for his father’s death and shame
for his mother’s marriage, this young prince was
overclouded with a deep melancholy, and lost all his
mirth and all his good looks ; all his customary plea-
1260 Zales from Shakspeare.

sure in books forsook him, his princely exercises and
sports, proper to his youth, were no longer acceptable;
he grew weary of the world, which seemed to him an
unweeded garden, where all the wholesome flowers
were choked up, and nothing but weeds could thrive.
Not that the prospect of exclusion from the throne,
his lawful inheritance, weighed so much upon his
spirits, though that to a young and high-minded
prince was a bitter wound and a sore indignity ; but
what so galled him, and took away all his cheerful
spirits, was, that his mother had shown herself so
forgetful to his father’s memory: and such a father!
who had been to her so loving and gentle a husband !
and then she always appeared as loving and obedienta |
wife to him, and would hang upon him as if her
affection grew to him: and now within two months,
or, as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than two
months, she had married again, married his uncle, her
dead husband’s brother, in itself a highly improper
and unlawful marriage, from the nearness of relation-
ship, but made much more so by the indecent haste
with which it was concluded, and the unkingly cha-
racter of the man whom she had chosen to be the
partner of her throne and bed. This it was, which
more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits,
and brought a cloud over the mind of this honourable
young prince.

In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king
could do or contrive to divert him ; he still appeared
yn court in a suit of deep black, as mourning for the
king his. father’s death, which mode of dress he had
never laid aside, not even in compliment to his
mother upon the day she was married, nor could he
be brought to join in any of the festivities or re
Hamlet. 127

,oicings of that (as appeared to him) disgraceful
day. :

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about
the manner of his father’s death. It was given out by
Claudius, that a serpent had stung him: but young
Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself
was the serpent ; in plain English, that he had mur-
dered him for his crown, and that the serpent who
stung his father did now sit on his throne.

How far he was right in this conjecture, and what
he ought to think of his mother,—how far she was
privy to this murder, and whether by her consent or
knowledge, or without, it came to pass,—were the
doubts which continually harassed and . distracted
him.

A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet,
that an apparition exactly resembling the dead king
his father, had been seen by the soldiers upon watch,
on the platform before the palace at midnight, for two
or three nights successively. ‘The figure came con-
stantly clad in the same suit of armour, from head to
foot, which the dead king was known to have worn :
and they who saw it (Hamlet’s bosom-friend Horatio
was one) agreed in their testimony as to the manner
and time of its-appearance : that it came just as the

‘clock struck twelve ; that it looked pale, with a face
more of sorrow than of anger; that its beard was
grisly, and the colour a sable silvered, as they had
seen it in his lifetime : that it made no answer when

Shey spoke to it, yet once they thought it lifted up its
aead, and addressed itself to motion as if it were
about to speak; but in that moment the morning
cock crew, and it shrunk in haste away, and vanished
out of their sight,
128 Zales from Shakspeare,

The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation,
which was too consistent and agreeing with itself to
disbelieve, concluded that it was his father’s ghost
which they had seen, and determined to take his
watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have
a chance of seeing it: for he reasoned with himself,
that such an appearance did not come for nothing,
but that the ghost had something to impart, and
though it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak
to him. And he waited with impatience for the
coming of night.

When night came he took his stand with Horatio
and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon the platform,
where this apparition was accustomed to walk: and -
it being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and
nipping, Hamlet and Horatio and their companion
fell into some talk about the coldness of the night,
which was suddenly broken off by Horatio announ-
cing that the ghost was coming.

At the sight of his father’s spirit, Hamlet was struck
with a sudden surprise and fear. He at first called
upon the angels and heavenly ministers to defend
them, for he knew not whether it were a good spirit
or had: whether it came for good or for evil: but he
gradually assumed more courage: and his father (as
it seemed to him) looked upon him so piteously, and
as it were desiring to have conversation with him, and
did in all respects appear so like himself as he was
when he lived, that Hamlet could not help addressing
him: he called him by his name Hamlet, King,
Father! and conjured him that he would tell the
reason why he had left his grave, where they had seen
him quietly bestowed, to come again and visit the
earth and the moonlight: and besonght him that he
fTamlet. 129

would let them know if there was anything which they
could do to give peace to his spirit. And the ghost
beckoned to Hamlet, that he should go with him to
some more removed place, where they might be
alone: and Horatio and Marcellus would have dis-
suaded the young prince from following it, for they
feared lest it should be some evil spirit, who would
tempt him to the neighbouring sea, or to the top of
some dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible
shape which might deprive the prince of his reason.
But their counsels and entreaties could not alter
Hamlet’s determination, who cared too little about
life to fear the losing of it; and as to his soul, he
said, what could the spirit do to that, being a thing
immortal as itself? And he felt as hardy as a lion;
and bursting from them, who did all they could to
bold him, he followed whithersoever the spirit led
him.

And when they were alone together, the spirit
broke silence, and told him that he was the ghost of
Hamlet, his father, who had been cruelly murdered,
and he told the manner of it; that it was done by
his own brother Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle, as Hamlet
nad already but too much suspected, for the hope of
succeeding to his bed and crown. That as he was
sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the
afternoon this treasonous brother stole upon him in
his sleep, and poured the juice of poisonous henbane
ito his ears, which has such an antipathy to the life
of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through all
the veins of the body, baking up the blood, and
spreading a crust-like leprosy all over the skin: thus
sleeping, by a brother’s hand he was cut off at once,
from his crown, his queen, and his life: and he ad.

i
130 Liles from Shakspeare.

jored Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father love, that
he would revenge his foul murder. And the ghost
lamented to his son, that his mother should so fall off
from virtue, as to prove false to the wedded love of
her first husband, and to marry his murderer : but he
cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he proceeded in his
revenge against his wicked uncle, by no means to act
any violence against the person of his mother, but to
leave her to Heaven, and to the stings and thorns of
conscience. And Hamlet promised to observe the
ghost’s direction in all things, and the ghost vanished.

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a
solemn resolution, that all he had in his memory, all
that he had ever learned by books or observation,
should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing
live in his brain but the memory of what the ghost
had told him, and enjoined him to do. And Hamlet
related the particulars of the conversation which had
passed to none but his dear friend Horatio; and he
enjoined both to him and Marcellus the strictest
secresy as to what they had seen that night.

The terror which the sight of the ghost had left
upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak and dis-
pirited before, almost unhinged his mind, and drove
him beside his reason. And he, fearing that it would
continue to have this effect, which might subject him
to observation, and set his uncle upon his guard, if
he suspected that he was meditating any thing against
him, or that Hamlet really knew more of his father’s
death than he professed, took up a strange resolution,
from that time to counterfeit as if he were really and
truly mad ; thinking that he would be less an object
of suspicion when his uncie should believe him in-
capable of any serious project, and that his real
Hamlet. B34

perlurbation of mind would be best covered and pass
concealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy.

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness
and strangeness in his apparel, his speech, and
behaviour, and did so excellently counterfeit the mad-
man, that the king and queen were both deceived,
and not thinking his grief for his father’s death a
sufficient cause to produce such a distemper, for they
knew not of the appearance of the ghost, they con-
cluded that his malady was love, and they thought
they had found out the object.

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which
has been related, he had dearly loved a fair maid
called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius, the king’s
chief councillor in affairs of state. He had sent her
letters and rings, and made many tenders of his affec-
.tion to her, and importuned her with love in honour-
able fashion: and she had given belief to his vows
and importunities. But the melancholy which he’
fell into latterly had made him neglect her, and from
-the time he conceived the project of counterfeiting
madness, he affected to treat her with unkindness,
and a sort of rudeness; but she, good lady, rather
than reproach him with being false to her, persuaded
herself that it was nothing but the disease in his mind,
and no settled unkindness, which had made him less
observant of her than formerly; and she compared
the faculties of his once noble mind and excellen
understanding, impaired as they were with the deep
melancholy that oppressed him, to sweet bells which
in themselves are capable of most excellent music
but when jangled out of tune, or rudely handled.
produce only a harsh and unpleasing sound.

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in

K 2
(32 Tales. from Shakspeare.

hand, the revenging of his father’s ueath upon his
murderer, did not suit with the playful state of court-
ship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion as
love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but
that soft thoughts of his Ophelia would come between ;
and in one of these moments, when he thought that
his treatment of this gentle lady had been unreason-
ably harsh, he wrote her a letter full of wild starts of
passion, and extravagant ternus, such as agreed with
his supposed madness, but mixed with some gentle
touches of affection, which could not but show to this
honoured lady, that a deep love for her yet lay at the
bottom of his heart. He bade her to doubt the stars
were fire, and to doubt that the sun did move, to
doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that he
loved ; with more of such extravagant phrases. This
letter Ophelia dutifully showed to her father, and the
old man thought himself bound to communicate it to
the king and queen, who trom that time supposed
that the true cause of Hamlet’s madness was love.
And the queen wished that the good beauties of
Ophelia might be the happy cause of his wildness,
for so she hoped that her virtues might happily
restore him to his accustomed way again, to both
their honours.

But Hamlet’s malady lay deeper than she supposed,
or than could be so cured. His father’s ghost, which
he had seen, still haunted his imagination, and the
sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him no
rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay
seemed to him a sin, and a violation of his father’s
commands. Yet how to compass the death of the
king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards,
was no easy matter, Or if it had been, the presence
FHamlee, 133

of the queen, Hamlet’s mother, who was generally
with the king, was a restraint upon his purpose,
which he could not break through, Besides, the very
circumstance that the usurper was his mother’s hus-
band, filled him with some remorse, and still blunted
the edge of his purpose. The mere act of putting a
fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and
terrible to a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet’s
was. His very melancholy, and the dejection of
spirits he had so long been in, produced an irresolute-
ness and wavering of purpose, which kept him from
proceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not
help having some scruples upon his mind, whether
the spirit which he had seen was indeed his father, or
whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard
has power to take any form he pleases, and who
might have assumed his father’s shape only to take
advantage of his weakness and his melancholy, to
drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as
murder, And he determined that he would have
more certain grounds to go upon than a vision, or
apparition, which might be a delusion.

While he was in this irresolute mind, there came to
the court certain players, in whom Hamlet formerly
used to take delight, and particularly to hear one of
them speak a tragival speech, describing the death of
old Priam, king of ‘Troy, with the’ grief of Hecuba,
his queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends, the
players, and remembering how that speech had for-
merly given him pleasure, requested the player to
repeat it; which he did in so lively a manner, setting
forth the cruel murder of the feeble old king, with
the destruction of his people and city by fire, and the
mad grief of the old queen, running barefoot up and
134 Lales prom Shakspeare.

down the palace, with a poor clout upon that head
where a crown had been, and with nothing but a
blanket upon her loins, snatched up in haste, where
she had worn a royal robe: that not only it drew tears
from all that stood by, who thought they saw the reai
scene, so lively was it represented, but even the player
himself delivered it with a broken voice and real tears.
This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that player could
so work himself up to passion by.a mere fictitious
speech, to weep for one that he had never seen, for
Hecuba, that had been dead so many hundred years,
how dull was he, who having a real motive and cue
for passion, a real king and a dear father murdered,
was yet so little moved, that his revenge all this while
had seemed to have slept in dull and muddy forgetful-
ness! And while he meditated on actors and acting,
and the powerful effects which a good play, repre-
sented to the life, has upon the spectator, he remem-
bered the instance of some murderer, who seeing a
murder on the stage, was by the mere force of the
scene and resemblance of circumstances so affected,
that on the spot he confessed the crime which he had .
committed. And he determined that these players
should play something like the murder of his father
before his uncle, and he would watch narrowly what
effect it might have upon him, and from his looks he
would be able to gather with more certainty if he
were the murderer or not. To this effect he ordered
a play to be prepared, to the representation of which
he invited the king.and queen.

The story of the play was of a murder done in
Vienna upon a duke. The duke’s name was Gon-
zago, his wife Baptista. The play showed how one
Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned hira
Hamiet. 135

in his garden for his estate, and how the murderer
in a short time after got the love of Gonzago’s
wife,

At the representation of this play, the king, wio
did not know the trap which was laid for him, was
present, with his queen and the whole court; Hamlet
sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. Th
play began with a conversation between Gonzago an
his wife, in which the lady made many protestations
of love, and of never-marrying a second husband, if
she should outlive Gonzago ; wishing she might be ac-
cursed if ever she took a second husband, and adding
that no woman ever did so but those wicked women
who kill their first husbands. Hamlet observed the
king, his uncle, change colour at this expression, and
that it was as bad as wormwood both to him and to
the queen. But when Lucianus, according to the
story, came to poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden,
the strong resemblance which it bore to his own
wicked act upon the late king, his brother, whom he
had poisoned in his garden, so struck upon the con-
science of this usurper, that he was unable to sit out
the rest of the play, but on a sudden calling for lights
to his chamber, and affecting or partly feeling a
sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The
king being departed, the play was given over. Now
Hamlet had seen enough to feel satisfied that the
words of the ghost were true, and no illusion ; and in
a fit of gaiety, like that which comes over man who
suddenly has some great doubt or scruple resolved, he
swore to Horatio, that he would take the ghost’s word
for a thousand pounds. But before he could make up
his resolution as to what measures of revenge he should
take, now he was certainly informed that bis uncle wag
£36 Tales from Shakspeare.

his father’s murderer, he was sent for by the queen,
his mother, to a private conference in her closet.
It.was by desire of the king that the queen sent
for Hamlet, that she might signify to her son how
much his late behaviour had displeased them both ;
and the king, wishing to know all that passed at that
conference, and thinking that the too partial report of
a mother might let slip some part of Hamlet’s words, |
which it might much import the king to’ know, Polo-
nius, the old councillor of state, was ordered to plant
himself behind the hangings in the queen’s closet,
where he might unseen hear all that passed. This
artifice was particularly adapted to the disposition of
Polonius, who was a man grown old in crooked maxims
and policies of state, and delighted to get at the know-
ledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way.
Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax
him in the roundest way with his actions and beha-
viour, and she told him that he had given great
offence to his father, meaning the king, his uncle,
whom, because he had married her, she called Ham-
let’s father. Hamlet, sorely indignant that she should
give so dear and honoured a name as father seemed to
him, to a wretch who was indeed no better than the
murderer of his true father, with some sharpness re-
plied, “ Mother, you have much offended my father.”
The queen said that was but an idle answer. “ As
good as the question deserved,” said Hamlet. The
queen asked him if he had forgotten who it was
he was speaking to? “Alas!” replied Hamlet, “I
wish I could forget. You are the queen, your hus.
band’s brother’s wife; and you are my mother; I
wish you were not what you are.” ‘Nay, then,” said
the queen, “if you show me so little respect, I will send
Hamlet, 137

those to you that can speak,” and was going to send
the king or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not
let her go, now he had her alone, till he had tried if
his words could not bring her to some sense of her
wicked life ; and, taking her by the wrist, he held her
fast, and made her sit down. She, affrighted at his
earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he should
do her a mischief, cried out : and a voice was heard
from behind the hangings, “ Help, help the queen !”
which Hamlet hearing, and verily thinking it was the
king himself there concealed, he drew his sword, and
stabbed at the place where the voice came from, as he
would have stabbed a rat that run there, till the voice
ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead. But
when he dragged forth the body, it was not the king,
but Polonius, the old officious councillor, that had
planted himself as a spy behind the hangings. “O
me!” exclaimed the queen, “what a rash and bloody
deed you have done!” “A bloody deed, mother,”
replied Hamlet, “ but not so bad as yours, who killed
a king, and married his brother.” Hamlet had gone
too far to leave off here. He was nowin the humom
to speak plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And
though the faults of parents are to be tenderly treated
by their children, yet in the case of great crimes the
son may have leave to speak even to his own mother
with some harshness, so as that harshness is meant for
her good, and to turn her from her wicked ways, and
not done for the purpose of upbraiding. And now this
virtuous prince did in moving terms represent to the
queen the heinousness of her offence, in being so for-
getful of the dead king, his father, as in so short a
space of time to marry with his brother and reputed
murderer: such an act as, after the vows which she
1348 Tales from Shakspeare.

a

had sworn to her first husband, was enough to make
all vows of women suspected, and all virtue to be ac-
counted hypocrisy, wedding contracts to be less than
gamesters’ oaths, and religion to be a mockery and a
mere form of words. He said she had done suca a
deed, that the heavens blushed at it, and the earth was
sick of her because of it.. And he showed her two
pictures, the oné of the late king, her first husband,
and the other of the present king, her second husband,
and he bade her mark the difference : what a grace
was on the brow of his father, how like a god he
looked ! the curls of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter,
the eye of Mars, and a posture like to Mercury newly
alighted on some heaven-kissing hill! this man Aad
deen her husband. And then he showed her whom
she had got in his stead: how like a blight or a mildew
he looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome bro-
ther. And the queen was sore ashamed that he should
so turn her eyes inward upon her soul, which she now
saw so black and deformed. And he asked her how
she could continue to live with this man, and be a wife
to him, who had murdered her first husband, and got
the crown by as false means as a thief— And just
as he spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he was in
his lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, entered
the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, asked what it
would have ; and the ghost said that it came to remind
him of the revenge he had promised, which Hamlet
seemed to have forgot: and the ghost bade him speak
to his mother, for the grief and terror she was in would
else kill her. It then vanished, and was seen by none
but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing to where ‘t
stood, or by any description, make his mother perceive
it, who was terribly frightened all this while to hear him
flamlet. 139

conversing, as it seemed to her, with nothing : and she
imputed it to the disorder of his mind. But Hamlet
begged her not to flatter her wicked soul in such a
manner as to think that it was his madness, and not
her own offences, which had brought his father’s spirit
again on the earth, And he bade her feel his pulse,
how temperately it beat, not like a madman’s. And he
begged of her with tears, to confess herself to Heaven
for what was past, and for the future to avoid the com-
pany of the king, and be no more as a wife to him:
and when she should show herself a mother to him, by
respecting his father’s memory, he would ask a blessing
of her as a son. And she promising to observe his
directions, the conference ended.

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it
was that in his unfortunate sashness he had killed : and
when he came to see that it was Polonius, the father of
the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved, he drew
apart the dead body, and, his spirits being a little
quieter, he wept for what he had done.

This unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a
pretence for sending Hamlet out of the kingdom. He
would willingly have put him to death, fearing him as
dangerous; but he dreaded the people, who .oved
Hamlet ; and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted
upon the prince, her son. So this subtle king, under
pretence of providing for Hamlet’s safety, that he
might not be called to account for Polonius’s death,
caused him to be conveyed on board a ship bound for
England, under the care of two courtiers, by whom he
dispatched letters to the English court, which at that
time was in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark,
requiring, for special reasons there pretended, that
Hamlet should be put to death as soon as he landed
140 Tales from Shakspeare.

on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some trea
chery, in the night-time secretly got at the letters, and
skilfully erasing his own name, he in the stead of it put
in the names of those two courtiers, who had the charge
of him to be put to death : then sealing up the letters,
he put them into their place again. Soon after the
ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight com-
menced ; in the course of which Hamlet, desirous to
show his valour, with sword in hand singly boarded
the enemy’s vessel ; while his own ship, in a cowardly
manner, bore away, and leaving him to his fate, the
two courtiers made the best of their way to England,

charged with those letters the sense of which Hamlet
had altered to their own deserved destruction.

The pirates, who had the prince in their power,
showed themselves gentle enemies; and knowing
whom they had got prisoner, in the hope that the
prince might do them a good turn at court in recom-
pense for any favour they might show him, they set
Hamlet on shore at the nearest port in, Denmark.
From that place Hamlet wrote to the king, acquaint-
ing him with the strange chance which had brought
him back to his own country, and saying that on the
next day he should present himseif before his majesty.
When he got home a sad spectacle offered itself the
first thing to his eyes.

This was the funeral of the young and beautiful
Ophelia, his once dear mistress. The wits of this
young lady had begun to turn ever since her poor
father’s death. That he should die a violent death,
and by the hands of the prince whom she loved, so
affected this tender young maid, that in a little time
she grew perfectly distracted, and would go about
giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and
Flamlet. T4l

saying that they were for her father’s burial, singing
songs about love and about death, and sometimes
such as had no meaning at all, as if she had no me-
mory of what happened to her. There was a willow
which grew slanting over a brook, and reflected its
leaves in the stream. To this brook she came one
day when she was unwatched, with garlands she had
been making, mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers
and weeds together, and clambering up to hang her
garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bough broke
and precipitated this fair yourg maid, garland, and
all that she had gathered, into the water, where her
clothes bore her up for a while, during which she
chanted scraps of old tunes, like one insensible to her
own distress, or as if she were a creature natural to
that element: but long it was not, before her gar-
ments, heavy with the wet, pulled her in from her
melodious singing to a muddy and miserable death. It
was the funeral of this fair maid which her brother
Laertes was celebrating, the king and queen and whole
court being present, when Hamlet arrived. He knew
not what all this show imported, but stood on one
side, not inclining to interrupt the ceremony. He saw
the flowers strewed upon her grave, as the custom was
in maiden burials, which the queen herself threw in ;
and as she threw them, she said, “ Sweets to the sweet !
I thought to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid,
not to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst have
been my Hamlet's wife.” And he heard her brother
wish that violets might spring from her grave: and he
saw him leap into the grave all frantic with grief, and
bid the attendants pile mountains of earth upon him,
that he might be buried with her. And Hamlet’s love
lor this fair maid came back to him, and he could not
142 Lales from Shakspeare.

bear that a brother should show so much transport of
grief, for he thought that he loved Ophelia better than
forty thousand brothers. Then discovering himself,
he leaped into the grave where Laertes was, all as
frantic or more frantic than he, and Laertes knowing
him to be Hamlet, who had been the cause of his
father’s and his sister's death, grappled him by the
throat as an enemy, till the attendants parted them:
and Hamlet, after the funeral, excused his hasty act in
throwing himself into the grave as if to brave Laertes ;
but he said he could not bear that any one should
seem to outgo him in grief for the death of the fair
Ophelia. And for the time these two noble youths
seemed reconciled.

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the
death of his father and Ophelia, the king, Hanulet’s
wicked uncle, contrived destruction for Hamlet. He
set on Laertes, under cover of peace and reconcilia-
tion, to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at
fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed
to try the match. At this match all the court was
present, and Laertes, by direction of the king, pre-
pared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match great
wagers were laid by the courtiers, as both Hamlet
and Laertes were known to excel at this sword-play ;
and Hamlet taking up the foils chose one, not at all
suspecting the treachery of Laertes, or being careful
to cxamine Laertes’ weapon, who, instead of a foil
or blunted sword, which the laws of fencing require,
made use of one with a point, and poisoned. At first
Laertes did but play with Hamlet, and suffered him
to gain some advantages, which the dissembling king
magnified and extolled beyond measure, drinking to
Hamlet’s success, and wagering rich bets upon the
Alaméet. 143

issue: but after a few passes, Laertes, growing warm,
made a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned
‘weapon, and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet, in-
censed, but not knowing the whole of the treachery,
in the scuffle exchanged his own innocent weapon
for Laertes’ deadly one, and with a thrust of Laertes’
own sword repaid Laertes home, who was thus justly
caught in his own treachery. In this instant the
queen shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had
inadvertently drunk out of a bowl which the king
had prepared for Hamlet, in case that being warm in
fencing he should call for drink : into this the treach.
erous king had infused a deadly poison, to make sure
of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. He had forgotten
to warn the queen of the bowl, which she drank of,
and immediately died, exclaiming with her last breath
that she was poisoned. Hamlet, suspecting some
treachery, ordered the doors to be shut, while he
sought it out, Laertes told him to seek no further,
for he was the traitor; and feeling his life go away
with the wound which Hamlet had given him, he
made confession of the treachery he had used, and
how he had fallen a victim to it: and he told Hamlet
of the envenomed point, and said that Hamlet had
not half an hour to live, for no medicine could cure
him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet, he died,
with his last words accusing the king of being the
vontriver of the mischief. When Hamlet saw his end
draw near, there being yet some venom left upon the
sword, he suddenly turned upon his false uncle, and
thrust the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the -pro-
mise which he had made to his father’s spirit, whose
injunction was now accomplished, and his foul mur-
der revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet,
144 Lales from Shakspeare.

feeling his breath fail and life departing, turned to his
dear friend Horatio, who had been spectator of this
fatal tragedy; and with his dying breath requested
him that he would live to tell his story to the world
(for Horatio had made a motion as if he would slay
himself to accompany the prince in death); and
Horatio promised that he would make a true report,
as one that was privy to all the circumstances. And,
thus satisfied, the noble heart of Hamlet cracked :
and Horatio and the bystanders with many tears com-
mended the spirit of their sweet prince to the guardian-
ship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving and a gentle
prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and
nrincelike qualities; and if he had lived, would no
doubt have proved a most royal and complete king to
Denmark,

AN
The Tembese. 145

THE TEMPEST.

Tuere was a certain island in the sca, the only in-
habitants of which were an old man, whose name was
Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful
young lady. She came to this island so young, that
she had no memory of having seen any other human
face than her father’s.

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock:
it was divided into several apartments, one of which
Prospero called his study; there he kept his books,
which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time
much affected by all learned men : and the knowledge
of this art he found very useful to him; for being
thrown by a strange chance upon this island, which
had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who
died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero,
by virtue of his art, released many good spirits that
Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees,
because they had refused to execute her wicked com-
mands. ‘These gentle spirits were ever after obedient
to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel was the
chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischiev-
ous in his nature, except that he took rather too much
pleasure in tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban,
for he owed him a grudge because he was the son of
his old enemy Sycorax, This Caliban Prospero found

Is
146 Tales from Shakspeare.

m the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less
human in form than an ape: he took him home to
his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero
would have been very kind to him, but the bad
nature which Caliban inherited from his mother
Sycorax, would not let him learn anything good or
useful: therefore he was employed like a slave, to
fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices; and
Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these
services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work,
Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero’s)
would come slily and pinch him, and sometimes
tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the
likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then
swiftly changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedge-
hog he would lie tumbling in Caliban’s way, who
feared the hedgehog’s sharp quills would prick his
bare feet. With a variety of such-like vexatious tricks
Ariel would often torment him, whenever Caliban
neglected the work which Prospero commanded him
to do.

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will,
Prospero could by their means command the winds,
and the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised
a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling
with the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened
to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine large
ship, which he told her was full of living beings like
themselves. “O my dear father,” said she, “if by
your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have
pity on their sad distress. See! the vessel will be
dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all perish.
Tf I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the
The Tempest. . 147

earth, rather than the good ship should be destroyed,
with all the precious souls within her.”

“ Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,” said Pros-
pero; “there is no harm done. I have so ordered it,
that no person in the ship shall receive any hurt.
What I have done has been in care of you, my dear
child. ‘You are ignorant who you are, or where you
came from, and you know no more of me, but that I
am your father, and live in this poor cave. Can you
remember a time before you came to this cell? I
think you cannot, for you were not then three years
of age.”

“ Certainly I can, sir,” replied Miranda.

“ By what?” asked Prospero ; “ by any other house
or person? Tell me what you can remember, my |
child.”

Miranda said, “It seems to me like the recollection
ofa dream. But had I not once four or five women
who attended upon me?”

Prospero answered, “You had, and more. How is
it that this still lives in your mind? Do you remem-
ber how you came here?”

“No, sir,” said Miranda, “I remember nothing
more.”

“Twelve years ayo, Miranda,” continued Prospero,
“JT was duke of Milan, and you were a princess and
my only heir. I had a younger brother, whose name
was Antonio, to whom I trusted everything; and as
I was fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly
left the management of my state affairs to your uncle,
my false brother (for so indeed he proved). I, neg-
lecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, did
dedicate my whole time to the bettering of my mind.
My brother Antonio being thus in possession of my

L?
148 Lales from Shakspeare.

powet, began to think himself the duke indeed. The
opportunity I gave him of making himself popular
among my subjects awakened in his bad nature a
proud ambition to deprive me of my dukedom : this
he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples,
a. powerful prince, who was my enemy.”

“Wherefore,” said Miranda, “did they not that
hour destroy us 4”

“ My child,” answered her father, “ they durst not,
so dear was the love that my people bore me. An-
tonio carried us on board a ship, and when we were
some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small
boat, without either tackle, sail, or mast: there he
left us as he thought to perish. But a kind lord of
my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately
placed in the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and
some books which I prize above my dukedom,”

“©O my father,” said Miranda, “what a trouble
must I have been to you then !”

“No, my love,” said Prospero, “you were a little
cherub that did preserve me. Your innocent smiles
made me to bear up against my misfortunes. Our food
lasted till we landed on this desert island, since when
my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda,
and well have you profited by my instructions.”

“ Heaven thank you, my dear father,” said Miranda.
“Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this
sea-storm. ”.

“ Know then,” said her father, “that by means of
this storm my enemies, the king of Naples, and my
cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this island.”

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his
daughter with his magic wand, and she fell fast
asleep: for the spirit Ariel just then presented him
Lhe Lempest. 149

self before his master, to give an account of the
tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship’s
company; and, though the spirits were always in-
visible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she
should hear him holding converse (as would seem to
her) with the empty air.

“Well, my brave spirit,” said Prospero to Ariel,
“how have you perfermed your task ?”

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of
the terror of the mariners ; and how the king’s son,
Ferdinand, was the first who leaped into the sea, and
his father thought he saw this dear son swallowed up
by the waves and lost. “But he is safe,” said Ariel,
“in a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded
sadly, lamenting the loss of the king his father, whom
he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his head is
injured, and his princely garments, though drenched
in the sea-waves, look fresher than before.”

“That’s my delicate Ariel,” said Prospero. “ Bring
him hither: my daughter must see this young prince.
Where is the king, and my brother?”

“T left them,” answered Ariel, “searching for
Ferdinand, ion they have little Hopes. of finding,
thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship’s crew not
one is missing ; though each one thinks himself the
only one saved: and the ship, though invisible to
them, is safe in the harbour.”

“ Ariel,” said Prospero, “thy charge is faithfully
performed ; but there is more work yet.”

“Js there more work?” said Ariel. “Let me
remind you, master, you have promised me my liberty.
I pray, remember, I have done you worthy service,
told you no lies, made no mistakes, served you
without grudge or grumbling.”
150 Lales from Shakspeare,

“How now,” said..Prospero. ‘You do not re-
collect what a torment I freed you from. Have you
forgotten the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and
envy was almost bent double? Where was she born?
Speak : tell me.”

“Sir, in Algiers,” said Ariel.

“Oh, was she so 2” said Prospero. “I must recount
what you have been, which I find you do not remem-
ber. This bad witch Sycorax, for her witchcrafts,
too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished
from Algiers, and here left by the sailors ; and because
you were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked
commands, she shut you up in a tree, where I found
you howling. This torment, remember, I did free
you from.”

“ Pardon me, dear master,” said Ariel, ashamed to
seem ungrateful; “I will obey your comands.”

““Do so,” said Prospero, “and I will set you free.”
He then gave orders what farther he would have him
do, and away went Ariel, first to where he had left
Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in
the same melancholy posture.

“QO my young gentleman,” said Ariel, when he saw
him, “I will soon move you. You must be brought,
I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight of your
pretty person. Come, sir, follow me”. He then
began singing,

** Full fathom five thy father lies:
OF his bones are coral made ;

Those are pearls that were his eyes :
Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :

Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong-bell.”

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the
Yhe Tempest. 151

prince from the stupid fit into which he had fallen.
He followed in amazement the sound of Ariel’s voice,
till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were
seated ‘ander the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda
had never seer. 2 man before, except her own father.

“ Miranda,” said Prospero, “tell me what you are
looking at yonder.”

“© father,” said Miranda, in a strange surprise,
“surely that is a spirit. Lord! how it looks about !
Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not a
spirit 2”

“No, girl,” answered her father; “it eats, and
sleeps, and has senses such aswe have. This young
man you see was in the ship. He is somewhat altered
by grief, or you might call him a handsome person.
He has lost his companions, and is wandering about
to find them.”

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and
gray beards like her father, was delighted with the
appearance of this beautiful young prince; and Fer-
dinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place,
and from the strange sounds he had heard, expected
nothing but wonders, thought he was upon an en-
chanted island, and that Miranda was the goddess of
the place, and as such he began to address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a
simple maid, and was going to give an account of
herself, when Prospero interrupted her. He was well
pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly
perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first
sight: but to try Ferdinand’s constancy, he resolved
to throw some difficulties in their way: therefore
advancing forward, he addressed the prince with a
stern air, telling him, he came to the island as a spy,
152 Lales from Shakspeare.

to take it from him who was the lord of it. “Follow
me,” said he, “I will tie you neck and feet together.
You shall drink sea-water ; shell-fish, withered roots,
and husks of acorns, shall be your food.” “No,”
said Ferdinand, “I will resist such entertainment, till
I see a more powerful enemy,” and drew his sword:
but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him to
the spot where he stood, so that he had no power to
move.

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, “ Why are
you so ungentle? Have pity, sir; I will be his
surety. This is the second man I ever saw, and to me
he seems a true one.”

* Silence,” said her father, “one word more will
make me chide you, girl! What! an advocate for an
impostor! You think there are no more such fine
men, having seen only him and Caliban. JI tell you,
foolish girl, most men as far excel this, as he does
Caliban.” This he said to prove his daughter's
constancy ; and she replied, “ My affections are most
humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier man.”

“Come on, young man,” said Prospero to the prince,
“you have no power to disobey me.”

“JT have not indeed,” answered Ferdinand; and
not knowing it was by magic he was deprived of all
power of resistance, he was astonished to find he was
so strangely compelled to follow Prospero ; looking
back on Miranda as long as he could see her, he
said, as he went after Prospero into the cave, “ My
spirits are all bound up, as if I were in a dream; but
this man’s threats, and the weakness which I feel,
would seem light to me if from my prison I might
once a day behold this fair maid.”

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within
The Lempest. 153

the cell: he soon brought out his prisoner, and set
him a severe task to perform, taking care to let his
daughter know the hard labour he had imposed on
him, and then pretending to go into -his study, he
secretly watched them both.

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up
some heavy logs of wood. King’s sons not being
much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after
found her lover almost dying with fatigue. “Alas!”
said she, “do not work so hard; my father is at his
studies, he is safe for these three hours: pray res!
yourself.”

“© my dear lady,” said Ferdinand, “I dare not.
I must finish my task before I take my rest.”

“If you wall sit down,” said Miranda, “1 will carry
your logs the while.” But this Ferdinand would by
no means agree to. Instead of a help, Miranda
became a hinderance, for they began a long con-
versation, so that the business of log-carrying went
on.very slowly.

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task
merely as a trial of his love, was not at his books as
his daughter supposed, but was standing by them in-
visible, to overhear what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told him,
saying it was against her father’s express command
she did so.

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his
daughter's disobedience, for having by his magic art
caused his daughter to fall in love so suddenly he was
not angry that she showed her love by forgetting to
obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to
a long speech of Ferdinand’s, in which he professed
to love her above all the ladies he ever saw.
154 Tales from Shakspeare.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he
said exceeded all the women in the world, she replied,
“T do not remember the face of any woman, nor have
I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and
my dear father. How features are abroad, I know
not; but believe me, sir, I would not wish any com-
panion in the world but you, nor can my imagination
form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir,
I fear I talk to you too freely, and my father’s pre-
cepts I forget.”

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as
much as to say, “This goes on exactly as I could
wish ; my girl will be queen of Naples.”

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech
(for young princes speak in courtly phrases), told the
innocent Miranda he was heir to the crown of Na-
ples, and that she should be his queen.

“Ah! sir,” said she, “I am a fool to weep at what
Iam glad of. I will answer you in plain and holy
innocence. I am your wife, if you will marry
me.”

Prospero prevented Ferdinand’s thanks by appear-
ing visible before them.

“ Fear nothing, my child,” said he; “I have over-
heard, and approve of all you have said. And,
Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, I will
make you rich amends, by giving you my daughter.
All your vexations were but my trials of your love,
and you have nobly stood the test. ‘Then as my gift,
which. your true love has worthily purchased, take
my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is
above all praise.” He then, telling them that he had
business which required his presence, desired they
would sit down and talk together, till he returned ;
The Tempest. 13

and this command Miranda seemed not at all disposed
to disobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel,
who quickly appeared before him, eager to relate what
he had done with Prospero’s brother and the king of
Naples. Ariel said, he had left them almost out of
their senses with fear, at the strange things he had
caused them to see and hear. When fatigued with
wandering about, and famished for want of food, he
had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet,
and then, just as they were going to eat, he appeared
visible before them in the shape of a harpy, a vora-
cious monster with wings, and the feast vanished
away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming
harpy spoke to them, reminding them of their cruelty
in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and leaving
him and his infant daughter to perish in the sea;
saying, that for this cause these terrors were suffered
to afflict them.

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother,
repented the injustice they had done to Prospero:
and Ariel told his master he was certain their peni
tence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could
not but pity them.

“Then bring them hither, Ariel,” said Prospero:
“if you, who are but a spirit, feel for their distress,
shall not I, who am a human being like themselves,
have compassion on them? Bring them quickly, my
dainty Ariel.”

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old
Gonzalo in their train, who had followed him won-
dering at the wild music he played in the air to draw
them on to his master’s presence. This Gonzalo was
the same who had so kindly provided Prospero for
156 Lales from Shakspeare.

merly with books and provisions, when his wicked
brother left him, as he thought, to perish in an open
boat in the sea.

Grief and terror had so stupified their senses, that
they did not know Prospero. He first discovered
himself to the good old Gonzalo, calling him the
preserver of his life; and then his brother and the
king knew that he was the injured Prospero.

Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and
true repentance, implored his brother’s forgiveness ;
and the king expressed his sincere remorse for having
assisted Antonio to depose his brother: and Prospero
forgave them ; and, upon their engaging to restore his
dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, “I have a gift
in store for you too ;” and opening a door, showed
him his son Ferdinand, playing at chess with Miranda.

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the
son at this unexpected meeting, for they each thought
the other drowned in the storm.

“QO wonder!’ said Miranda, “what noble crea-
tures these are! it must surely be a brave world that
has such people in it.”

The king of Naples was almost as nich astonished
at the beauty and excellent graces of the young
Miranda, as his son had been. “ Who is this maid?”
said he; “she seems the goddess that has parted us,
and brought us thus together.” ‘No, sir,” answered
Ferdinand, smiling to find his father had fallen into
the same mistake that he had done when he first saw
.Miranda, “she is a mortal, but by immortal Provi-
dence she is mine; I chose her when I could not ask
you, my father, for your consent, not thinking you
were alive. She is the daughter to this Prospero,
who is the famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I
The Tempest. 157

have heard so much, but never saw him till now: of
him I have received a new life: he has made himself
to me a second father, giving me this dear lady.”

“Then I must be her father,” said the king: “but
oh! how oddly will it sound, that I must ask my
child forgiveness.”

“No more of that,’ said Prospero: let us not
remember our troubles past, since they so happily
have ended.” And then Prospero embraced his
brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness:
and said that a wise, overruling Providence had
permitted that he should be driven from his poor
dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit
the crown of Naples, for that by their meeting in
this desert island, it had happened that the king’s son
had loved Miranda.

These kind words which Prospero sane: meaning
to comfort his brother, so filled Antonio with shame
and remorse, that he wept and was unable to speak ;
and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful
reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young
couple.

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in
the harbour, and the sailors all on board her, and that
he and his daughter would accompany them home
the next morning. “In the mean time,” said he,
“partake of such refreshments as my poor cave
affords; and for your evening’s entertainment I will
relate the history of my life from my first landing in
this desert island.” He then called for Caliban to
prepare some food, and set the cave in order ; and
the company were astonished at the uncouth form
and savage appearance of this ugly monster, who
(Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to
wait upor him.
158 Zales from Shakspeare.

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Arie!
- fom his service, to the great joy of that lively little
spirit, who though he had been a faithful servant
to his master, was always longing to enjoy his free
liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild
bird, under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and
sweet-smelling flowers. ‘My quaint Ariel,” said
Prospero to the little sprite when he made him free,
“JT shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom.”
“Thank you, my dear master,” said Ariel; “but give
me leave to attend your ship home with prosperous
gales, before you bid farewell to the assistance of
your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am
free, how merrily I shall live!” Here Ariel sung
this pretty song :

‘¢ Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip’s bell I lie :
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the Lough.”

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical
books and wand, for he was resolved never more to
make use of the magic art. And having thus over-
come his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother
and the king of Naples, nothing now remained to
complete his happiness, but to revisit his native land,
to take possession of his dukedom, and to witness
the happy nuptials of his daughter Miranda and
Prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be
instantly celebrated with great splendour: on their
return to Naples. At which place, under the safe
convoy of the spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voy-
age soon arrived
ats You Like It. , 159

AS YOU LIKE IT.

Dorine the time that France was divided inta
provinces (or dukedoms as they were called). there
reigned in one of these provinces an usurper, who
had deposed and banished his elder brother, the
lawful duke.

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions,
retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of
Arden ; and here the good duke lived with his loving
friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary
exile for his. sake, while their land and revenues
enriched the false usurper; and custom soon made
the life of careless ease they led here more sweet to :
them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a cow-
tier’s life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood
of England, and to this forest many noble youths
daily resorted from the court, and did fleet the time
carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age.
In the summer they lay along under the fine shade of
the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of
the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor
dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabi-
tants of the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to
kill them to supply themselves with venison for thei
food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke
feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would


160 Zales from Shakspeure.

endure it patiently and say, “These chilling winds
which blow upon my body, are true counsellors: they
do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condi-
tion: and though they bite sharply, their tooth is
nothing like so keen as that of unkindness and in
gratitude. I find that, howsoever men speak against
adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted
from it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which
is taken from the head of the venomous and despised
toad.” In this manner did the patient duke draw a
useful moral from everything that he saw; and by
the help of this moralizing turn, in that life of his,
remote from public haunts, he could find tongues in
trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones,
and good in everything.

The banished duke had an only daughter, named
Rosalind, whom the usurper, duke Frederick, when
he banished her father, still retained in his court as
a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict
friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the
disagreement between their fathers did not in the least
interrupt, Celia striving by every kindness in her
power to make amends to Rosalind for the injustice
of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind ;
and whenever the thoughts of her father’s banish-
ment, and her own dependence on the false usurper,
made Rosalind melancholy, Celia’s whole care was to
comfort and console her.

One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind
manner to Rosalind, saying, “I pray you, Rosalind,
my sweet cousin, be merry,” a messenger entered
from the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see
a wrestling match, which was just going to begin,
ihey must come instantly to the court before the
As You Like It. r€4

palace ; and Celia, thinking it would amuse Rosalind,
agreed to go and see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practised
now by country clowns, was a favourite sport even
in the courts of princes, and before fair ladies and
princesses. To this wrestling match therefore Celia
and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to
prove a very tragical sight; for a large and powerful
man, who had long been practised in the art of
wrestling, and had slain many men in contests of this
kind, was just going to wrestle with a very young
man, who, from his extreme youth and inexperience
in the art, the beholders all thought would certainly
be killed.

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said,
“How now, daughter and niece, are you crept hither
‘to see the wrestling? You will take little delight in it,
there is such odds in the men: in pity to this young
man, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling.
Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him.”

The ladies were well pleased to perform this hu-
mane office, and first Celia entreated the young
stranger that he would desist from the attempt; and
then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such
feeling consideration for the danger he was about to
undergo, that instead of being persuaded by her gentle
words to forego his purpose, all his thoughts were
bent to distinguish himself by his courage in this
lovely lady’s eyes. He refused the request of Celia
and Rosalind in such graceful and modest words, that
they felt still more concern for him ; he concluded his
refusal with saying, “Iam sorry to deny such fair and
excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and
gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be

M
162 Tales from Shakspeare.

conquered, there is one shamed that was never gra-
cious; if I am killed, there is one dead that is willing
to die. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have
none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I
have nothing ; for I only fill up a place in the world
which may be better supplied when I have made it
empty.” .

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished
the young stranger might not be hurt; but Rosalind
felt most for him. The friendless state which he said
he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind
think that he was, like herself, unfortunate ; and she
pitied him so much, and so deep an interest she took
in his danger while he was wrestling, that she might
almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love
with him.

The kindness shown this unknown youth by these’
fair and noble ladies gave him courage and strength,
so that he performed wonders; and in the end com-
pletely conquered his antagonist, who was so much
hurt, that for a while he was unable to speak or move.

The duke Frederick was much pleased with the
courage and skill shown by this young stranger; and
desired to know his name and parentage, meaning to
take him under his protection.

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that
he was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys.

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had
been dead some years; but when he was living, he
had been a true subject and dear friend of the banished
duke: therefore.when Frederick heard Orlando was
the son of his banished brother’s friend, all his liking
for this brave young man was changed into displea-
sure, and he left the place in very il] humour. Hating
As You Like It. 162

to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends,
and yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said,
as he went out, that he wished Orlando had been the
son of any other man.

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite
was the son of her father’s old friend; and she said to
Celia, “ My father loved sir Rowland de Boys, and if
I had known this young man was his son, I would
have added tears to my entreaties before he should
have ventured.”

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him
abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by the
duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words to him;
and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back
to speak some more civil things to the brave young
son of her father’s old friend ; and taking a chain from
off her neck, she said, “ Gentleman, wear this for me:
I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a
more valuable present.”

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind’s talk being
still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin
had fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler,
and she said to Rosalind, “Is it possible you should
fall in love so suddenly?” Rosalind replied, “ The
duke, my father, loved his father dearly.” “ But,”
said Celia, “does it therefore follow that you should
love his son dearly? for then I ought to hate him;
for my father hated his father; yet I do not hate
Orlando.”

Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir Rowland
de Boys’ son, which reminded him of the many friend.
the banished duke had among the nobility, and having
been for some time displeased with his niece, because
the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her

M 2
£04 Tales from Shakspeare.

for her good father’s sake, his malice suddenly broke
out against her; and while Celia and Rosalind were
talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the room, and
with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to
leave the palace, and follow her father into banish-
ment; telling Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that
he had only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her ac-
count. “I did not then,” said Celia, “entreat you to
let her stay; for I was too young at that time to
value her; but now that I know her worth, and that
we so long have slept together, rose at the same in-
stant, leatned, played, and eat together, I cannot live
out of her company.” Frederick replied, “She is too
subthe for you ; her smoothness, her very silence, and
her patience, speak to the people, and they pity her.
You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem
more bright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore
open not your lips in her favour, for the doom which
I have passed upon her is irrevocable.”

When Celia found she could not prevail upon her
father to let Rosalind remain with her, she generously
resolved to accompany her; and, leaving her father’s
palace that night, she went along with her friend to
seek Rosalind’s father, the banished duke, in the forest
of Arden.

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would
be unsafe for two young ladies to travel in the rich
clothes they then wore: she therefore proposed that
they should disguise their rank by dressing themselves
like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still
greater protection if one of them was to be dressed
like a man; and so it was quickly agreed on between
them, that as Rosalind was the tallest, she should wear
the dress of a young countryman, and Celia should
As You Like fi. 165

be habited like a country lass, and that they should
say they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said
she would be called Ganimed, and Celia chose the
name of Aliena.

In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels
to defray their expenses, these fair princesses set out
on their long travel; for the forest of Arden was a
long way off, beyond the boundaries of the duke’s
dominions.

The lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she must now
be called) with her manly garb seemed to have put on
a manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had
shown in accompanying Rosalind so many weary
miles, made the new brother, in recompense for this
true love, exert a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed
Ganimed, the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the
gentle village maiden, Aliena.

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they
no longer found the convenient inns and good accom-
modations they had met with on the road; and being
in want of food and rest, Ganimed, who had so
merrily cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and
happy remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena that
he was so weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace
his man’s apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena
declared she could go no farther; and then again
Ganimed tried to recollect that it was a man’s duty to
comfort and console a woman, as the weaker vessel :
and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said,
“Come, have a good heart, my sister Aliena ; we are
now at the end of our travel, in the forest of Arden.”
But feigned manliness and forced courage would no
tonger support them; for though they were in the
forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the
166 Zales from Shakspeare. .

duke: and here the travel of these weary ladies might
have come to a sad conclusion, for they might have
lost themselves, and have perished for want of food ;
but, providentially, as they were sitting on the grass,
almost dying with fatigue and hopeless of any relief,
a countryman chanced to pass that way, and Ganimed
once more tried toe speak with a manly boldness,
saying, “ Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert
place procure us entertainment, I pray you bring us
where we may rest ourscives ; for this young maid, my
sister, is much fatigued with travelling, and faints for
want of food.”

The man replied, that he was only servant to a
shepherd, and that his master’s house was just going
to be sold, and therefore they would find but poor
entertainment ; but that if they would go with him,
they should be welcome to what there was. They
followed the man, the near prospect of relief giving
them fresh strength ; and bought the house and sheep.
of the shepherd, and took the man who conducted
them to the shepherd’s house, to wait on them; and
being by this means so fortunately provided with a
neat cottage, and well supplied with provisions, they
agreed to stay here till they could learn in what part
of the forest the duke dwelt.

When they were rested after the fatigue of their
journey, they began to like their new way of life, and
almost fancied themselves the shepherd and _ shep-
herdess they feigned to be; yet sometimes Ganimed
remembered he had once been the same lady Rosalind
who had so dearly loved the brave Orlando, because
he was the son of old sir Rowland, her father’s friend ;
and though Ganimed thought that Orlando was many
miles distant, even so many weary miles as they had
As You Like Lt. 107

travelled, yet it soon appeared that Orlando was also
in the forest of Arden : and in this manner this strange
event came to pass.

Orlando was the youngest son of sir Rowland de
Boys, who, when he died, left him (Orlando being then
very young) to the care of his eldest brother Oliver,
charging Oliver, on his blessing, to give his brother a

“good education, and provide for him as became the
dignity of their ancient house. Oliver proved an un-
worthy brother; and disregarding the commands of
his dying father, he never put his brother to school,
but kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected.
But in his nature and in the noble qualities of his
mind Orlando so much resembled his excellent father,
that without any advantages of education he seemed
like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care;
and Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified
manners of his untutored brother, that at last he
wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set on
people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous
wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so
many men. Now it was this cruel brother’s neglect of
him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being
so, friendless.

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed,
his brother proved victorious, his envy and malice
knew no. bounds, and he swore he would burn the

-chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard
making this vow by one that had been an old and
faithful servant to their father, and that loved Orlando
because he resembled sir Rowland. This old man
went out to meet him when he returned from the
duke’s palace, and when he saw Orlando, the peril his
dear young master was in made him break out into
168 Lales from Shakspeare.

these passionate exclamations : “O my gentle master,
my sweet master, O you memory of old sir Rowland!
why are you virtuous? why are you gentle, strong, and
valiant? and why would you be so fond to overcome
the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly
home before you.” Orlando, wondering what all this
meant, asked him what was the matter. And then
the old man told him how his wicked brother, envying
the love all people bore him, and now hearing the fame
he had gained by his victory in the duke’s palace, in-
tended to destroy him, by setting fire to his chamber
that night; and in conclusion, advised him to escape
the danger he was in by instant flight: and knowing
Orlando had no money, Adam (for that was the good
old man’s name) had brought out with him his own
little hoard, and he said, “I have five hundred crowns,
‘the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid by
to be provision for me when my old limbs should
become unfit for service ; take that, and He that doth
the ravens feed be comfort to my age! Here is the
gold; all this I give to you: let me be your servant ;
though I look old, I will do the service of a younger
man in all your business and necessities.” ‘ O good
old man!” said Orlando, “how well appears in you
the constant service of the old world! You are not
for the fashion of these times. We will go along to-
gether, and before your youthful wages are spent, I .
shall light upon some means for both our mainte
nance.”

Together then this faithful servant and his loved
master set out; and Orlando and Adam travelled on
uncertain what course to pursue, till they came to the
forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in
the same distress for want of food that Ganimed and
As You Like ll. 169

Aliena had been. They wandered on, seeking some
human habitation, till they were almost spent with
hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, “O my dear
master, I die for want of food, I can go no farther!”
He then laid himself down, thinking to make that
place his grave, and bade his dear master farewell.
Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old
servant up in his arms, and carried him under the
shelter of some pleasant trees; and he said to him,
“Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here a
while, and do not talk of dying!”

Orlando then searched about to find some food, and
he happened to arrive at that part of the forest where
the duke was; and he and his friends were just going
‘to eat their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the
grass, under no other canopy than the shady cover of
some large trees.

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew
his sword, intending to take their meat by force, and
said, “ Forbear, and eat no more; I must have your
food!” The duke asked him, if distress had made
him so bold, or if he were a rude despiser of good
manners? On this Orlando said, he was dying with
hunger ; and then the duke told him he was welcome
to sit down and eat with them. Orlando, hearing him
speak so gently, put up his sword, and blushed with
shame at the rude manner in which he had demanded
their food. “Pardon me, I pray you,” said he: “I
thought that ail things had been savage here, and
therefore I put on the countenance of stern command ;
but whatever men you are, that in this desert, undez
the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the
creeping hours of time; if ever you have looked on
better days ; if ever you have been where bells have
170 Tates rom Shakspeare.

knolled to church ; if you have ever sat at any good
man’s feast ; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped
a tear, and know what it is to pity or be pitied,
may gentle speeches now move you to do me human
courtesy!” The duke replied, “True it is that we
are men (as you say) who have seen better days, and
though we have now our habitation in this wild forest,
we have lived in towns and cities, and have with holy
bell been knolled to church, have sat at good men’s
feasts, and from our eyes have wiped the drops which
sacred pity has engendered: therefore sit you down,
and take of our refreshment as much as will minister
to your wants.” “There is an old poor man,”
answered Orlando, “who has limped after me many a
weary step in pure love, oppressed at once with twe
sad infirmities, age and hunger; till he be satisfied,
I must not touch a bit.” “Go, find him out, and
bring him hither,” said the duke; “we will forbear
to eat till you return.” Then Orlando went like a doe
to find its fawn and give it food; and presently. re-
turned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke
said, “Set down your venerable burthen; you are
both welcome :” and they fed the old man, and cheer.
ed his heart, and he revived, and recovered his health
and strength again.

The duke inquired who Orlando was: and wher
he found that he was the son of his old. friend, sir
Rowland de Boys, he took him under his protection,
and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke
in the forest.

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after
Ganimed and Aliena came there, and (as has been
before related) bought the shepherd’s cottage.

Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised to
As You Like Tt. 171

find the name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and
love-sonnets fastened to them, all addressed to Rosa-
lind: and while they were wondering how this could
be, they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain
which Rosalind had given him about his neck.

Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the fair
princess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension
and favour, had so won his heart that he passed his
whole time in carving her name upon the trees, and
writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being
much pleased with the graceful air of this pretty shep-
herd-youth, he entered into conversation with him, and
he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed to is be-
loved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified
deportment of that noble lady; for Ganimed assumed
the forward manners often seen in youths when they
are between boys and men, and with much archness
and humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover,
“who,” said he, “haunts our forest, and spoils our
young trees with carving Rosalind upon their barks ;
and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on
brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I could
find this lover, I would give him some good counsel
that would soon cure him of his love.”

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of
whom he spoke, and asked Ganimed to give him the
good counsel he talked of The remedy Ganimed
proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that
Orlando should come every day to the cottage where
he and his sister Aliena dwelt: ‘And then,” said
Ganimed, “I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and
you shall feign to court me in the same manner as
you would do if I was Rosalind, and then I will
imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies to their
172 Tales from Shakspeare.

lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love; and
this is the way I propose to cure you.” | Orlando had
no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to come
every day to Ganimed’s cottage, and feign a playful
courtship ; and every day Orlando visited Ganimed
and Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganimed
his Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine
words and flattering compliments, which young men
delight to use when they court their mistresses. It
does nct appear, however, that Ganimed made any
progress in curing Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive
play (not dreaming that Ganimed was his very Rosa-
lind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all
the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy
almost as well as it did Ganimed’s, who enjoyed the
secret jest in knowing these fine lov e-speeches were
all addressed to the right person.

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with
these young people; and the good-natured Aliena,
seeing it made Ganimed happy, let him have his own
way, and was diverted at the mock courtship, and did
not care to remind Ganimed that the lady Rosalind
had not yet made herself known to the duke her
father, whose place of resort in the forest they had
learnt from Orlando. Ganimed met the duke one
day, and had some talk with him, and the duke asked
of what parentage he came. Ganimed answered, that
he came of as good a parentage as he did; which
made the duke smile, for he did not suspect the
pretty shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. Then
seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganimed was
content to put off all further explanation for a few
days longer.
As You Like Lt. 173

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Gan}
med, he saw a man lying asleep on the ground, and a
large green snake had twisted itself about his neck,
The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away
among the bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he
discovered a lioness lie couching, with her head on
the ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting till the
sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey
on nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if
Orlando was sent by Providence to free the man from
the danger of the snake and lioness: but when Or-
lando looked in the man’s face, he perceived that the
sleeper, who was exposed to this double peril, was his
own brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, and
had threatened to destroy him by fire; and he was
almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry
lioness: but brotherly affection and the gentleness of
his nature soon overcame his first anger against his
brother; and he drew his sword, and attacked the
lioness, and, slew her, and thus preserved his brother’s
life both from the venomous snake and from the fu-
rious lioness: but before Orlando could conquer the
lioness, she had torn one of his arms with her sharp
claws.

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver
awaked, and perceiving that his brother Orlando,
whom he had so cruelly treated, was saving him from
the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own life,
shame and remorse at once seized him, and he re.
pented of his unworthy conduct, and besought with
many tears his brother’s pardon for the injuries he haa
done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent,
and readily forgave him: they embraced each other ;
and from that hour Oliver loved Orlardo with a true
174 Lales from Shakspeare.

brotherly affection, though he had come to the forest
bent on his destruction.

The wound in Orlando’s arm having bled very
much, he found himself too weak to go to visit Gani-
med, and therefore he desired his brother to go and
tell Ganimed, “whom,” said Orlando, “I in sport do
call my Rosalind,” the accident which had befallen
him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganimed and
Aliena how Orlando had saved his life: and when he
had finished the story of Orlando’s bravery, and his
own providential escape, he owned to them that he
was Orlando’s brother, who had so cruelly used him ;
and then he told them of their reconciliation.

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his
offences made such a lively impression on the kind
heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell in love with
him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the
distress he tcid her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly
fell in love with hex. But while love was thus stealing
into the hearzts of Aliena and Oliver, he was no less
busy with Ganimed, who hearing of the danger Or-
lando had been in, and that he was wounded by the
lioness, fainted ; and when he recovered, he pretended
that he had counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary
character of Rosalind, and Ganimed said to Oliver,
“Tell your brother Orlando how well I counterfeited
a swoon.” But Oliver saw by the paleness of his
complexion that he did really faint, and much won-
dering at the weakness of the young man, he said,
“Well, if you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and
counterfeit to be a man.” “So I do,” replied Gani-
med, truly, “but I should have been a womar by
right.”
As You Like lt. 175

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at
last he returned back to his brother, he had much
news to tell him; for, besides the account of Gani-
med’s fainting at the hearing that Orlando was
wounded, Oliver told him how he had fallen in love
with the fair shepherdess Aliena, and that she had lent
a favourable ear to his suit, even in this their first
interview ; and he talked to his brother, as of a thing
almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying,
that he so well loved her, that he would live here as
a shepherd, and settle his estate and house at home
upon Orlando.

“You have my consent,” said Orlando. “ Let your
wedding be to-morrow, and I will invite the duke and
his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess to
agree to this: she is now alone ; for look, here comes
her brother.” Oliver went to Aliena ; and Ganimed,
whom Orlando had perceived approaching, came to
inquire after the health of his wounded friend.

When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk over
the sudden love which had taken place between Oliver
and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his brother
to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the
morrow, and then he added how much he could wish
to be married on the same day to his Rosalind.

Ganimed, who well approved of this arrangement,
said, that if Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as
he professed to do, he should have his wish ; for on
the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind
appear in her own person, and also that Rosalind
should be willing to marry Orlando.

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganimed
was the lady Rosalind, he could so easily perform,
he pretended he would bring to pass by the aid of
176 Tales from Shakspeare.

magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle who
was a famous magician.

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half
doubting what he heard, asked Ganimed if he spoke
in sober meaning. “ By my life I do,” said Ganimed ;
“therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke
and your friends to your wedding ; for if you desire to
be married to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here.”

The next morning, Oliver having obtained the con-
sent of Aliena, they came into the presence of the
duke, and with them also came Orlando.

They being all assembled to celebrate this double
marriage, and as yet only one of the brides appearing,
there was much of wondering and conjecture, but
they mostly thought that Ganimed was making a jest
of Orlando.

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter
that was to be brought in this strange way, asked
Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy could really
do what he had ptomised; and while Orlando was
answering that he knew not what to think, Ganimed
entered, and asked the duke, if he brought his
daughter, whether he would consent:to her marriage
with Orlando. “That I would,” said the duke, “if
I had kingdoms to give with her.” Ganimed then
said to Orlando, “And you say you will marry her if
I bring her here?” “That I would,” said Orlando,
“if I were king of many kingdoms.”

Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, and
Ganimed throwing off his male attire, and being once
more dressed in woman's apparel, quickly became
Rosalind without the power of magic and Aliena,
changing her country garb for her own rich clothes, wag
with as little trouble transformed into the lady Celia,
As You Like ft. 177

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando,
that he thought the shepherd Ganimed very like hia
daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said. he also had
observed the resemblance.

They had no time to wonder how all this would
end, for Rosalind and Celia in their own clothes
entered; and no longer pretending that it was by the
power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw
herself on her knees before her father, and begged his
blessing. It seemed so wonderful to all present that
she should so suddenly appear, that it might well
have passed for magic : but Rosalind would no longer
trifle with her father, and told him the story of he1
banishment, and of her dwelling in the forest as a
shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister.

The duke ratified the consent he had already given
to the marriage; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver
and Celia, were married at the same time. And
though their wedding could not be celebrated in this
wild forest with any of the parade or splendour usual
on such occasions, yet a happier wedding-day was
never passed: and while they were eating their
venison under the cool shade of the trees, as if
nothing should be wanting to complete the felicity of
this good duke and the true lovers, an unexpected
messenger arrived to tell the duke the joyful news,
that his dukedom was restored to him.

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter
Celia, and hearing that every day men of great worth
resorted to the forest of Arden te join the lawful duke
in his exile, much envying that his brother should be
so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at
the head of a large force, and advanced to the forest,
intending to seize his brother, and put him, with all

N
178 Lales from Shakspeare.

his faithful followers, to the sword ; but, by a wonder
ful interposition of Providence, this bad brother was
converted from his evil intention: for just as he
entered the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an
old religious man, a hermit, with whom he had much
talk, and who in the end completely turned his heart
from his wicked design. Thenceforward he became
a true penitent, and resolved, relinquishing his unjust
dominion, to spend the remainder of his days in a
religious house. The first act of his newly-conceived
penitence was to send a messenger to his brother (as
has been related), to offer to restore to him his
dukedom, which he had usurped so long, and with it
the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful
followers of his adversity.

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome,
came opportunely to heighten the festivity and re-
joicings at the wedding of the princesses. Celia
complimented her cousin on this good fortune which
had happened to the duke, Rosalind’s father, and
wished her joy very sincerely, though she herself was
no donger heir to the dukedom, but by this restoration
which her father had made, Rosalind was now the
heir : so completely was the love of these two cousins
unmixed with anything of jealousy or envy.

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding
those true friends who had stayed with him in his
‘ banishment; and these worthy followers, though they
had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well
pleased to return in peace and prosperity to the palace
of their lawful duke.
Much Ado About Nothing. i79¢

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

THERE lived in the palace at Messina two ladies,
whose names were Hero and Beatrice. Hero was
the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of Leonato, the
governor of Messina.

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert
her cousin Hero, who was of a more serious dispo-
sition, with her sprightly sallies. Whatever was going
forward was sure to make matter of mirth for the light-
hearted Beatrice.

At the time the history of these ladies commences,
some young men of high rank in the army, as they
were passing through Messina on their return from a
war that was just ended, in which they had distin-
guished themselves by their great bravery, came to
visit Leonato. Among these were Don Pedro, the
prince of Arragon, and his friend Claudio, who was a
lord of Florence ; and with them came the wild and
witty Benedick, and he was a lord of Padua.

These strangers had been at Messina before, and
the hospitable governor introduced them to his
~ daughter and his niece as their old friends and ac-
quaintance.

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began
a lively conversation with Leonato and the prince,
Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of any dis-
course, interrupted Benedick with saying, “I wondet

N2
10 Zales from Shakspeare.

that you will still be talking, signior Benedick ; nobody
marks you.” Benedick was just such another rattle-
brain as Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at this free
salutation: he thought it did not become a well-bred
lady to be so flippant with her tongue ; and he remem-
bered, when he was last at Messina, that Beatrice used
to select him to make her merry jests upon. And as
‘ there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of as
those who are apt to take the same liberty themselves,
so it was with Benedick and Beatrice ; these two sharp
wits never met in former times but a perfect war of
raillery was kept up between them, and they always
parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore
when Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his dis-
course with telling him nobody marked what he was
saying, Benedick, affecting not to have observed before
that she was present, said, “What, my dear lady
Disdain, are you yet living?” And now war broke
out afresh between them, and a long jangling argu-
ment ensued, during which Beatrice, although she
knew he had so well approved his valour in the late
war, said that she would eat all he had killed there:
and observing the prince take delight in Benedick’s
conversation, she called him “the prince’s jester.”
This sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick
than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave
him that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all
he had killed, he did not regard, knowing himself to
be a brave man: but there is nothing that great wits
so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery,
because the charge comes sometimes a little too
near the truth: therefore Benedick perfectly hated
Beatrice when she called him “the prince’s jester.”
The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble
Much Ado Abvut Nothing. 181

guests ; and while Claudio was attentively observing
the improvement which time had made in her beauty,
and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine
figure (for she was an admirable young lady), the
prince was highly amused with listening to the humor-
ous dialogue between Benedick and Beatrice; and
he said in a whisper to Leonato, “ This is a pleasant-
spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife sor
Benedick.” Leonato replied to this suggestion, “ O
my lord, my lord, if they were but a week married,
they would talk themselves mad.” But though Leo-
nato thought they would make a discordant pair, the
prince did not give up the idea of matching these two
keen wits together.

When the prince returned with Claudio from the
palace, he found that the marriage he had devised
between Benedick and Beatrice was not the only one
projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in
such terms of Hero, as made the prince guess at what
was passing in his heart ; and he liked it well, and he
said to Claudio, “Do you affect Hero?” To this
question Claudio replied, “O my lord, when I was
last at Messina, I looked upon her with a soldier’s
eye, that liked, but had no leisure for loving; but
now, in this happy time of peace, thoughts of war
have left their places vacant in my mind, and in their
room come thronging soft and delicate thoughts, all
prompting me how fair young Hero is, reminding
me that I liked her before I went to the wars.”
Claudio’s confession of his love for Hero so wrought
upon the prince, that he lost no time in soliciting the
consent of Leonato to accept of Claudio for a son-in-
law. Leonato agreed to this proposal, and the prince
found no great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero
182 Tales from Shakspeare.

herself to listen to the suit of the noble Ciaudio, whs
was a lord of rare endowments, and highly accom-
plished ; and Claudio, assisted by his kind prince,
soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an early day for
the celebration of his marriage with Hero.

Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was
to be married to his fair lady ; yet he complained of
the interval being tedious, as indeed most young men
are impatient, when they are waiting for the accom-
plishment of any event they have set their hearts
upon : the prince, therefore, to make the time seem
short to him, proposed, as a kind of merry pastime,
that they should invent some artful scheme to make
Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other.
Claudio entered with great satisfaction into this whim
of the prince, and Leonato promised them his assist-
ance, and even Hero said she would do any modest
office to help her cousin to a good husband.

The device the prince invented was, that the gentle-
men should make Benedick believe that Beatrice was
in love with him, and that Hero should make Beatrice
believe that Benedick was in love with her.

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their
operations first ; and, watching an opportunity when
Benedick was quietly seated reading in an arbour,
the prince and his assistants took their station among
the trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick
could not choose but hear all they said; and after
some careless talk, the prince said, “Come hither,
Leonato. What was it you told me the other day—
that your niece Beatrice was in love with signior Bene-
dick? I did never think that lady would have loved
any man.” “No, nor I neither, my lord,” answered
Leonato. “It is most wonderful that she should sa
Much Ado About Nothing. ' 183

dote on Benedick, whom she in all outward behaviour
seemed ever to dislike.” Claudio confirmed all this,
with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice was so in
love with Benedick, that she would certainly die of
grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which
Leonato and Claudio seemed to agree was impossible,
he having always been such a railer against all fair
ladies, and in particular against Beatrice.

The prince affected to hearken to all this with great
compassion for Beatrice, and he said, “It were-good
that Benedick were told of this.” ‘To what end?”
said Claudio; “he would but make sport of it, and
torment the poor lady worse.” ‘And if he should,”
said the prince, “it were a good deed to hang him;
for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and exceeding
wise in everything but in loving Benedick.” Then
the prince motioned to his companions that they
should walk on, and leave Benedick to meditate upon
what he had overheard.

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness
to this conversation ; and he said to himself when he
heard Beatrice loved him, “Is it possible? Sits the
wind in that corner?” And when they were gone,
he began to reason in’ this manner with himself.
“This can be no trick! they were very serious, and
they have the truth from Hero, and seem to pity the
lady. Love me! Why, it must be requited! I did
never think to marry. But when I said I should die a
bachelor, I did not think I should live to be married.
They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She is so.
And wise in everything but in loving me. Why, that
is no great argument of her folly. But here comes
Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady. I do spy
some marks of love in her.” Beatrice now approached
184 Tales from Shakspeare.

bim, and said with her ‘usual tartness, “Against my
will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.” Bene-
dick, who never felt himself disposed to speak so
politely to her before, replied, “ Fair Beatrice, I thank
you for your pains :” and when Beatrice, after two or
three more rude speeches left him, Benedick thought
he observed a concealed meaning of kindness under
the uncivil words she uttered, and he said aloud,
“Tf I do not take pity on her, Lam a villain, If
I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her
picture.”

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they
had spread for him, it was now Hero’s turn to play
her part with Beatrice ; and for this purpose she sent
for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who at-
tended upon her, and she said to Margaret, “‘ Good
Margaret, run to the parlour; there you will find my
cousin Beatrice talking with the prince and Claudio.
Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking in
the orchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid
ner steal into that pleasant arbour, where honey-
suckles, ripened by the sun, like ungrateful minions,
forbid the sun to enter.” This arbour, into which
Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the
very same pleasant arbour where Benedick had so
lately been an attentive listener. ‘I will make her
come, I warrant, presently,” said Margaret.

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard,
said to her, “ Now, Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we
will walk up and down this alley, and our talk must
be only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be
your part to praise him more than ever man did
merit. My talk to you must be how Benedick is
ir love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look where
Much Ado About Nothing. 185

Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to
hear our conference.” They then began; Hero,
saying, as if In answer to something which Ursula
had said, “ No, truly, Ursula. She is too disdainful ;
her spirits are as coy as wild birds of the rock.”
“But are you sure,” said Ursula, “that Benedick
loves Beatrice so entirely?” Hero replied, “So says
the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they entreated
me to acquaint her with it ; but I persuaded them, if
they loved Benedick, never ta let Beatrice know of
t.” “Certainly,” replied Ursula, “it were not good
she knew his love, lest she made sport of it.” “ Why,
to say truth,” said Hero, “I never yet saw a man,
how wise soever, or noble, young.or rarely featured, but
she would dispraise him.” “Sure, sure, such carping
is not commendable,” said Ursula. “No,” replied
Hero, “but who dare tell her so? if I should speak,
she would mock me into air.” “O you wrong your
cousin,” said Ursula: “she cannot be so much with-
out true judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentleman
as signior Benedick.” ‘“ He hath an excellent good
name,” said Hero: “indeed he is the first man in
Italy, always excepting my dear Claudio.” And now,
Hero giving her attendant a hint that it was time to
change the discourse, Ursula said, “And when are
you to be married, madam?” Hero then told rer,
that she was to be married to Claudio the next day,
and desired she would go in with her, and look at
some new attire, as she wished to consult with her on
what she would wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who
had been listening with breathless eagerness to this
dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed “ what fire
is in my ears? Can this be true? Varewell, con-
tempt, and scorn and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick,
186 Tales from Shakspeare.

love on; I will requite you, taming my wild heart to
your joving hand.”

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old
enemies converted into new and loving friends; and
to behold their first meeting after being cheated into
mutual liking by the merry artifice of the good-
humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes
of Hero must now be thought of. The morrow,
which was te have been her wedding day, brought
sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good father,
Leonato.

The prince had a half-brother, who came from the
wars along with him to Messina. This brother (his
name was Don John) was a melancholy, discontented
man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving
of villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he
hated Claudio, because he was the prince’s friend,
and dete:mined to prevent Claudio’s marriage with
Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of miaking
Claudio and the prince unhappy; for he knew the
prince had set his heart upon this marriage, almost
as much as Claudio himself: and to effect this wicked
purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad
as himself, whom he encouraged with the offer of
a great reward. Thus Borachio paid his court to
Margaret, Hero’s attendant ; and Don John, knowing
this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise
to talk with him from her lady’s chamber window,
that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to dress
herself in Hero’s clothes, the better to deceive Claudio »
into the belief that it was Hero, for that was the end
he meant to compass by this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio,
and told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and
Much Ado About Nothing. 187

that she talked with men from her chamber window
at midnight. Now this was the evening before the
wedding, and he offered to take them that night,
where they should themselves hear Hero discoursing
with a man from her window; and they consented to
go along with lim, and Claudio said, “if I see any-
thing to-night why I should not marry her, to-morrow
in the congregation, where I intended to wed her,
there will I shame her.” The prince also said, “ And
as I assisted you to obtain her, I will join with you to
disgrace, her.”

When Don John brought them near Hero’s cham-
ber that night, they saw Borachio standing under the
window, and they saw Margaret looking out of Hero’s
window, and heard her talking with Borachio ; and
Margaret being dressed in the same clothes they had
seen Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it
was the lady Hero herself.

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when
he had made (as he thought) this discovery. All his
love for the innocent Hero was at once converted
into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in the
church, as he had said he would, the next day; and
the prince agreed to this, thinking no punishment
could be too severe for the naughty lady, who talked
with a man from her window the very night before she
was going to be married to the noble Claudio.

The next day they were all met to celebrate the
marriage, and Claudio and Hero were standing before
the priest, and the priest, or friar, as he was called,
was proceeding to pronounce the marriage ceremony,
when Claudio, in the most passionate language, pro-
claimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed
at the strange words he uttered, said meekly,
188 Tales from Shakspeare.

“Ts my lord well, that he does speak so wide 1”

Leonato in the utmost horror, said to the prince,

“ My lord, why speak not you?” “What shoulda 1
speak?” said the prince; “I stand dishonoured, that
have gone about to link my dear friend to an un-
worthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself
my brother, and this grieved Claudio, did see and
near her last night at midnight tak with a man at her
chamber-window.”

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said,
“This looks not like a nuptial.”

“True, O God!” replied the heart-struck Hero ;
and then this hapless lady sunk down in a fainting fit
to all appearance dead. The prince and Claudio lef:
the church, without staying to see if Hero would re-
cover, or at all regarding the distress into which they
had thrown Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger
made them.

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover
Hero from her swoon, saying, “ How does the lady ?’
“ Dead, I think,” replied Beatrice in great agony, for
she loved her cousin ; and knowing her virtuous prin-
ciples, she believed nothing of what she had heard
spoken against her. Not so the poor old father; he
believed the story of his child’s shame, and it was
piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she lay
like one dead before him, wishing she might never
more open her eyes.

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of
observation on human nature, and he had attentively
marked the lady’s countenance when she heard her-
self accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames
to start into her face, and then he saw an angel-iike
whiteness bear away those blushes, and in her eye he
Muth Ado About Nathing. 18g

saw a fire that did belie the error that the prince did
speak against her maiden truth, and he said to the
sorrowing father, ‘Call me a fool; trust not my
reading, nor my observation ; trust not my age, my
reverence, nor my calling; if this sweet lady lie not
guiltless here under some biting error.”

When Hero recovered from the swoon into which
she had fallen, the friar said to her, “ Lady, what man
is he you are accused of?” Hero replied, “They
know that do accuse me; I know of none:” then
turning to Leonato, she said, “ O my father, if you can
prove that any man has ever conversed with me at
hours unmeet, or that I yesternight changed words with
any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.”

“There is,” said the friar, “ some strange misunder-
standing in the prince and Claudio;” and then he
counselled Leonato, that he should report that Hero
was dead; and he said, that the death-like swoon
in which they had left Hero, would make this easy of
belief ; and he also advised him, that he should put on
mourning, and erect a monument for her, and do all
rites that appertain to a burial. “ What will this do ?”
The friar replied, “This report of her death shall
change slander into pity: that is some good, but that
is not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall
hear she died upon hearing his words, the idea of her
life shall sweetly creep into his imagination. Then
shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his heart,
and wish he had not so accused her: yea, though he
thought his accusation truer.”

Benedick now said, “ Leonato, let the friar advise
you ; and though you know how well I love the prince
and Claudio, yet on my honour I will not reveal this
secret to them.”
£90 Zales from Shakspeere.

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded ; and he said sor-
rowfully, “ I am so grieved, that the smallest twine may
lead me.” The kind friar then led Leonato and Hero
away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice and
Benedick remained alone ; and this was the meeting
from which their friends, who contrived the merry
plot against them, expected so much diversion ; those
friends who were now overwhelmed with affliction, and
from whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed
for ever banished.

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said,
“ Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?” “Yea,
and I will weep a while longer,” said Beatrice.
“Surely,” said Benedick, “I do believe your fair
cousin is wronged.” “Ah!” said Beatrice, how much
might that man deserve of me who would right her!”
Benedick then said, “Is there any way to show such
frieadship? I do love nothing in the world so well as
you: is not that strange?” “It were as possible,”
said Beatrice, “for me to say I loved nothing in the
world so well as you ; but believe me not, and yet I
lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I
am sorry for my cousin.” ‘“ By my sword,” said Bene
dick, “you love me, and I protest Ilove you. Come
bid me do anything for you.” “Kill Claudio,” said
Beatrice. “Ha! not for the wide world,” said Bene-
dick ; for he loved his friend Claudio, and he believed
he had been imposed upon. “Is not Claudio a villain,
that has slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my
cousin?” said Beatrice: “O that I were a man!”
“Hear me, Beatrice!” said Benedick. But Beatrice
would hear nothing in Claudio’s defence; and she
continued to urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin’s
wrongs: and she said, “Talk with a man out of the
Much Ado About Nothing. 9X

window; a proper saying! Sweet Hero! she is
wronged ; she is slandered; she is undone. O that
I were a man. for Claudio’s sake! or that I had any
friend, who would be a man for my sake! but valour is
melted into courtesies and compliments. I cannot be
a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with
grieving.” “Tarry, good Beatrice,” said Benedick :
“by this hand, I love you.” “Use it for my love
some other way than by sweating by it,” said Beatrice.
“Think you, on your soul, that Claudio has wronged
Hero ?” asked Benedick. “ Yea,” answered Beatrice ;
“as sure as I have a thought, or a soul.” “ Enough,”
said Benedick ; “I am engaged ; I will challenge him.
I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand,
Claudio shall render me a dear account! As you
hear from me, so think of me. Go, comfort your
cousin.”

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with
Benedick, and working his gallant temper by the
spirit of her angry words, to engage in the cause of
Hero, and fight even with his dear friend Claudio,
Leonato was challenging the prince and Claudio to
answer with their swords the injury they had done
his child, who, he affirmed, had died for grief. But
they respected his age and his sorrow, and they said,
“Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.” And
now came Benedick, and he also challenged Claudio
to answer with his sword the injury he had done to
Hero ; and Claudio and the prince said to each other,
“ Beatrice has set him on to do this.” Claudio never-
theless must have acccepted this challenge of Bene-
dick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment
brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of
Hero than the uncertain fortune of a duel.
192 Tales from Shakspeare.

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the
challenge of Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachia
as a prisoner before the prince. Borachio had been
overheard talking with one of his companions of the
mischief he had been employed by Don John to do.

Borachio made a full confession to the prince in
Clandio’s hearing, that it was Margaret dressed in her
lady’s clothes that he had talked with from the window,
whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero herself;
and no doubt ‘continued on the minds of Claudio
and the prince of the innocence of Hero. If a sus-
picion had remained it must have been removed by
the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies were
detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger
of his brother.

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he
found he had falsely accused Hero, who, he thought,
died upon hearing his cruel words ; and the memory
of his beloved Hero’s image came over him, in the
rare semblance that he loved it first; and the prince
asking him if what he heard did not run like iron
through his soul, he answered, that he felt as if he had
taken poison while Borachio was speaking.

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of
the old man Leonato for the injury he had done his
child; and promised that whatever penance Leonato
would lay upon him for his fault in believing the false
accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake
he would endure it.

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry
the next morning a cousin of Hero’s, who, he said,
was now his heir, and in person very like Hero.
Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he made to
Leonato, said he would marry this unknown lady, even
Mich Ado About Nothing. 193

though he were an Ethiop: but his heart was very
sorrowful, and he passed that night in tears, and in
remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato had
erected for Hero.

When the morning came, the prince accompanied
Claudio to the church, where the good friar, and
Leonato and his niece, were already assembled, to
celebrate a second nuptial; and Leonato presented to
Claudio his promised bride: and she wore a mask,
that Claudio might not discover her face. And Claudio
said to the lady in the mask, “Give me your hand,
before this holy friar ; I am your husband, if you will
marry me.” “And when I lived I was your other
wife,” said this unknown lady; and, taking off her
mask, she proved to be no niece (as was pretended),
but Leonato’s very daughter, the lady Hero herself.
We may be sure that this proved a most agreeabl
sutprise to Claudio, who thought her dead, so that
he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes: and the
prince, who was equally amazed at what he saw,
exclaimed, “Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?”
Leonato replied, “She died, my lord, but while her
slander lived.” The friar promised them an explana-
tion of this seeming miracle, after the ceremony was
ended ; and was proceeding to marry them, when he
was interrupted by Benedick, who desired to be mar-
ried at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making
some demur to this match, and Benedick challenging
her with her love for him, which he had learned from
Hero, a pleasant explanation took place; and they
found they had both been tricked into a belief of love,
which had never existed, and had become lovers in
truth by the power of a false jest: but the affection,
which a metry invention had cheated them into, was

a
194 tutes from Shakspeare,

grown too powerful to be shaken by a serious explana-
tion ; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he was
resolved to think nothing to the purpose that the
world could say against it; and he merrily kept up
the jest, and swore to Beatrice that he took her but
for pity, and because he heard she was dying of love
for him; and Beatrice protested, that she yielded but
upon great persuasion, and partly to save his life, for
she heard he was in a consumption. So these two
mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it,
after Claudio and Hero were married; and to com-
plete the history, Don John, the contriver of the
villany, was taken in his flight and brought back to
Messina; and a brave punishment it was to this
gloomy and discontented man, to see the joy and
feastings which, by the disappointment of his plois,
took place at the palace in Messina.





A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 195

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.

THERE was a law in the city of Athens which gave to
its citizens the power of compelling their danghters to
marry whomsoever they pleased :-for upon a daugh-
ter’s refusing to marry the man her father had chosen
to be her husband, the father was empowered by this
law to cause her to be put to death ; but as fathers do
not often desire the death of their own daughters,
even though they do happen to prove a little refractory,
this law was seldom or never put in execution, though
perhaps the young ladies of that city were not un-
frequently threatened by their parents with the terrors
of it.

There was one instance, however, of an old man,
whose name was Egeus, who actually did come before
Theseus (at that time the reigning duke of Atnens),
to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had
commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a
noble Athenian family, refused to obey him, because
she loved another young Athenian, named Lysander.
Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired
that this cruel law might be put in force against his
daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that
Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear
friend Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to
_ Aistxaction ; but this honourable reason which Hermia
02
196 . Tales from Shakspeare.

gave for not obeying her father’s command moved not
the stern Egeus.

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no
power to alter the laws of his country; therefore he
could only give Hermia four days to consider of its
and at the end of that time, if she still refused to
marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death.

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of
the duke, she went to her lover Lysander, and told him
the peril she was in, and that she must either give
up him and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four
days.

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these
evil tidings ; but recollecting that he had an aunt who
lived at some distance from Athens, and that at the
place where she lived the cruel law could not be put
in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond
the boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia,
that she should steal out of her father’s house that
night, and go with him to his aunt’s house, where he
would marry her. “I will meet you,” said Lysander,
“in the wood a few miles without the city; in that
delightful wood, where we have so often walked with
Helena in the pleasant month of May.”

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed ; and she
told no one of her intended flight but her friend
Helena. Helena (as maidens will do foolish things
for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell
this to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit
from betraying her friend’s secret, but the poor pleasure
of following her faithless lover to the wood ; for she
well knew that Demetrius would go thither in pursuit
of Hermia.

The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia pro-
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 197

posed to meet, was the favourite haunt of those little
beings known by the name of Faéries.

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the
Fairies, with all their tiny train of followers, in this
wood held their midnight revels.

Between this little king and queen of sprites there
happened, at this time, a sad disagreement : they never
met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant
wood but they were quarrelling, till all their fairy
elves would creep into acorn-cups and ‘hide them-
selves for fear.

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Tita-
nia’s refusing to give Oberon a little changeling boy,
whose mother had been Titania’s friend ; and upon
her death the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse,
and brought him up in the woods.

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this
wood, as Titania was walking with some of her maids
of honour, she met- Oberon attended by his train of
fairy courtiers.

“Jil met by moonlight, proud Titania,” said the
airy king. The queen replied, “What, jealous
Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I have for-
sworn his company.” ‘“Tarry, rash fairy,” said

‘Oberon; “am not I thy lord? Why does Titania
cross her Oberon? Give me your little changeling
boy to be my page.”

“Set your heart at rest,” answered the queen;
“your whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me.”
She then left her lord in great anger. “Well, go your
way,” said Oberon; “before the morning dawns I
will torment you for this injury.”

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and
privy councillor.
198 Tales from Shakspeare.

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Good-
fellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, and used
to play comical pranks in the neighbouring villages «
sometimes getting into the dairies and skimming the
milk, sometimes plunging his light and airy form into
the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fan-
tastic shape in the churn, in vain the dairy-maid
would labour to change her cream into butter: nor
had the village swains any better success ; whenever
Puck chose to play his freaks in the brewing copper,
the ale was sure to be spoiled. When a few good
neighbours were met to drink some comfortable ale
together, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in
the likeness of a roasted crab, and when some old
goody was going to drink, he would bob against her
lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and
presently after, when the same old dame was gravely
seating herself to tell her neighbours a sad and melan-
choly story, Puck would slip her three-legged stool
from under her, and down toppled the poor old woman,
and then the old gossips would hold their sides and
laugh at her, and swear they never wasted a merrier
hour.

“Come hither, Puck,” said Oberon to this little
merry wanderer of the night; “fetch me the flower
which maids call Love in Jdleness; the juice of that
little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who
sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote on the
first thing they see. Some of the juice of that flower
I will drop on the eyelids of my Titania when she is
asleep ; and the first thing she looks upon when she
opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though
it be a lion, or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy
ape: and before I will take this charm from off her
A Midsummer Nights Dream. 199

sight, which Ian do with another charm I know of,
I will make her give me that boy to be my page.”

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly
diverted with this intended frolic of his master, and
ran to seek the flower ; and while Oberon was waiting
the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena
enter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching
Helena for following him, and after many unkind
words on his part, and gentle expostulations from
Helena, reminding him of his former love and pro-
fessions of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to
the mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him as
swiftly as she could.

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true
lovers, felt great compassion for Helena; and perhaps,
as Lysander said they used to walk by moonlight in
this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena
in those happy times when she was beloved by Deme-
trius. However that might be, when Puck returned
with the little purple flower, Oberon said to his
favourite, “Take a part of this flower: there has
been a sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love with
a disdainful youth; if you find him sleeping, drop
some of the love-juice in his eyes, but contrive to do
it when she is near him, that the first thing he sees
when he awakes may be this despised lady. You will
‘know the man by the Athenian garments which he
wears.” Puck promised to manage this matter very
dextrously ; and then Oberon went, unperceived by
Titania, to her bower, where she was preparing to go
to rest. Her fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild
thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets under a canopy of
woodbine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania
always slept some part of the night; her coverlet the
200 Luaies From Shakspeare.

enamelled skin of a snake, which, though a small
mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how
they were to employ themselves while-she slept.
“Some of you,” said her majesty, “ must kill cankers

in the musk-rose buds, and some wage war with the

bats for their leathern wings, to make my small elves
coats ; and some of you keep watch that the clamorous
owl, that nightly hoots, come not near me; but first
sing me to sleep.” Then they began to sing this
song :— ,

You spotted snakes with double tongue,

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ;

Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,

Come not near our Fairy Queen.

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in your sweet lullaby,

Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, Iulla, lullaby :

Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh ;
So good night with lullaby.

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with
this pretty lullaby, they left her, to perform the im-
portant services she had enjoined them. Oberon then
softly drew near his Titania, and dropped some of the
love-juice on her eyelids, saying,

‘What thou seest, when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love sake.

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out
of her father’s house that night, to avoid the death
she was doomed to for refusing to marry Demetrius.
When she entered the wood, she found her dear
Lysander waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt’s
house; but before they had passed half through the
wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that Lysander,
A Midsummer Night's Dream. 201

who was very careful of this dear lady, who had
proved her affection for him even by hazarding her
life for his sake, persuaded her to rest till morning on
a bank of soft moss, and lying down himself on the
ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast
asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who seeing
a handsome young man asleep, and perceiving that
his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and
that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded
that this must be the Athenian maid and her disdain-
ful lover whom Oberon had sent him to seek ; and he
naturally enough conjectured that, as they were alone
‘together, she must be the first thing he would see when
he awoke : so without more ado, he proceeded to pour
some of the juice of the little purple flower into his
eyes. But it so fell out, that Helena came that way,
and, instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysander
beheld when he opened his eyes: and strange to
relate, so powerful was the love-charm, all his love
for Hermia vanished away, and Lysander fell in love
with Helena.
; Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the
blunder Puck committed would have been of no
consequence, for he could not love that faithful
lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced
by a fairy love-charm to forget his own true Hermia,
and to run after another lady, and leave Hermia
asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was a sad
chance indeed. ,

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has
been before related, endeavoured to keep pace with
Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from her;
put she could not continue this unequal race long,
men being always better runners in a long race than
202 Tales from Shakspeare.

ladies. Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius; and a:
she was wandering about, dejected and forlorn, she
arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping.
“Ah!” said she, “this is Lysander lying on the
ground : is he dead or asleep?” Then gently touch-
ing him, she said, -“ Good sir, if you are alive, awake.”
Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-
charm beginning to. work) immediately addressed her
in terms of extravagant love and admiration ; telling
her, she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a dove
does a raven, and that he would run through fire for
her sweet sake; and many more such lover-like
speeches. Helena knowing Lysander wag her friend
Hermia’s lover, and that he was solemnly engaged to
marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard
herself addressed in this manner ; for she thought (as
well she might) that Lysander was making a jest of
her. “Oh!” said she, “why was I born to be mocked
and scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it not
enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet look
or a kind word from Demetrius ; but you, sir, must
pretend in this disdainful manner to court me? I
thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true
gentleness.” Saying these words in great anger, she
ran away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful
of his own Hermia, who was still asleep.

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at -
finding herself alone. She wandered about the wood,
not knowing what was become of Lysander, or which
way to go to seek for him. In the mean time Deme-
trius, not being able to find Hermia and his rival
Lysander, and fatigued with his fruitless search, waa
observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt
by some questions he had asked of Puck, that he had
A Midsummer Night's Dream 203

applied the love-charm to the wrong person's eyes ;
and now, having found the person first intended, he
touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius with
the love juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first
thing he saw being Helena, he, as Lysander had done
before, began to address love-speeches to her: and
just at that moment Lysander followed by Hermia
(for through Puck’s unlucky mistake it was now become
Hermia’s turn to run after her lover), made his ap-
pearance ; and then Lysander and Demetrius, both
speaking together,-made love to Helena, they being
each one under the influence of the same potent
charm.

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius,
Lysander, and her once dear friend Hermia, were all
in a plot together to make a jest of her.

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she
knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both
before loved her, were now become the lovers of
Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no
jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest
of friends, now fell to high words together.

“Unkind Hermia,” said Helena, “it is you have
set Lysander on, to vex me with mock praises; and
your other lover Demetrius, who used almost to spurn |
me with his foot, have you not bid him call me God-
dess, Nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? He would
not speak thus to me, whom he hates, if you did not
set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to
join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have
you forgot our school-day friendship? How often,
Hermia, have we two, sitting on one cushion, both
singing one song, with our needles working the same
204 - Tales from Shakspeare

flower, both on the same sampler wrought ; growing
up together in fashion of a double-cherry, scarcely
seeming parted? Hermia, it is not friendly in you, it
is not maidenly, to join with men in scorning your
poor friend.”

“T am amazed at your passionate wonder? said
Hermia: “I scorn you not; it seems you scorn me.”
“ Ay, do,” returned Heléna, “ persevere, counterfeit
serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn
my back; then wink at each other, and hold the
sweet jest up. If you had any pity; grace, or manners,
you would not use me thus.”

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these
angry words to each other, Demetrius and Lysander
left them, to fight together in the wood for the love of
Helena. ;

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they
departed, and once more wandered weary in the wood
in search of their lovers.

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who
with little Puck had been listening to their quarrels
said to him, “This is your negligence, Puck ; or did
you do this wilfully ?” ‘ Believe me, king of shadows,”
answered Puck, “it was a mistake: did not you tell
me I should know the man by his Athenian garments?
However, I am not sorry this has happened, for I
think their jangling makes me excellent sport.” “ You
heard,” said Oberon, “that Demetrius and Lysander
are gone to seek a convenient place to fight in. I
command you to overhang the night with a thick fog,
and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the
dark, that they shall not be able to find each other.
Counterfeit each of their voices to the other, and with
bitter taunts provoke them to follow you, while they
A Midsummer Night's Dream. 205

think it is their rival’s tongue they hear. See you do
this, till they are so weary that they can go no farther ;
and when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of
this other flower into Lysander’s eyes, and when he
awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and re-
turn to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two
fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she
loves ; and they will think all that has passed a vex-
atious dream. About this quickly, Puck; and I will
go and see what sweet love my Titania has found.”

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a
clown near her, who had lost his way in the wood,
and was likewise asleep: “This fellow,” said he,
“shall be my Titania’s true-love; and clapping an
ass’s head over the clown’s, it seemed to fit him
1s well as if it had grown upon his own shoulders.
Though Oberon fixed the ass’s head on very gently,
it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what
Oberon had done to him, he went towards the bower
where the fairy queen slept.

“Ah! what angel is that I see?” said Titania,
opening her eyes, and the juice of the little purple
flower beginning to take effect: ‘““Are you as wise
as you are beautiful ?”

“Why, mistress,” said the foolish clown, “if I have
wit enough to find the way out of this wood, I have
enough to serve my turn.”

“ Out of the wood do not desire to go,” said the
enamoured queen. “I am a spirit of no common
rate. Ilove you. Go with me, and I will give you
fairies to attend upon you.”

She then called four of her fairies: their names
were Pease-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-

seed,
206 Tales from Shakspeare,

“ Attend,” said the queen, “ upon this sweet gentle-
man: hop in his walks, and gambol in his sight; feed
him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the
honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me,” said
she to the clown, “and let me play with your amiable
hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass! and kiss your fair
large ears, my gentle joy!”

“Where is Pease-blossom?” said the ass-headed
clown ; not much regarding the fairy-queen’s court-
ship, but very proud of his new attendants,

“ Here, sir,” said little Pease-blossom.

“Scratch my head,” said the clown. “Where is
Cobweb ?”

“ Here sir,” said Cobweb.

“ Good Mr, Cobweb,” said the foolish clown, “kill
me the red humble-bee on the top of that thistle
yonder ; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-
bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action,
Mr. Cobweb, and take care the honey-bag break not ;
I should be sorry to have you overflown with a
honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?”

“ Here, sir,” said Mustard-seed; “what is your
will 2”

“ Nothing,” said the clown, “good Mr. Mustard-
seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch: I
must go to a barber’s, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks
I am marvellous hairy about the face.”

“My sweet love,” said the queen, “what will you
have to eat? Ihave a venturous fairy shall seek the
squirrel’s hoard, and fetch you some new nuts.”

“T had rather have a handful of dried pease,” said
the clown, who with his ass’s head had got an ass’s
appetite. “But, I pray, let none of your people dis
turb me, for T have a mind to sleep.”
A Midsummer Nights Dream. 204

“Sleep then,” said the queen, “and I will wind
youin my arms. O howI love you! How I dote
upon you !”

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the
arms of his queen, he advanced within her sight, and
reproached her with having lavished her favours upon
an ass, :

This she could not deny, as the clown was then
sleeping within her arms, with his ass’s head crowned
by her with flowers.

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he
again demanded the changeling-boy; which she.
ashamed of being discovered by her lord with her
new favourite, did not dare to refuse him.

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had
so long wished for to be his page, took pity on the
disgraceful situation into which, by his merry con-
trivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some
of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and
the fairy queen immediately recovered her senses, and
wondered at her late dotage, saying how she now
loathed the sight of the strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass’s head from off the
clown, and left him to finish his nap with his own
fool’s head upon his shoulders.

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly recon-
ciled, he related to her the history of the lovers, and
their midnight quarrels; and she agreed to go with
him, and see the end of their adventures.

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their
fair ladies, at no great distance from each other, sleep-
mg on a grass-plot; for Puck, to make amends for
his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost
diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown
208 Lales from Shakspeare.

to each other; and he had carefully removed the
charm from off the eyes of Lysander with the antidote
the fairy king gave to him.

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander
asleep so near her, was looking at him and wonder-
ing at his strange inconstancy. Lysander presently
opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, re-
covered his reason which the fairy-charm had before
clouded, and with his reason, his love for Hermia ;
and they began to talk over the adventures of the

night, doubting if these things had really happened,
~ or if they had both been dreaming the same bewilder-
sng dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake ;
anda sweet sleep having quieted Helena’s disturbed
and angry spirits, she listened with delight to the pro-
fessions of love which Demetrius still made to her,
and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she
began to perceive were sincere.

These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer
rivals, became once more true friends ; all the unkind
words which had passed were forgiven, and they
calmly consulted together what was best to be done
in their present situation. It was soon agreed that,
as Demetrius had given up his pretensions to Hermia,
he should endeavour to prevail upon her father -to
revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been
passed against her. Demetrius was preparing to re-
turn to Athens for this friendly purpose, when they
were surprised with the sight of Egeus, Hermia’s
father, who came to the wood in a of his run-
away daughter.

When Egeus understood that DeeieGus would not
now marry his daughter, he no longer opposed her
A Midsummer Nights Dream. 209

narriage with Lysander, but gave his consent that
fey should be wedded on the fourth day from that
time, being the same day on which Hermia had been
condemned to lose her life; and on that same day
Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now
faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spec-
tators of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy
ending of the lovers’ history brought about through
the good offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure,
that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the ap-
proaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout
their fairy kingdom.

And now, if any are offended with this story of
fairies and their pranks, as judging it incredible and |
strange, they have only to think that they have been
asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures
were visions which they saw in their sleep: and I
hope none of my readers will be so unreasonable as
to be offended with a pretty harmless Midsummer
Nignt's Dream. ,
210 Tales from Shakspeare.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of
such a mild and gentle temper, that he suffered his
subjects to neglect the laws with impunity ; and there
was in particular one law, the existence of which was
almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in force
during his whole reign. This was a law dooming any
man to the punishment of death, who should live with
a woman that was not his wife; and this law through
the lenity of the duke being utterly disregarded, the
holy institution of marriage became neglected, and
complaints were every day made to the duke by the
parents of the young ladies in Vienna, that their
daughters had been seduced from their protection, and
were living as the companions of single men.

The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing
evil among his subjects ; but hé thought that a sudden
change in himself from the indulgence he had hitherto
shown, to the strict severity requisite to:check this
abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto
loved him) consider him as a tyrant: therefore he de
termined to absent himself a while from his dukedom
and depute another to the full exercise of his power,
that the law against these dishonourable lovers might
be put in effect, without giving offence by.an unusual
severity in his own person.

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint
Measure for Measure, 211

in Vienna for his strict and rigid life, was chosen by
the duke as a fit person to undertake this important
charge ; and when the duke imparted his design to
lord Escalus, his chief councillor, Escalus said, “If
any man in Vienna be of worth to undergo such
ample grace and honour, it is lord Angelo.” And
now the duke departed from Vienna under pretence
of making a journey mto Poland, leaving Angelo to
act as the lord deputy in his absence ; but the duke’s
absence was only a feigned one, for he privately re-
turned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the-intent
to watch unseen the conduct of the saintly-seeming
Angelo.

It happened just about the time that Angelo was
invested with his new dignity, that a gentleman, whose
name was Claudio, had seduced a young lady from her
parents ; and for this offence, by command of the new
Jord deputy, Claudio was taken up and committed to
prison, and by virtue of the old law which had so long
been neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be be-
headed. Great interest was made for the pardon of
young Claudio, and the good old lord Escalus himself
interceded for him. “ Alas,” said he, “this gentleman
whom I would save had an honourable father, for
whose sake I pray you pardon the young man’s trans-
gression.” But Angelo replied, “We must not make
a scarecrow of the law, setting it up to fghten
birds of prey, till custom, finding it harmless, makes it
their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must die.”

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the
prison, and Claudio said to him, “I-pray you, Lucio,
do me this kind service. Go to my sister Isabel, who
this day proposes to enter the convent of Saint Clare;
acquaint her with the danger of my state: implore

P2
212 Lales from Shakspeare.

her that she make friends with the strict deputy ; bid
her go herself to Angelo. J have great hopes in
that ; for she can discourse with prosperous art, and
well she can persuade; besides, there is a speechless
dialect in youthful sorrow, such as moves men.”
Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that

day entered upon her noviciate in the convent, and
it was her intent, after passing through her probation
as a novice, to take the veil, and she was inquiring of
a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they
heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that re-
ligious house, said, “ Peace be in this place!” ‘Who
is it that speaks?” said Isabel. “It is a man’s voice,”
replied the nun: “ Gentle Isabel, go to him, and learn
his business; you may, I may not. When you have
taken the veil, you must not speak with men but in
the presence of the prioress; then if you speak, you
must not show your face, or if you show your face,
you must not speak.” ‘And have you nuns no far-
ther privileges?” said Isabel. “Are not these large
enough ?” replied the nun. “ Yes truly,” said Isabel :
“T speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a
more strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the votarists -
of Saint Clare.” Again they heard the voice of Lucio,
and the nun said, “He calls again. I pray you an-
swer him.” Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in
answer to his salutation, said, “‘ Peace and prosperity:
Who is it that calls?” Then Lucio, approaching her
‘with reverence, said, “ Hail, virgin, if such you be, as
the roses in your cheeks proclaim you are no less!
can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of
this place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother
Claudio?” “Why her unhappy brother ?” said Isabel,
‘let me ask; for I am that Isabel, and his sister.”
Measure for Measure. 213

“Fair and gentle lady,” he replied, “your brother
- kindly greets you by me; he is in prison.” “Woe
is me! for what?” said Isabel. Lucio then told her,
Claudio wes imprisoned for seducing a young maiden,
“ Ah,” said she, “I fear it is my cousin Juliet.” Juliet
and Isabel were not related, but they called each other
cousin in remembrance of their school-days’ friendship ;
and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she _
feared she had been led by her affection for him into
this transgression. “She it is,” replied Lucio. “Why
then, let my brother marry Juliet,” said Isabel. Lucio
replied, that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but
that the lord deputy had sentenced him to die for his
offence; “ Unless,” said he, “you have the grace by
your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my busi.
ness between you and your poor brother.” “ Alas,”
said Isabel, “what poor ability is there in me to do
him good? JI doubt I have no power to move An-
gelo.” “Our doubts are traitors,” said Lucio, “and
_ make us lose the good we might often win, by fearing
to attempt it. Go to lord Angelo! When maidens
sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like gods.” “I
will see what I can do,” said Isabel: ‘I will but stay
to give the prioress notice of the affair, and then I will
go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother: soon at
night I will send him word of my success.”

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on
her knees before Angelo, saying, “I am a woful suitor
to your honour, if it will please your honour to hear
me.” “Well, what is your suit?” said Angelo. She
then made her petition in the most moving terms for
her brother’s life. But Angelo said, “ Maiden, there
is no remedy: your brother is sentenced, and he must
die.” “Q just, but severe law!” said Isabel; “TI had
214 Tales from Shakspeare.

a brother then—Heaven keep your honour!” and she
was about to depart. But Lucio, who had accom-
panied her, said, “Give it not over so; return to him
again, entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon
his gown. You are too cold; if you should need a
pin, you could not with a more tame tongue desire it.”
Then again Isabel on her knees implored for mercy.
“He is sentenced,” said Angelo: “it is too late.”
“Too late!” said Isabel: ‘ Why, no; I that do.speak
a word, may call it back again. Believe this, my lord,
no ceremony that to great ones belongs, not the
king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, the marshal’s
truncheon, nor the judge’s robe, becomes them with
one half so good a grace as mercy does.” “ Pray you
begone,” said Angelo. But still Isabel entreated ; and
she said, “If my brother had been as you, and you as
he, you might have slipped like him, but he like you
would not have been so stern. I would to Heaven J
had your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then
be thus? No, I would tell you what it were to be a
judge, and what a prisoner.” “ Be content, fair maid !”
said Angelo: “it is the law, not I, condemns your
brother. Were he my kinsman, my brother, or my
son, it should be thus with him. He must die to-
morrow.” “To-morrow?” said Isabel: “Oh, that is
sudden: spare him, spare him ; he is not prepared for
death. Even for our kitchens we kill the fowl in
season ; shall we serve Heaven with less respect than
we minister to our gross selves? Good, good, my
lord, bethink you, none have died for my brother's
offence, though many have committed it. So you
would be the first that gives this sentence, and he the
first that suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord;
knock there, and ask your heart what it does know
Measure for Measure. 215

that is like my brother’s fault; if it confess a natural
guiltiness such as his is, let it not sound a thought
against my brothers life!” Her last words more
moved Angelo than all she had before said, for the
beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion in his
heart, and he began to form thoughts of dishonourable
love, such as Claudio’s crime had been; and the con-
flict in his mind made him turn away from Isabel:
but she called him back, saying, “Gentle my lord,
turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my
lord, turn back!” “How, bribe me!” said Angelo,
astonished that she should think of offering him a
bribe. “Ay,” said Isabel, “with such gifts that
Heaven itself shall share with you; not with golden
treasures, or those glittering stones, whose price is
either rich or poor as fancy values them, but with true
prayers that shall be up to Heaven before sunrise—
prayers from preserved souls, from fasting maids whose
minds are dedicated to nothing temporal.” “Well,
come to me to-morrow,” said Angelo. And for this
short respite of her brother’s life, and for this permis-
sion that she might be heard again, she left him with
the joyful hope that she should at last prevail over his
stern nature: and as she went away, she said, “Heaven
keep your honour safe! Heaven save your honour !”
Which when Angelo heard, he said within his heart,
“Amen, I would be saved from thee and from thy
virtues :” and then, affrighted at his own evil thoughts,
he said, “What is this? What is this? Do I love
her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast
upon her eyes? WhatisitI dream on? The cunning
enemy of mankind, to catch a saint, with saints does
bait the hook. Never could an immodest woman
once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman subdues
216 Zales from Shakspeare.

me quite. Even till now, when men were fond,
smiled and wondered at them.”

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered
more that night than the prisoner he had so severely
sentenced ; for in the prison Claudio was visited by
the good duke, who in his friars habit taught the
young man the way to Heaven, preaching to him the
words of penitence and peace. But-Angelo felt all
the pangs of irresolute guilt : now wishing to seduce
Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, and
now suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet
but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts
prevailed ; and he who had so lately started at the
offer of a bribe, resolved to-tempt this maiden with so
high a bribe as she might not be able to resist, even
with the precious gift of her dear brother's life.

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired
she might be admitted alone to his presence: and
being there, he said to her, if she would yield to him
her virgin honour, and transgress even as Juliet had
done with Claudio, he would give her her brother’s
life: “For,” said he, “I love you, Isabel.” “My
brother,” said Isabel, “did so love Juliet, and yet you
tell me he shall die for it.” “But,” said Angelo,
“Claudio shall not die, if you will consent to visit me
by stealth at night, even as Juliet left her father’s
house at night to come to Claudio.” Isabel in amaze-
ment at his words, that he should tempt her to the
same fault for which he passed sentence of death upon
her brother, said, “I would do as much for my poor
brother as for myself ; that is, were J under sentence
of death, the impression of keen whips I would wear
as rubies, and go to my death as to a bed that longing
T had been sick for, ere J would yield myself up to
Measure for Measure. 219

this shame.” And then she told him, she hoped he
only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he
said, “ Believe me on my honour, my words express
my purpose.” Isabel, angered to the heart to hear
him use the word Honour to express such dishonour-
able purposes, said, ‘‘Ha! little honour, to be much
believed ; and most pernicious purpose. I will pro-
claim thee, Angelo; look for it! Sign me a present
pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world aloud
what man thou art!” “Who will believe you, Isabel ?”
said Angelo; “my unsoiled name, the austereness of
my life, my word vouched against yours, will outweigh
your accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding ta
my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say
what you can, my false will overweigh your true story.
Answer me to-morrow.”

“To whom. should I complain? Did I tell this,
who would believe me?” said Isabel, as she went
towards the dreary prison where her brother was con-
fined. When she arrived there, her brother was in
pious conversation with the duke, who, in his friar’s
habit, had also visited Juliet, and brought both these
guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault; and
unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse con-
fessed, that she was more to blame than Claudio, in
that she willingly consented to his dishonourable soli-
citations.

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was con-
fined, she said, “ Peace be here, grace, and good com-
pany!” “Who is there?” said the disguised duke:
“come in; the wish deserves a welcome.” “My
business is a word or two with Claudio,” said Isabel.
Then the duke left them together, and desired the
provost, who had the charge of the prisoners, to
218 Tales from Shakspeare.

place him where he might overhear their conversa:
tion.

“Now, sister, what is the comfort?” said Claudio.’
Isabel told him he must prepare for death on the
morrow. “Is there no remedy?” said Claudio.
“Ves, brother,” replied Isabel, “there is; but such
a one, as if you consented to it would strip your
honour from you, and leave you naked.” “Let me
know the point,” said Claudio. “O,I do fear you,
Claudio!” replied his sister ; “and I quake, lest you
should wish to live, and more respect the trifling term
of six or seven winters added to your life, than your
perpetual honour! Do you dare to die? The sense
of death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle
that we tread upon, feels a pang as great as when a
giant dies.” “Why do you give me this shame?”
said Claudio. “Think youl can fetch a resolution
from flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will en-
counter darkness as a bride, and hug it in my arms,”
“There spoke my brother,” said Isabel; “there my
father’s grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must
die; yet, would you think it, Claudio! this outward
sainted deputy, if I would yield to him my virgin
honour, would grant your life. O, were it but my life,
T would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly as
a pin!” “Thanks, dear Isabel,” said Claudio. “Be
ready to die to-morrow,” said Isabel. ‘Death is a
fearful thing,” said Claudio.. “And shamed life a
hateful,” replied his sister. But the thoughts of death
overcame the constancy of Claudio’s temper, 2n-] ter-
rors, such as the guilty only at their deaths do know,
assailing him, he cried out, “Sweet sister, let me live!
The sin you do to save a brother’s life, nature dis-
penses with the deed so far, that it becomes a virtue.’
Measure for Measure. — 219

“© faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!” said
Isabel: “would you preserve your life by your sister’s
shame? O fie, fie, fie! I thought, my brother, you
had in you such a mind of honour, that had you twenty
heads to render up on twenty blocks, you would have
yielded them up all, before your sister should stoop
to such dishonour.” “Nay, hear me, Isabel!” said
Claudio. But what he would have said in defence of
his weakness, in desiring to live by the dishonour of
his virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance of
the duke ; who said, “Claudio, I have overheard what
has passed between you and your sister. Angelo had
never the purpose to corrupt her; what he said, has
only been to make trial of her virtue. She having the
truth of honour in her, has given him that gracious
denial which he is most glad to receive. There is no
hope that he will pardon you; therefore pass your
hours in prayer, and make ready for death:” Then
Claudio repented of his weakness, and said, ‘‘ Let me
ask my sister’s pardon! I am so out of love with life,
that I will sue to be rid of it” And Claudio retired,
overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault.
The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended
ner virtuous resolution, saying, “The hand that made
you fair, has made you good.” “O,” said Isabel,
“how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo!
if ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will
discover his government.” Isabel knew not that she
was even now making the discovery she threatened,
The duke replied, “That shall not be much amiss ;
yet, as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel your
accusation ; therefore lend an attentive hear to my
advisings. I believe that you may most righteously
do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit, redeem
220 Tales from Shakspeare.

your brother from the angry law, do no stain to your
own most gracious person, and much please the absent
duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have
notice of this business.” Isabel said, she had a spirit
to do anything he desired, provided it was nothing
wrong. “ Virtue is bold, and never fearful,” said the
dtike : and then he asked her, if she had ever heard
of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier
who was drowned at sea. “JI have heard of the lady,”
said Isabel, “and good words went with her name.”
“This lady,” said the duke, “is the wife of Angelo ;
but her marriage dowry was on board the vessel in
which her brother perished, and mark how heavily this
befell to the poor gentlewoman ! for, besides the loss
of a most noble and renowned brother, who in his
love towards her was the most kind and natural, in
the wreck of her fortune she lost the affections of hes
husband, the well-seeming Angelo; who, pretending
to discover some dishonour in this honourable lady
(though the true cause was the loss of her dowry), left
her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his
comfort. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason
should have quenched her love, has, like an impedi-
ment in the current, made it more unruly, and Mariana
loves her cruel husband with the full of continuance
of her first affection.” The duke then more plainly
unfolded his plan. It was, that Isabel should go to
lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to come to him
as he desired, at midnight ; that by this means she
would obtain the promised pardon ; and that Mariana
should go in her stead to the appointment, and pass
herself upon Angelo in the dark for Isabel. “Nor,
gentle daughter,” said the feigned friar, “fear you to
do this thing ; Angelo is her husband ; and to bring
Measure for Measure. 22i

them thus together is no sin.” Isabel being pleased
with this project, departed to do as he directed her ;
and he went to apprize Mariana of their intention.
He had before this time visited this unhappy lady in
his assumed character, giving her religious instruction
and friendly consolation, at which times he had learned
her sad story from her own lips ; and now she, looking
upon him as a holy man, readily consented to be di-
rected by him in his undertaking.

When Isabel returned from her interview with
Angelo, to the house of Mariana, where the duke had
appointed her to meet him, he said, “Well met, and in
good time ; what is the news from this good deputy ?”
Isabel related the manner in which she had settled the
affair, “ Angelo,” said she, “has a garden surrounded
with a brick wall, on the western side of which is a
vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate.” And then
she showed to the duke and Mariana two keys that
Angelo had given her; and she said, “ This bigger
key opens the vineyard gate; this other a little door
which leads from the vineyard to the garden. There
I have made my promise at the dead of the night to
call upon him, and have got from him his word of
assurance for my brother’s life. I have taken a due
and wary note of the place; and with whispering and
most guilty diligence he showed me the way twice
over.” “Are there no other tokens agreed upon
between you, that Mariana must observe?” said the
duke. ‘No, none,” said Isabel, “ only to go when it
8 dark. I have told him my time can be but short;
for I have made him think a servant comes along with
me, and that this servant is persuaded I come about
my brother.” The duke commended her discreet ma-
hagement, and she, turning to Mariana, said, “ Little
222 Tales from Shakspeare.

have you to say to Angelo, when you depart from him,
but, soft and low, Remember now my brother!” -

Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed
place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she
supposed, by this device preserved both her brothes’s
life and her own honour: But that her brother's life
was safe the duke was not well satisfied, and therefore
at midnight he again repaired to the prison ; and it was
well for Claudio that. he did so, else would Claudio
have that night been beheaded; for, soon after the
duke entered the prison, an order came from the cruel
deputy, commanding that Claudio should be beheaded,
and his head sent to him by five o’clock in the morning.
But the duke persuaded the provost to put off the
execution of Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, by
sending him the head of a man who died that
morning in the prison. And to prevail upon the
provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the
provost suspected not to be anything more or greater
than he seemed, showed the provost a letter written
with the duke’s hand, and sealed with his seal, which
when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must
have some secret- order from the absent duke, and
therefore he consented to spare Claudio ; and he cut
off the dead man’s head, and carried it to Angelo.

Then the duke, in his own name, wrote to Angelo
a letter, saying that certain accidents had put a stop
to his journey, and that he should be in Vienna by
the following morning, requiring Angelo to meet him
at the entrance of the city, there to deliver up his
authority; and the duke also commanded it to be
proclaimed, that if any of his subjects craved redress
for injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the
street on his first entrance into the city.
Measure for Measure. 223

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison,
and the duke, who there awaited her coming, for
secret reasons thought it good to tell her that Claudio
was beheaded; therefore when Isabel inquired if
Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother, he said
“ Angelo has released Claudio from this world. His
head is off, and sent to the deputy.” The much-
grieved sister cried out, “O unhappy Claudio,
wretched Isabel, injurious world, most wicked
Angelo!” The seeming friar bid her take comfort,
and when she was become a little calm, he acquainted
her with the near prospect of the duke’s return, and
~ told her in what manner she should proceed in pre-
ferring her complaint against Angelo ; and he bade her
not to fear if the cause should seem to go against her
for a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed, he
next went to. Mariana, and gave her counsel in what
manner she also should act.

- Then the duke laid aside his friar’s habit, and in
his own royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his
_ faithful subjects assembled to greet his arrival, entered
the city of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who
delivered up his authority in the proper form. And
there came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for
redress, and said, “Justice, most royal duke! I am
the sister of one Claudio, who for the seducing a
young maid was condemned to lose his head. I.
made my suit to lord Angelo for my brother’s pardon.
It were needless to tell your grace how I prayed and
kneeled, how he repelled me, and how IJ replied; for
this was of much length. The vile conclusion I now
begin with grief and shame to utter.’ Angelo would
_ not but by my yielding to his dishonourable love
release my brother; and after much debate within
224 Tales from Shakspeare.

myself, my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and
I did yield to him. But the next morning betimes,
Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant for my
poor brother's head!” The duke affected to dis-
believe her story; and Angelo said that grief for her
brother’s death, who had suffered by the due course
of the law, had disordered her senses. And now
another suitor approached, which was Mariana; and
Mariana said, “Noble prince, as there comes light
from heaven, and truth from breath, as there is sense
in truth, and truth in virtue, I am this man’s wife,
and, my good lord, the words of Isabel are false, for
the night she says she was with Angelo, I passed that
night with him in the garden-house. As this is true,
let me in safety rise, or else for ever be fixed here a
marble monument.” Then did Isabel appeal for the
truth of what she had said to friar Lodowick, that
being the name the duke had assumed in his disguise.
Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions
in what they said, the duke intending that the inno-
cence of Isabel should be plainly proved in that
public manner before the whole city of Vienna: but
Angelo little thought that it was from such a cause
that they thus differed in their story, and he hoped
from their contradictory evidence to be able to clear
himself from the accusation of Isabel; and he said,
assuming the look of offended innocence, “I did but
smile till now; but, good my lord, my patience here
is touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women
are but the instruments of some greater one, who
sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, to find
this practice out.” “Ay, with all my heart,” said
the duke, “and punish them to the height of your
pleasure. You, lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo,
Measure for Measure. 226

fend him your pains to discover this abuse ; the friar
is sent for that set them on, and when he comes, do
with your injuries as may seem best in any chastise-
ment. I for a while will leave you, but stir not you,
lord Angelo, till you have welt determined upon this
slander.” ‘The duke then went away, leaving Angelo
well pleased to be deputed judge and umpire in his
own cause. But the duke was absent only while he
threw off his royal robes and put on his friar’s habit;
and in that disguise again he presented himself before
Angelo and Escalus: and the good old Escalus, who
thought Angelo had been falsely accused, said to the
supposed friar, “Come, sir, did you set these women
on to slander lord Angelo?” He replied, ‘ Where is
the duke? It is he should hear me speak.” Escalus
said, “ The duke is in us, and we will hear you. Speak
justly.” “Boldly at least,” retorted the friar : and then
he blamed the duke for leaving the cause of Isabel in
the hands of him she had accused, and spoke so freely
of many corrupt practices he had observed, while,
as he said, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that
Escalus threatened him with the torture for speaking
words against the state, and for censuring the conduct
of the duke, and ordered him to be taken away to
prison. ‘Then, to the amazement of all present, anc
to the utter confusion of Angelo, the supposed friar
threw off his disguise, and they saw it was the duke
himself.

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her,
“Come hither, Isabel. ‘Your friar is now your prince,
but with my habit I have not changed my heart. I
am still devoted to your service.” “O give me par-
don,” said Isabel, “ that I, your vassal, have employed
and troubled your unknown sovereignty.” He an

Q
226 Tales from Shakspeare.

swered that he had most need of forgiveness from
her, for not having prevented the death of her brother
—for not yet would he tell her that Claudio was living ;
meaning first to make a farther trial of her goodness.
Angelo now knew the duke had been a secret witness
of his bad deeds, and he said, “O my dread lord, I
should be guiltier than my guiltiness, to think I can be
undiscernible, when I perceive your grace, like power
divine, has looked upon my actions. Then, good
prince, no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial
be my own confession. Immediate sentence and
death is all the grace I beg.” The duke replied,
“ Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We do condemn
thee to the very block where Claudio stooped to
death ; and with like haste away with him ; and for
his possessions, Mariana, we do instate and widow
you withal, to buy you a better husband.” “O my
dear lord,” ae Mariana, “I crave no other, nor no
better man:” and then on her knees, even as Isabel
had begged the life of Claudio, did this kind wife of
an ungrateful husband beg the life of Angelo; and
she said, “Gentle my liege, O good my lord! Sweet
Isabel, take my part! Lend me your knees, and, all
my life to come, I will lend you all my life to do you
service!” The duke said, “ Against all sense you im-
portune her. Should Isabel kneel down to beg for
mercy, her brother’s ghost would break his paved
bed, and take her hence in horror.” Still Mariana
said, “Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold
up your hand, say nothing! I will speak all. They
say, best men are moulded out of faults, and for the
most part become much the better for being a little
bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel, will you not
lend a knee?” The duke then said, “He dies for
Measure for Measure. 227

Claudio.” But much pleased was the good duke,
when his own Isabel, from whom he expected all
gracious and honourable acts, kneeled down before
him, and said, “ Most bounteous sir, look, if it please
you, on this man condemned, as if my brother lived.
I partly think a due sincerity governed his deeds, till
he did look on me. Since it is so, let him not die!
' My brother had but justice, in that he did the thing
for which he died.”

The duke, as the best reply he could make to this
noble petitioner for her enemy’s life, sending for
Claudio from his prison-house, where he lay doubtful
of his destiny, presented to her this lamented brother
living ; and he said to Isabel, “ Give me your hand,
Tsabel ; for your lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say
you will be mine, and he shall be my brother too.”
By this time lord Angelo perceived he was safe ; and
the duke, observing his eye to brighten up a little, said,
“Well, Angelo, look that you love your wife; her
worth has obtained your pardon : joy to you, Mariana !
Love her, Angelo! I have confessed her, and know
her virtue.” , Angelo remembered, when dressed in a
little brief authority, how hard his heart had been, and
felt how sweet is mercy.

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and
offered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel,
whose virtuous and noble conduct had won her
prince’s heart. Isabel, not having taken the veil, was
free to marry; and the friendly offices, while hid
under the disguise of a humble friar, which the noble
duke had done for her, made her with grateful joy
accept the honour he offered her; and when she be-
came duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the
virtuous Isabel worked such a complete reformation

Qa
228 Tales from Shakspeare.

among the young ladies of that city, that from that
time none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet,
the repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. And
the mercy-loving duke long reigned with his beloved
Isabel the happiest of husbands and of princes
Tanting af the Sarent, 229

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

KaTHERINE, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of
Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. - She was a lady
of such an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper, such
a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua
by no other name than Katherine the Shrew. It
seemed very unlikely, indeed impossible, that any

* gentleman would ever be found who would venture

to marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much
blamed for deferring his consent to many excellent
offers that were made to her gentle sister Bianca,
putting off all Bianca’s suitors with this excuse, that
when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they
should have free leave to address young Bianca.

It happened, however, that a gentleman named
Petruchio came to Padua, purposely to look out for
a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports of
Katherine’s temper, and hearing she was rich and
nandsome, resolved upon marrying this famous ter-
ynagant, and taming her into a meek and manageable
wife. And truly none was so fit to set about this
herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as
high as Katherine’s, and he was a witty and most
happy-tempered humourist, and withal so wise, and of
such a true judgment, that he well knew how to feign
a passionate and furious deportment, when his spirits
were so calm that himself could have laughed merrily
230 Tales from Shakspeare,

at his own angry feigning, for his natural temper was
careless and easy; the boisterous airs he assumed
when he became the husband of Katherine being but
in sport, or more properly speaking, affected by his
excellent discernment, as the only means to overcome
in her own way the passionate ways of the furious
Katherine.

A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine the
Shrew, and first of all he applied to Baptista, her
father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter Katherine,
as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that having
heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour,
he had come from Verona to solicit her love. Her
father, though he wished her married, was forced to
confess Katherine would ill answer this character, it
being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness
she was composed, for her music-master rushed into
the room to complain that the gentle Katherine, his
pupil, had broken his head with her lute, for pre-
suming to find fault with her performance; which,
when Petruchio heard, he said, ‘It is a brave wench;
I love her more than ever, and long to have some
chat with her ;” and hurrying the old gentleman for a
positive answer, he said, “My business is in haste,
signior Baptista, I cannot come every. day to woo.
You knew my father. He is dead, and has left me
heir to all his lands and goods.. Then tell me, if I
get your daughter’s love, what dowry you will give
with her.” Baptista thought his manner was some-
what blunt for a lover; but being glad to get Kathe-
rine married, he answered that he would give her
twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his
estate at his death: so this odd match was quickly
agreed on, and Baptista went to apprize his shrewish
Laming of the Shrew. 231

daughter of her lover’s addresses, and sent her in to
Petruchio to listen to his suit.

In the mean time, Petruchio was settling with
himself the mode of courtship he should pursue: and
he said, “I will woo her with some spirit when she
comes. If she rails at me, why then I will tell her
she sings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she
frowns, I will say she looks as clear as roses newly
washed with dew. If she will not speak a word, I will
praise the eloquence of her language ; and if she bids
me leave her, I will give her thanks as if she bid me
stay with her a week.” Now the stately Katherine
entered, and Petruchio first addressed her with
“ Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name, I hear.”
Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said dis-
dainfully, “‘ They call me Katherine who do speak to
me.” “You lie,” replied the lover; “for. you are
called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes
Kate the Shrew; but, Kate, you are the prettiest
Kate in Christendom, and therefore, Kate, hearing
your mildness praised in every town, I am come to
woo you for my wife.” ,

A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud
and angry terms shewing him how justly she had
gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised her
sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing her
father coming, he said (intending to make as quick a
wooing as possible), “ Sweet Catherine, let us set this
idle. chat aside, for your father has consented that
you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and
whether you. will or no, I will marry you.”

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his
daughter had received him kindly, and that she had
promised to be married the next Sunday. This
232 Tales from Shakspeare.

Katherine denied, saying she would rather see him
hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for
wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as
Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not to re-
gard her angry words, for they had agreed she should
seem reluctant before him, but that when they were
alone he had found her very fond and loving; and he
said to her, “Give me your hand, Kate ; I will go to
Venice to buy you fine apparel against our wedding-
day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the wedding
guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and
rich clothes, that my Katherine may be fine; and
kiss me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday.”
On the Sunday all the wedding guests were as-
sembled, but they waited long before Petruchio came,
and Katherine wept for vexation to think that Pe.
truchio had only been making a jest of her. At last,
however, he appeared, but he brought none of the
bridal finery he had promised Katherine, nor was
he dressed himself like a bridegroom, but in strange
disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of
-the serious business he came about ; and his servant
and the very horses on which they rode were in like
manner in mean and fantastic fashion habited.
Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his
dress ; he said, Katherine was to be married to him,
and not to his clothes; and finding it was in vain
to argue with him, to the church they went, he still
behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest
asked Petruchio if Katherine should be his wife, he
swore so loud that she should, that, all-amazed, the
priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to take it
up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a

cuff, that down fell the priest and his book again, :
Taming of the Shrew. 232

And all the while they were being married he
stamped and swore so, that the high-spirited Kathe-
rine trembled and shook with fear. After the ceremony
was over, while they were yet in the church, he called
for wine, and drank a loud health to the company,
and threw a sop which was at the bottom of the glass
full in the sexton’s face, giving no other reason for
this strange act, than that the sexton’s beard grew
thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he
was drinking. Never sure was there such a mad
marriage ; but Petruchio did but put this wildness
on, the better to succeed in the plot he had formed
to tame his shrewish wife.

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast,
but when they returned from church, Petruchio,
taking hold of Katherine, declared his intention of
carrying his wife home instantly; and no remon-
strance of his father-in-law, or angry words of the
enraged Katherine, could make him change his pur-
pose: he claimed a husband’s right to dispose of his
wife as he pleased, and away he hurried Katherine
off; he seeming so daring and resolute that no one
dared attempt to stop him.

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse,
lean and lank, which he had picked out for the pur
pose, and himself and his servant no better mounted ;
they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and
ever when this horse of Katherine’s stumbled, he
would storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who
could scarce crawl under his burthen, as if he had
been the most passionate man alive.

“At length, after a weary journey, during which
Katherine had heard nothing but the wild ravings
of Petruchio at the servant and the horses, they ar
234 Zales from Shakspeare.

rived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly
to her home, but he resolved she should have neither
rest nor food that night. The tables were spread,
and supper soon served; but Petruchio, pretending |
to find fault with every dish, threw the meat about
the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it away,
and all this he did, as he said, in love for his Kathe-
rine, that she might not eat meat that was not well
dressed. And when Katherine, weary and supperless,
retired to rest, he found the same fault with the bed,
throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room,
so that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where if
she chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awa-
kened by the loud voice of her husband, storming at
the servants for the ill-making of his wife’s bridal-bed.
The next day Petruchio pursued the same course,
still speaking kind words to Katherine, but when she
attempted to eat, finding fault with everything that
was set before her, throwing the breakfast on the
floor as he had done’ the supper; and Katherine, the
haughty Katherine,.was fain to beg the servants would
bring “her secretly a morsel of food, but they, being
instructed by Petruchio, replied, they dared not give
her anything unknown to their master. ‘“ Ah,” said
she, “did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that
come to my father’s door have food given them, But
I, who never knew what it was to entreat for anything,
am starved for want of food, giddy for want of sleep,
with oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed, and
that which vexes me more than all, he does it under
the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or
eat, it were present death to me.” Here her soliloquy
was interrupted by the entrance of Petruchio: he,-not
meaning she should be quite starved, had brought her
Taming of the Shrew. 235

a small portion of meat, and he said to her, “ How
fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how dili-
gent Jam, I have dressed your meat myself. I am
sure this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word!
Nay, then you love not the meat, and all the pains I
have taken is to no purpose.” He then ordered the
servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger,
which had abated the pride of Katherine, made her
say, though angered to the heart, “I pray you let it
stand.” But this was not all Petruchio intended to
bring her to, and he replied, “The poorest service is
repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you
touch the meat.” On this Katherine brought out a
reluctant “I thank you, sir.” And now he suffered
her to make a slender meal, saying, “ Much good
may it do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! And
now, my honey love, we will return to your father’s
house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken
coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs
and fans and double change of finery ;” and to make
her believe he really intended to give her these gay
things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher, who
brought some new clothes he had ordered for her,
and then giving her plate to the servant to take away,
before she had half satisfied her hunger, he said,
“What, have you dined?” The haberdasher pre-
sented a cap, saying, “ Here is the cap your worship
bespoke ;” on which Petruchio began to storm afresh,
saying, the cap was moulded in a porringer, and that
it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut shell, desiring
the haberdasher to take it away and make a bigger.
Katherine said, “f will have this; all gentlewomen
wear such caps as these.” ‘When you are gentle,”
replied Petruchio, “you shall have one too, and not
e3t Tales from Shakspeare.

till then.” The meat Katherine had eaten had a little
revived her fallen spirits. and she said, “ Why, sir, I
trust I may have leave to speak, and speak I will: I
am no child, no babe; your betters have endured to
hear me say my mind; and if you cannot, you had
better stop your ears.” Petruchio would not hear
these angry words, for he had happily discovered a
better way of managing his wife than keeping up a
jangling argument with her; therefore his answer was,
“Why, you say true, it is a paltry cap, and I love you
for not liking it.” “Love me, or love me not,” said
Katherine, “I like the cap, and I will have this cap,
or none.” “You say you wish to see the gown,” said
Petruchio, still affecting to misunderstand her. The
tailor then came forward, and showed her a fine gown
he had made for her. Petruchio, whose intent was
that she should have neither cap nor gown, found as
much fault with that. “O mercy, Heaven!” said he,
“what stuff is here! What, do you call this a sleeve?
it is like a demi-cannon, carved up and down like an
apple tart.” The tailor said, “You bid me make it
according to the fashion of the times ;” and Katherine
said, she never saw a better fashioned gown. This
was enough for ”etruchio, and privately desiring these
people might be paid for their goods, had excuses
made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he
bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and furious
gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of
the room: and then, turning to Katherine, he said,
“Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s even
in these mean garments we now wear.” And then he
ordered his horses, affirming they should reach Bap-
tista’s house by dinner-time, for that it was but seven
o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the ‘7y
Laming of the Shrew. 237

middle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore
Katherine ventured to say, though modestly, being
almost overcome by the vehemence of his manner,
“T dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be
supper-time before we get there.” But Petruchio
meant that she should be so completely subdued,
that she should assent to everything he said, before
lve carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he
were lord even of the sun, and could command the
hours, he said it should be what time he pleased to
have it, before he set forward ; “ For,” said he, “ what
ever I say or do, you still are crossing it. I will not
go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o’clock I
say it is.” Another day Katherine was forced to prac-
tise her newly-found obedience, and not till he had
brought her proud spirit to such a perfect subjection
that she dared not remember there was such a word
as contradiction, would Petruchio allow her to go to
‘her father’s house ; and even while they were upon
their journey thither, she was in danger of being
turned back again, only because she happened to hint
it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon shone
brightly at noonday. “Now, by my mother’s son,”
said he, “and that is myself, it shall be the moon, or
stars, or what I list, before I journey to your father’s
house.” He then made as if he were going back
again ; but Katherine, no longer Katherine the Shrew,
but the obedient wife, said, “Let us go forward, I
pray, now we have come so far, and it shall be the
sun, or moon, or what you please, and if you please
to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall: be
so forme.” This he was resolved to prove, therefore
he said again, “I say, it is the moon.” “I know it is
the moon,” replied Katherine. “You lie, it is the
238 Tales Srom Shakspeare.

blessed sun,” said Petruchio. ‘“ Then it is the blessed
sun,” replied Katherine ; “but sun itis not, when you
say itis not. What you will have it named even so it
is, and so it ever shall be for Katherine.” Now then
he suffered her to proceed on her journey ; but further
to try if this yielding humour would last, he addressed .
an old gentleman they met on the road as if he had
been a young woinan, saying to him, “ Good morrow,
gentle mistress:” and asked Katherine if she had
ever beheld a fairer gentlewoman, praising the red
and white of the old man’s cheeks, and comparing
his eyes to two bright stars; and again he addressed
him, saying, “ Fair lovely maid, once more good day
to you!” and said to his wife, “Sweet Kate, embrace
her for her beauty’s sake.” The now completely
vanquished Katherine quickly adopted her husband’s
opinion, and made her speech in like sort to the old
gentleman, saying to him, “Young budding virgin,
you are fair, and fresh, and sweet: whither are you
going, and where is your dwelling? Happy are the
parents of so fair a child.” “Why, how now, Kate,”
said Petruchio; “I hope you are not mad. This is a
man, old and wrinkled, faded, and withered, and not
a maiden, as you say he is.” On this Katherine said,
“ Pardon me, old gentleman ; the sun has so dazzled
my eyes, that everything I look on seemeth green.
Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I hope
you will pardon me for my sad mistake.” “ Do, good
old grandsire,” said Petruchio, “and tell us which way
you are travelling. We shall be glad of your good
company, if you are going our way.” The old gen-
tleman replied, “ Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,
your strange encounter has much amazed me. My
name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son of
Laming of the Shrew. 239

mine who lives at Padua.” Then Petruchio knew the
old gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, a yoting
gentleman who was to be married to Baptista’s younger
daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very happy,
by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to
make ; and they all journeyed on pleasantly together
till they came to Baptista’s house, where there was a
arge company assembled to celebrate the wedding of
Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly con-
sented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got
Katherine off his hands.

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the
wedding feast, and there was present also another
newly married pair.

Lucentio, Bianca’s husband, and Hortensio, the
other new married man, could not forbear sly jests,
which seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition of
Petruchio’s wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed
highly pleased with the mild tempers of the ladies
they had chosen, laughing at Petruchio for his less
fortunate choice. Petruchio took little notice of their
jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, and then
he perceived Baptista himself joined in the laugh
against him: for when Petruchio affirmed that his wife
would prove more obedient than theirs, the father of
Katherine said, “ Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,
I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all.” “Well,”
said Petruchio, “I say no, and therefore for assurance
that I speak the truth, let us each one send for his
wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to come at
first when she is sent for, shall win a wager which we
will propose.” To this the other two husbands wil-
lingly consented, for they were quite confident that
their gentle y*yes would prove more obedient than
240 Lales from Shakspeare.

the headstrong Katherine ; and they proposed a wager
of twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said, he would
lay as much as that upon his hawk or hounds, but
twenty times as much upon his wife. Lucentio and
Hortensio raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and
Lucentio first sent his servant to desire Bianca woulé
come to him. But the servant returned, and said,
“Sir, my mistress sends you word she is busy and
cannot come.” “How,” said Petruchio, “does she
say she is busy and cannot come? Is that an answer
for a wife?” Then they laughed at him, and said, it
would be well if Katherine did not send him a worse
answer. And now it was Hortensio’s turn to send for
his wife ; and he said to his servant, “Go, and entreat
my wife to come to me.” “Oh ho! entreat her!”
said Petruchio. “Nay, then, she needs must come.”
“Tam afraid, sir,” said Hortensio, “your wife will not
be entreated.” But presently this civil husband looked
a little blank, when the servant returned without his
mistress ; and he said to him, “How now! Where is
my wife?” “Sir,” said the servant, “ my mistress says,
you have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore she
will not come. She bids you come to her.” “Worse
and worse!” said Petruchio; and then he sent his
servant, saying, “Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell
her I command her to come to me.” The company
had scarcely time to think she would not obey this
summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed,
“Now, by my hollidam, here comes Katherine!”
and she entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, “ What
is your will, sir, that you send for me?” “Where is
your sister and Hortensio’s wife?” saidhe. Katherine
replied, “They sit conferring by the parlour fire.”
“Go, fetcn them hither,” said Petruchio. Away went
Taming of the Shrew. 24t

Katlierine without reply to perform her husband’s
command. “Here is a wonder,” said Lucentio, “if
you talk of a wonder.” “And so it is,” said Hor
tensio; “I marvel what it bodes.” “ Marry, peace it
bodes,” said Petruchio, “ and love, and quiet life, and
right supremacy; and to be short, everything that is
sweet and happy.” Katherine’s father, overjoyed to
¢ee this reformation in his daughter, said, “ Now, fair
befall thee, son Petruchio! you have won the wager,
and I will.add another twenty thousand crowns to her
dowry, as if she were another daughter, for she. is
changed as if she had never been.” “ Nay,” said
Petruchio, “I will win the wager better yet, and show
more signs of her new-built virtue and obedience.”
Katherine now entering with the two ladies, he con-
tinued, “See where she comes, and brings your fro-
ward wives as prisoners to her womanly persuasion.
Katherine, that cap of yours does not become you;
off with that bauble, and throw it under foot.” Ka-
therine instantly took off her cap, and threw it down.
“Lord!” said Hortensio’s wife, ‘ may I never have a
cause to sigh till I am brought to such a silly pass!”
And Bianca, she too said, “Fie, what foolish duty
call you this?” On this Bianca’s husband said to
her, “I wish your duty were as foolish too! The
wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has cost me a
hundred crowns since dinner-time.” “The more fool
you,” said Bianca, “for laying on my duty.” “Ka-
therine,” said Petruchio, “I charge you tell these
headstrong women what duty they owe their lords
wnd husbands.” And, to the wonder of all present,
the reformed shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in
praise of the wifelike duty of obedience, as she had
R
242 Tales from Shakspeare.

practised it implicitly in a ready submission to Pe. -
truchio’s will, And Katherine once more became
famous in Padua, not as heretofore, as Katherine the
Shrew, but as Katherine the most obedient and duteous
wife in Padua.

Twelfth Night. 594

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

SEBASTIAN and his sister Viola, a young gentleman
and lady of Messaline, were twins, and (which was
accounted a great wonder) from their birth they so
much resembled each other, that, but for the difference
in their dress, they could not be known apart. They
were both born in one hour, and in one hour they
were both in danger of perishing, for they were ship-
wrecked on the coast of Illyria as they were making
a sea-voyage together. The ship, on board of which
they were, split on a rock in a violent storm, and a
very small number of the ship’s company escaped with
their lives. The captain of the vessel, with a few of
the sailors that were saved, got to land in a small boat,
and with them they brought Viola safe on shore,
where she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own
deliverance, began to lament her brother’s loss; but
the captain comforted her with the assurance that he
had seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten him-
self to a strong mast, on which, as long as he could
see anything of him for the distance, he perceived him
borne up above the waves. Viola was much consoled
by the hope this account gave her, and now considered
how she was to dispose of herself in a strange country,
so far from home; and she asked the captain if he
knew anything of Illyria. “ Ay, very well, madam,”

R2
244 Fates from Shakspeare.

replied the captain, “for I was born not three hours’
travel from this place.” ‘Who governs here?” said
Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by
Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well as dignity.
Viola said, she had heard her father speak of Orsino,
and that he was unmarried then. “And he is so
now,” said the captain; “or was so very lately, for
but a month ago I went from here, and then it was
the general talk (as you know what great ones do, the
people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love of
fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a coun,
who died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the
protection of her brother, who shortly after died also ;
and for the love of this dear brother, they say, she has
abjured the sight and company of men.” Viola, who
was herself in such a sad affliction for her brother’s
loss, wished she could live with this lady, who so
tenderly mourned a brother’s death. She asked the
captain if he could introduce her to Olivia, saying she
would willingly serve this lady. But he replied, this
would be a hard thing to accomplish, because the lady
Olivia would admit no person into her house since
her brother’s death, not even the duke himself. Then
Viola formed another project in her mind, which was,
in a man’s habit to serve the duke Orsino as a page.
It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on male
attire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and unpro-
tected state of Viola, who was young and of uncom-
mon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must plead
her excuse.

She having siees afair behaviour in the captain,
and that he showed a friendly concern for her welfare,
entrusted him with her design, and he readily engaged
to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed
Twelfth Night. 24

him to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her
clothes to be made of the same colour and in the same
fashion her brother Sebastian used to wear; and when
she was dressed in her manly garb, she looked so
exactly like her brother, that some strange errors hap-
pened by means of their being mistaken for each .
other; for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was
also saved.

Viola’s good frierid, the captain, when he had trans-
formed this pretty lady into a gentleman, having some
interest at court, got her presented to Orsino under the
feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully
pleased with the address and graceful deportment of
this handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his
pages, that being the office Viola wished to obtain :
and she so well fulfilled the duties of her new station,
and showed such a ready observance and faithful
attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most
favoured attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the
whole history of his love for the lady Olivia. To
Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit he had
made to one, who, rejecting his long services, and
despising his person, refused to admit him to her
presence ; and for the love of this lady who had so
unkindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the
sports of the field, and all manly exercises in which he
used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth,
listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle
airs, and passionate love-songs; and neglecting the
company of the wise and learned lords with whom he
used to associate, he was now all day long conversing
with young Cesario. Unmeet companion, no doubt,
his grave courtiers thought Cesario was for their once
noble master, the great duke Orsine
246 Zales from Shakspeare.

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to
be the confidants of handsome young dukes: whick
Viola too soon found to her sorrow, for all that Orsina
told her he endured for Olivia, she presently per-
ceived she suffered for the love of him: and much
it moved her wonder, that Olivia could be so regard-
less of this her peerless lord and master, whom she
thought no one should behold without the deepest
admiration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino,
that it was pity he should affect a lady who was so
blind to his worthy qualities; and she said, “If a
lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia
(and perhaps there may be one who does), if you
could not love her in return, would you not tell her
that you could not love, and must not she be content
with this answer?” But Orsino would not admit of
. this reasoning, for he denied that it was possible for
any woman to love as he did. He said, no woman’s .
heart was big-enough to hold so much love, and
therefore it was unfair to compare the love of any
lady for him, to his love for Olivia. Now, though
Viola had the utmost deference for the duke’s opinions,
she could not help thinking this was not quite true,
for she thought her heart had full as much love in it
as Orsino’s had ; and she said, “ Ah, but I know, my
lord.” “What do you know, Cesario?” said Orsino. ~
“Too well I know,” replied Viola, “ what love women
may owe to men. They are as true of heart as we
are. My father had a daughter loved a man, as I
perhaps, were I a woman, should love your lordship.”
“ And what is her history?” said Orsino. ‘A blank,
my lord,” replied Viola: “she never told her love,
but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, prey on
her damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a




Twelfth Night. 247

green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience
bn a monument, smiling at grief” The duke in
quired if this lady died of her love, but to this ques-
tion Viola returned an evasiye answer; as probably
she had feigned the story, to speak words expressive
of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for
Drsino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered
whom the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, “So
please you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the
lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this
answer: Until seven years hence, the element itself
shall not behold her face; but like a cloistress she
will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her tears _
for the sad remembrance of her dead brother.” On
hearing this, the duke exclaimed, “O she that hasa
heart of this fine frame, to paythis debt of love toa dead
brother, how will she love, when the rich golden shaft .
has touched her heart!” And then he said to Viola,
“You know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets
of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to Olivia’s
house. Be not denied access’; stand at the doors,

' and tell her there your fixed foot shall grow till you

have audience.” “ And if I do speak to her, my lord,
what then?” said Viola. ‘O then,” replied Orsino,
“unfold to her the passion of my love. Make a long
discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well become
you to act my woes, for she will attend more to you
than to one of graver aspect.”

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she
undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady
to become a wife to him she wished to marry: but
having undertaken the affair, she performed it with
fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at
248 Tales from Shakspeare.

her door who insisted upon being admitted to her
presence. “I told him,” said the servant, “that you
were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore
he came to speak with you. I told him that you
were asleep: he seemed to have a foreknowledge of
that too, and said, that therefore he must speak with
you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems
fortified against all denial, and will speak with you,
whether you will or no.” Olivia, curious to see who
this peremptory messenger might be, desired he might
be.admitted ; and throwing her veil over her face, she
said she would once more hear Orsino’s embassy, not
doubting but that he came from the duke, by his iny
portunity. Viola entering, put on the most manly air
she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier’s
language of great men’s pages, she said to the veiled
lady, “ Most radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty,
I pray you tell me if you are the lady of the house:
for I should be sorry to cast away my speech upon
another ; for besides that it is excellently well penned,
I have taken great pains to learn it.” “Whence come
you sir?” said Olivia. “I can say little more than I
have studied,” replied Viola; “and that question is
out of my part.” “Are you a comedian?” said
Olivia. “No,” replied Viola ; -“and yet I.am not
that which I play;” meaning, that she being a
woman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she
asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia
said she was ; and then Viola, having more curiosity
to see her rival’s features than haste to deliver her
master’s message, said, “Good madam, let me see
your face.” With this bold request Olivia was not
averse to comply: for this haughty beauty, whom the
duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sight
Lweyth Night. 249

conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble
Cesario.

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said,
“Have you any commission from your lord and
master to negotiate with my face?” And then, for-
getting her determination to go veiled for seven long
years, she drew aside her veil, saying, “ But I will
draw the curtain and show the picture. Is it not well
done?” Viola replied, “It is beauty truly mixed ;
the red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature’s
own cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel
lady living, if you will lead these graces to the grave,
and leave the world no copy.” “O, sir,” replied
Olivia, “I will not be so cruel. The world may have
an inventory of my beauty. As, dem, two lips, in-
different red ; zfem, two grey eyes, with lids to them;
one neck; one chin, and so forth. Were you sent
here to praise me?” Viola replied, “I see what
you are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My
lord and master loves you. O such a love could but
be recompensed, though you were crowned the queen
of beauty : for Orsino loves you with adoration and
with tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs
of fire.” “ Your lord,” said Olivia, “knows well my
mind. I cannot iove him; yet I doubt not he is
virtuous ; I know him to be noble and of high estate,
of fresh and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him
learned, courteous, and valiant ; yet I cannot love him,
he might have taken his answer long ago.” “IfI did
love you as my master does,” said Viola, “I would
make me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon
your name.. I would write complaining sonnets on
Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the night: your
name should sound among the hills, and I would make
250 Zales from Shakspeare.

Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out Of#via.
O you should not rest between the elements of earth
and air, but you should pity me.” “You might do
much,” said Olivia; “what is your parentage?”
Viola replied, “ Above my fortunes, yet my state is
well. I am a gentleman.” Olivia now reluctantly
dismissed Viola, saying, “Go to your master, and tell
him, I cannot love him. Let him send no more
unless perchance you come again to tell me how he
takes it.” And Viola departed, bidding the lady fare-
well by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was
gone, Olivia repeated the words, Above my fortunes,
yet my state is well, Tama gentleman. And she said
aloud, “I will be sworn he is; his tongue, his face,
his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he is a
gentleman.” And then she wished Cesario was the
duke ; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken on
her affections, she blamed herself for her sudden love ;
but the gentle blame which people lay upon their own
faults has no deep root: and presently the noble lady
Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes
and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly
reserve which is the chief ornament of a lady’s cha-
racter, that she resolved to court the love of young
Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond
ring, under the pretence that he had left it with her
asa present from Orsino. She hoped, by thus artfully
making Cesario a present of the ring, she should give
him some intimation of her design; and truly it did
make Viola suspect; for knowing that Orsino had
sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that
Olivia’s looks and manner were expressive of admi-
ration, and she presently guessed her master’s mistress
had fallen in love with he~ “Alas, said she, “ the
Twelfth Night. 251

poor lady might as well love a dream. --Disguise I see
is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruit-
less sighs for me, as I do for Orsino.”

Viola returned to Orsino’s palace, and related to
ner lord the ill success of the negotiation, repeating
the command of Olivia, that the duke should trouble
her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping
that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to per-
suade her to show.some pity, and therefore he bade
him he should go to her again the next day. In the
mean time, to pass away the tedious intervals, he com-
manded a song which he loved to be sung; and he
said, ‘‘My good Cesario, when I heard that song last
night, methought it did relieve my passion much,
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters
and the knitters when they sit in the sun, and the
young maids that weave their thread with bone, chant
this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the
innocence of love in the old times.”

SONG.

Come away, come away, Death, |
And in sad cypress let me be laid ;
Fly away, fly away, breath,
fam slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it,
My part of death no one so true did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, !
On my black coffin let there be strown :
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown,
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there,

Viola did not, fail to mark the words of the ola
song, which in such true simplicity described the
pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony in
252 Tales from Shakspeare.

her countenance of feeling what the song expressed.
Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said t -
ner, “My life upon it, Cesario, though you are so
young, your eye has looked upon some face that it
loves; has it not, boy?” “A little, with your leave,”
replied Viola. “And what kind of woman, and of
what age is she?” said Orsino. “Of your age, and
of your complexion, my lord,” said Viola; which
made the duke smile to hear this fair young boy
loved a woman so much older than himself, and sf
a man’s dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant
Orsino, and not a woman like him.

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she
found no difficulty in gaining access to her. Servants
soon discover when their ladies delight to converse
with handsome young messengers; and the instant
Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and .
the duke’s page was shown into Olivia’s apartment
with great respect; and when Viola told Olivia that
she was come once more to plead in her lord’s behalf.
this lady said, “I desire you never to speak of him
again ; but if you would undertake another suit, I had
zather hear you solicit, than music from the spheres.”
This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon ex-
vlained herself still more plainly, and openly confessed
ner love; and when she saw displeasure with per-
plexity expressed in Viola’s face, she said, “O wnat
a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and
anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
by maidhood honour, and by truth, I love you so,
that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor
reason. {9 conceal my passion.” But in vain the lady
wooed ; Viola hastened from her presence, threatening
never more to come to plead Orsino’s love; and all
Twelfth Night. 25%

the reply she made to Olivia’s fond solicitations was a
declaration of a resolution JVever to love any woman.
No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was
‘made upon her valour. A gentleman, a rejected
suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had
favoured the duke’s messenger, challenged him to
fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, who,
though she carried a manlike outside, had a true
woman’s heart, and feared to look on her own
sword !
When she saw her formidable rival advancing
towards her with his sword drawn, she began to
think of confessing that she was a woman; but she
was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame
of such a discovery, by a stranger that was passing
by, who made up to them, and as if he had been long
known to her, and were her dearest friend, said to
her opponent, “If this young gentleman has done’
offence, I will take the fault on me; and if you
offend him, I will for his sake defy you.” Before
Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to
inquire the reason of his kind interference, her new
friend met with an enemy where his bravery was of
no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up
in that instant, apprehended the stranger in the duke’s
name to answer for an offence he had committed
some years before; and he said to Viola, “This
comes with seeking you;” and then he -asked her
for a purse, saying, “Now my necessity makes me
ask for my purse, and it grieves me much more for
what I cannot do for you, than for what befalls my-
self You stand amazed, but be of comfort.” His
words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested
‘she knew him not, nor had ever received a purse
254 Zales from Shakspeare

from him; but for the kindness he had just shown
her, she offered him a small sum of money, beimg,
nearly the whole she possessed. And now the stran-
ger spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude
and unkindness. He said, “This youth whom you
see here, I snatched from the jaws of death, and for
his sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen
into this. danger.” But the officers cared little for
hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and
they hurried him off, saying, “ What is that to us?”
And as he was carried away, he called Viola by the
name of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebas-
tian for disowning his friend, as long as he was within
hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian,
though the stranger was taken away too hastily for
her to ask an explanation, she conjectured that this
seeming mystery might arise from her being mistaken
for her brother; and she began to cherish hopes that .
it was her brother whose life this man said he had
preserved. And so indeed it was. The stranger,
whose name was Anthonio, was a sea-captain. He
had taken Sebastian up .into. his ship, when, almost
exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to
which he had fastened himself in the storm. Anthonio
conceived such a friendship for Sebastian, that he re-
solved to accompany him whithersoever he went; ana
when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino’s
court, Anthonio, rather than part from him, came to
Illyria, though he knew, if his person should be
known there, his life would be in danger, because in
a sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the
duke Orsino’s. nephew. This was the offence for
which he was now made a prisoner.

Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together but a
Twelfth Night. 255

few hours before Anthonic met Viola. He had given
_ his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if
he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him
he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian wert to
view the town: but Sebastian not returning at’ the
time appointed, Anthonio had ventured out to look
for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in
face so exactly resembling her brother, Anthonio
drew his sword (as he thought) in defence of the
youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as he sup-
posed) disowned him, and denied him his own purse,
‘10 wonder he accused him of ingratitude.

Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a second
invitation to fight, slunk home as fast as she could.
She had not long gone, when her adversary thought
he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian
who happened to arrive at this place, and he said,
“Now, sir, have I met with you again? There’s for
you;” and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no
coward; he returned the blow with interest, and
drew his sword.

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came
out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for
Cesario, invited him to come into her house, expres-
sing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with.
Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the cour- -
tesy of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown
foe, yet he went very willingly into the house, and
Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought
him) become more ‘sensible of her attentions; for ;
though their features were exactly the same, there was
none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his
face, which she had complained of when she told her
tove to Cesario.
256 Tales from Shakspeare.

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the
lady lavished on him. He seemed to take it in very
good part, yet he wondered how it had come to pass,
and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in
her right senses ; but perceiving that she was mistress
of a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and
seemed to govern her family discreetly, and that in
all but her sudden love for him she appeared in the
full possession of her reason, he well approved of the
courtship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good
humour, and fearing he might change his mind, pro:
posed that, as she had a priest in the house, they
should be instantly married. Sebastian assented to
this proposal; and when the marriage ceremony was
over, he left his lady for a short time, intending to go
and tell his friend Anthonio the good fortune that he
had met with. In the mean time Orsino came to visit
Olivia, and at the moment he arrived before Olivia’s
house, the officers of justice brought their prisoner,
Anthonio, before the duke. ‘Viola was with Orsino,
“her master; and when Anthonio saw Viola, whom he
still imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in
what manner he had rescued this youth from the
perils of the sea; and after fully relating all. the
kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended
his complaint with saying, that for three months, both
day and night, this ungrateful youth had been with
him. But now the lady Olivia coming forth from her
house, the duke could no longer attend to Anthonio’s
story ; and he said, “ Here comes the countess: now
Heaven walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy
words are madness. Three months has this youth
attended on me:” and then he ordered Anthonio to
be taken aside. But Orsino’s heavenly countess soon
Twelfth Night. 257

gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of
ingratitude as Anthonio had done, for all the words
he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness
to Cesario ; and when he found his page had obtained
this high place in Olivia’s favour he threatened him
with all the terrors of his just revenge; and as he
was going to depart, he called Viola to follow him,
saying, “Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are
ripe for mischief.” Though it seemed in his jealous
age he was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet
her love made her no longer a coward, and she said
she would most joyfully suffer death to give her
master ease. But Olivia would not so lose her
husband, and she cried, “ Where goes my Cesario?”
Viola replied, “ After him I love more than my life.”
Olivia, however, prevented their departure by loudly
proclaiming that Cesario was her husband, and sent
for the priest, who declared that not two hours had
passed since he had married the lady Olivia to this
young man. In vain Viola protested she was not
married to Olivia ; the evidence of that lady and the
priest made Orsino believe that his page had robbed
him of the treasure he prized above his life. But
thinking that it was past recall, he was bidding
farewell to his faithless mistress, and the young
dissembler, her husband, as he called Viola, warning
her never to come in his sight agaiti, when (as it
seemed to. them) a miracle appeared! for another
Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife.
This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of
Olivia; and when their wonder had a little ceased
at seeing two persons with the same face, the same
voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister
began to question each other, for Viola cculd scarce
5
358 Tales from Shakspeare.

be persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebas-
tian knew not how to account for the sister he
supposed drowned being found in the habit of a
young man. But Viola presently acknowledged that
she was indeed Viola and his sister under that dis-
guise.

When all the errors were cleared up which the
extreme likeness between this twin brother and sister
had occasioned, they laughed at the lady Olivia for the
pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with
a woman; and Olivia showed no dislike to her ex-
change, when she found she had wedded the brother
instead of the sister.

The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an.end by this
marriage of Olivia, and with his hopes, all his fruitless
love seems to vanish away, and all his thoughts were
fixed on the event of his favourite, young Cesario,
being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with
great attention, and he remembered how very hand-
some he had always thought Cesario was, and he con-
cluded she would look very beautiful In a woman’s
attire ; and then he remembered how often she had
said she loved him, which at the time seemed only
the dutiful expressions of a faithful page, but now he
guessed that something more was meant, for many of
her pretty sayings, which were like riddles to him,
came now into his mind, and he no sooner remembered
all these things than he resolved to make Viola his
wife ; and he said to her (he still could not help calling
her Cesario and doy), “ Boy, you have said to mea
thousand times that you should never love a woman
like to me, and for the faithful service you have done
for me so much beneath your soft and tender breed-
ing, and since you have called me master sq long you
Twelfth Night. 259

shall now be your master’s mistress, and Orsino’s true
duchess.”

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that
heart, which she had so ungraciously rejected, to
Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered
the assistance of the good priest, who had married her
to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same
ceremony in the remaining part of the day for Orsino
and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were
both wedded on the same day; the storm and ship-
wreck, which had separated them, being the means
of bringing to pass their high and mighty fortunes,
Viola was the wife of Orsino, the duke of Illyria, and
Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess,
the lady Olivia.


260 Tales fram Shakspeare.

PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE.

PeRIcLEs, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile
from his dominions, to avert the dreadful calamities
which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of Greece,
threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre,
in revenge for a discovery which the prince had made
of a shocking deed which the emperor had done in
secret ; as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into
the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the govern-
ment of his people in the hands of his able and honest
minister, Hellicanus, Pericles set sail from Tyre,
thinking to absent himself till the wrath of Antiochus,
who was mighty, should be appeased.

The first place which the prince directed his course
to was Tharsus, and hearing that the city of*Tharsus
was at that time suffering under a severe famine, he
took with him store of provisions for its relief. On
his arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost
distress ; and, he coming like a messenger from heaven
with this unhoped-for succour, Cleon, the governor of
Tharsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks. Pericles
. had not been here many days, before letters came
from his faithful minister, warning him that it was not
safe for him to siay at Tharsus, for Antiochus knew of
his abode, and by secret emissaries, dispatched for
that purpose, sought his life. Upon receipt of these
letters Pericles put out to sea again, amidst the bles-


Pericles. c 261
sings and prayers of a whole people who had been fed
by his bounty.

He had not sailed far, when his ship was overtaken
by a dreadful storm, and every man on board perished
except Pericles, who was cast by the seawaves naked
on an unknown shore, where he had not wandered
long before he met with some poor fishermen, who
invited him to their homes, giving him clothes and
provisions. The fishermen told Pericles the name of
their country was Pentapolis, and that their king was
Symonides, commonly called the good Symonides,
because of his peaceable reign and good government.
From them he also learned that king Symonides had
a fair young daughter, and that the following day was
her birthday, when a grand tournament was to be
held at court, many princes and knights being come
from all parts to try their skill in arms for the love
of Thaisa, this fair princess, While the prince was
listening to this account, and secretly lamenting the
loss of his good armour, which disabled him from
making one among these valiant knights, another
fisherman brought in a complete suit of armour that
he had taken out of the sea with his fishing net, which
‘proved to ‘be the very armour he had lost. When
Pericles beheld his own armour, he said, “Thanks,
Fortune ; after all my crosses. you give me somewhat
to repair myself. This armour was bequeathed to me
by my dead father, for whose dear sake I have so loved
it, that whithersoever I went, I still have kept it by
me, and the rough sea that parted it from me, having
now become calm, hath given it back again, for which
[ thank it, for, since I have my father’s gift again, I
think my shipwreck no misfortune.”

The next day Pericles. clad in his hrave father’s
262 Zales from Shakspeare.

armour, repaired to the royal court of Symonides,
where he performed wonders at the tournament, van-
quishing with ease all the brave knights and valiant
princes who contended with him in arms for the
honour of Thaisa’s love. When brave warriors con-
‘tended at court-tournaments for the love of kings’
daughters, if one proved sole victor over all the rest,
it was usual for the great lady for whose sake these
deeds of valour were undertaken, to bestow all her
respect upon the conqueror, and Thaisa did not
depart from this custom, for she presently dismissed
all the princes and knights whom Pericles had van-
quished, and distinguished him by her especial favour
and regard, crowning him with the wreath of. victory,
as king of that day’s happiness ; and Pericles became
a most passionate lover of this beauteous princess
from the first moment he beheld her.
- The good Symonides so well approved of the valour
and noble qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most
accomplished gentleman, and well learned in all
excellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of
this royal stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus
gave out that he was a private gentleman of Tyre),
yet did not Symonides disdain to accept of the valiant
unknown for a son-in-law, when he perceived his |
daughter’s affections were firmly fixed upon him. :
Pericles had not been many months married to
Thaisa, before he received intelligence that his enemy
Antiochus was dead; and that his subjects of Tyre,
impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt,
and talked of placing Heliicanus upon his vacant
throne. This news came from Hellicanus himself,
who being a loyal subject to his royal master, would
not accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent to
Pericles, 263

let Pericles know their intentions, that he might return
home and resume his lawful right. It was matter of
great surprise and joy to Symonides, to find that his
son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the renowned
prince of Tyre; yet again he regretted that he was
not the private gentleman he supposed him to be,
seeing that he must now part both with his admired
son-in-law, and his beloved daughter, whom he feared
to trust to the perils of the sea, because Thaisa was
with child ; and Pericles himself wished her to remain
with her father till after her confinement, but the poor
lady so earnestly desired to go with her husband, that
at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyre
before she was brought to bed.

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy
Pericles, for long before they reached Tyre another
dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified Thaisa that
she was taken ill, and in a short space of time her
nurse Lychorida came to Pericles with a little child in
her arms, to tell the prince the sad tidings that his
wife died the moment her little babe was born, She
held the babe towards its father, saying, “ Here is a
thing too young for such a place. This is the child
of your dead queen.” No tongue can tell the dreadfui
sufferings of Pericles when he heard his wife was dead.
As soon as he could speak, he said, “ O you gods, why
do you make us love your goodly gifts, and then
snatch those gifts away?” ‘Patience, good sir,” said
Lychorida, “ here is all that is left alive of our dead
queen, a little daughter, and for your child’s sake be
more manly. Patience, good sir, even for the sake of
this precious charge.” Pericles took the new-born
infant in his arms, and he said to the little babe, “Now
may your life be mild, for a more blusterous birth had
264 Tales from Shakspeare.

never babe! May your condition be mild and gentle,
for you have had the rudest welcome that ever prince’s
child did meet with! May that which follows be
happy, for you have had as chiding a nativity as fire,
air, water, earth, and heaven, could make, to herald
you from the womb! Even at the first, your loss,”
meaning in the death of her mother, “is more than all
the joys which you shall find upon this earth, to
which you are come a new visitor, shall be able to
- recompense.”

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and
the sailors having a superstition that while a dead
body remained in the ship the storm would never
cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his queen
should be thrown overboard; and they said, “What
courage, sir? God save you!” “Courage enough,”
said the sorrowing prince: “I do not fear the storm ;
it has done to me its worst; yet for the love of this
poor infant, this fresh new sea-farer, I wish the storm
was over.” “Sir,” said the sailors, “your queen
must overboard. The sea works high, the wind is
loud, and the storm will not abate till the ship be
cleared of the dead.” Though Pericles knew how
weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he
patiently submitted, saying, “As you think meet.
Then she must overboard, most wretched queen!” '
And now this unhappy prince went to take a last view
of his dear wife, and as he looked upon his Thaisa,
he said, “A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear ;
no light, no fire, the unfriendly elements forgot thee
utterly, nor have I time to bring thee hallowed to thy
grave, but must cast thee scarcely coffined into the
sea, where for a monument upon thy bones the hum- ~
ming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with
Lericdes, 265

simple shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor bring me
spices, ink, and paper, my casket and my jewels, and
bid Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay the
babe upon the pillow, and go about this suddenly,
Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my
‘Thaisa.”

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrap-
ped in a satin shroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-
smelling spices he strewed over her, and beside her
he placed rich jewels, and a written paper, telling who
she was, and praying if haply any one should find the
chest which contained the body of his wife, they
would give her burial: and then with his own hands
4e cast the chest into the sea. When the storm was
over, Pericles ordered the sailors to make for Tharsus.
“For,” said Pericles, “the babe cannot hold out till
we come to Tyre. At Tharsus I will leave it at
careful nursing.”

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was
thrown into the sea, and while it was yet early morn-
ing, as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman of Ephesus, and
a most skilful physician, was standing by the sea-side,
his servants brought to him a chest, which they said
the sea-waves had thrown on the land. “TI never
saw,” said one of them, “so huge a billow as cast it
on our shore.” Cerimon ordered the chest to be
conveyed to his own house, and when it was opened
he beheld with wonder the body of a young and
lovely lady ; and the sweet-smelling spices, and rich
casket of jewels, made him conclude it was some great
person who was thus strangely entombed : searching
further, he discovered a paper, from which he learned
that the corpse which lay as dead before him had
been a queen, and wife to Pericles, prince of Tyre;
266 Tales from. Shakspeare.

and much adiniring at the strangeness of that accident,
and more pitying the husband who had lost this sweet
lady, he said, “If you are living, Pericles, you. have
a heart that even cracks with woe.” Then observing
attentively Thaisa’s face, he saw how fresh and unlike
death her looks were; and he said, “They were too
hasty that threw you into the sea:” for he did not
believe her to be dead. He ordered a fire to be
made, and proper cordials to be brought, and soft
music to be played, which might help to calm her
amazed spirits if she should revive; and he said to
those who crowded round her, wondering at what they
saw, “I pray you, gentlemen, give her air; this queen
will live; she has not been entranced above five hours;
and see, she begins to blow into life again; she is
alive; behold, her eyelids move; this fair creature
will live to make us weep to hear her fate.” Thaisa
had never died, but after the birth of her little baby
had fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that saw
her conclude her to be dead ; and now by the care of
this kind gentleman she once more revived to light
and life; and opening her eyes she said, “ Where am
I? Where is my lord? What world is this?” By
gentle degrees Cerimon let her understand what had
befallen her ; and when he thought she was enough
recovered to bear the sight, he showed her the paper
‘written by her husband, and the jewels; and she
-ooked on the paper, and said, “It is my lord’s writing.
That I was shipped at sea, I well remember, but
whether there delivered of my babe, by the holy gods I
cannot rightly say ; but since my wedded lord I never
shall see again, I will put on a vestal livery, and never
more have joy.” “Madam,” said Cerimon, “if you
purpose as you speak, the temple of Diana is not far
Pericles. 264

distant from hence, there you may abide as a vestal.
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there
attend you.” This proposal was accepted with thanks
by Thaisa; and when she was perfectly recovered,
Cerimon placed her in the temple of Diana, where
she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and
passed her days in sorrowing for her husband’s sup-
posed loss, and in the most devout exercises of those
times,

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he
named Marina, because she was born at sea) to
Tharsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the
governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking,
for the good he had done to them at the time of their
famine, they would be kind to his little motherless
daughter. When Cleon saw prince Pericles, and heard
of the great loss which had befallen him, he said, ‘ O
your sweet queen, that it had pleased heaven you
could have brought her hither to have blessed my eyes
with the sight of her!” Pericles replied, “We must
obey the powers above us. Should I rage and roar
as the sea does in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end
must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here, I
must charge your charity with her. I leave her the
infant of your care, beseeching you to give her princely
training.” And then turning to Cleon’s wife, Dio-
nysia, he said, “Good madam, make me blessed in
your care in bringing up my child:” and she an-
swered, “I have a child myself who shall not be
more dear to my respect than yours, my lord ;” and
Cleon made the like promise, saying, “Your noble
services, prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people
with your corn (for which in their prayers they daily
remember you) must in your child be thought on,
268 Tales frou Shakspeare.

If I should neglect your child, my whole people that
were by you relieved would force me to my duty;
but if to that I need a spur, the gods revenge it on me
and mine to the end of generation.” Pericles being
thus assured that his child would be carefully attended
to, left her to the protection of Cleon, and his wife
Dionysia, and with her he left the nurse Lychorida.
When he went away, the little Marina knew not her
loss, but Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her
royal master. “O,no tears, Lychorida,” said Peri-
cles; “no tears ; look to your little mistress, on whose
grace you may depend hereaftere”

Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once
more settled-in the quiet possession of his throne,
while his woful queen, whom he thought dead, re-
mained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, whom
this hapless mother had never seen, was brought up
by Cleon in a manner suitable to her high birth. He
gave her the most careful education, so that by the
time Marina attained the age of fourteen years, the
most deeply-learned men were not more studied in
the learning of those times than was Marina. She
sung like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like,
and with her needle she was so skilful that she seemed
to compose nature’s own shapes, in birds, fruits, or
flowers, the natural roses being scarcely more like to
each other than they were to Marina’s silken flowers.
But when she had gained from education all these
graces, which made her the general wonder, Dionysia,
the wife of Cleon, became her mortal enemy from
jealousy, by reason that her own daughter, from the
slowness of her mind, was not able to attain to that
perfection wherein Marina excelled : and finding that
all praise was bestowed on Marina, whilst her daughter,
Lericles. 26g

who was of the same age, and had been educated with
the same care as Marina, though not with the same
success, was in comparison disregarded, she formed
a project to remove Marina out of the way, vainly
imagining that her untoward daughter would be more
respected when Marina was no more seen. To en-
compass this she employed a man to murder Marina,
and she well timed her wicked design, when Lycho-
rida, the faithful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was
discoursing with the man she had commanded to
commit this murder, when the young Marina was
weeping over the dead Lychorida. Leoline, the man
she employed to do this bad deed, though he was a
very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to under-
take it, so had Marina won all hearts to love her.
He said, “She is a goodly creature!” “The fitter
then the gods should have her,” replied her merciless
enemy: “here she comes weeping for the death of
her nurse Lychorida : are you resolved to obey me?”
Leoline, fearing to disobey her, replied, “I am re-
solved.” And so, in that one short sentence, was the
matchless Marina doomed to an untimely death. She
now approached, with a basket of flowers in her hand,
which, she said, she would daily strew over the grave
of good Lychorida. The purple violet and the mari-
gold should as a carpet hang upon her grave, while
summer days did last. “Alas, for me!” she said,
“poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my
mother died. This world to me is like a lasting storm,
hurrying me from my friends.” ‘“ How now, Marina,”
said the dissembling Dionysia, “do you weep alone ?
How does it chance-my daughter is not with you? Do
not sorrow for Lychorida, you have a nurse in me.
Your beauty is quite changed with this unprofitable
240 Lales from Shakspeare.

- woe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air will
spoil them; and walk with Leoline: the air is fine,
and will enliven you. Come, Leoline, take her by
the arm, and walk with her.” “No, madam,” said
Marina, “I pray you let me not deprive you of your
servant ;” for Leoline was one of Dionysia’s attend-
ants. “Come, come,” said this artful woman, who
wished for a pretence to leave her alone with Leoline,
“T love the prince, your father, and I love you. We
every day expect your father here; and when he
comes, and finds you so changed by grief from the
paragon of beauty we reported you, he will think we
have taken no care of you. Go, I pray you, walk, and
‘be cheerful once again. Be careful of that excellent
complexion, which stole the hearts of old and young.”
Marina, being thus importuned, said, “Well, I will go,
but yet I have no desire to it.” As Dionysia walked
away, she said to Leoline, “Remember what I have
said /”"—shocking words, for their meaning was that
he should remember to kill Marina.
Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and
said, “Is the wind westerly that blows?” ‘“South-
west,” replied Leoline. “When I was born the
wind was north,” said she: and then the storm and
tempest, and all her “father’s sorrows, and her
mother’s death, came full into her mind; and she
said, “My father, as Lychorida told me, did never -
fear, but cried, Courage, good seamen, to the sailors,
galling his princely hands with the ropes, and, clasping
to the mast, he endured a sea that almost split the
deck.” “When was this?” said Leoline. “When
I was born,” replied Marina: “never were waves nor
wind more violent.” And then she described the
storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswain’s


Pericles, 291

whistle, and the loud call of the master, “ Which,”
said she, “trebled the confusion of the ship.” Lycho.
rida had so often recounted to Marina the story of her
hapless birth, that these things seemed ever present
to her imagination, But here Leoline interrupted her
_ with desiring her to say her prayers. “What mean

you?” said Marina, who began to fear, she knew not
why. “If you require a little space for prayer, I
grant it,” said Leoline; “but be not tedious; the
gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn to do my work
in haste.” “ Will you kill me?” said Marina; “alas!
why ?” “To satisfy my lady,” replied Leoline. “Why
would she have me killed ?” said Marina: “now, as I
can remember, I never hurt her in all my life. I never
spake bad word, nor did any ill tum to any living
creature. Believe me now, I never killed a mouse,
nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm once against my
will, but I wept for it. How have I offended?” The
murderer replied, “‘ My commission is not to reason
on the deed, but to do it.” And he was just going to
kill her, when certain pirates happened to land at that
very moment, who seeing Marina, bore her off as a
prize to their ship.

The pirate who had made Marina his prize, cbied
her to Metaline, and sold her for a slave, where,
’ though in that humble condition, Marina soon be-

came known throughout the whole city of Metaline
for her beauty and her virtues; and the person to
whom she was sold became rich by the money she
earned for him, She taught music, dancing, and fine
* needleworks, and the money she got by her scholars
she gave to her master and mistress ; and the fame of
her learning and her great industry came to the know-
ledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was the
272 Tales from Shakspeare.

governor of Metaline, and Lysimachus went himself
to the house where Marina dwelt, to see this para-
gon of excellence, whom all the city praised so
highly. “Her conversation delighted Lysimachus be-
yond measure, for though he had heard much of this
admired maiden, he did not expect to find her so
sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so good, as he
perceived Marina to be; and he left her, saying, he
hoped she would persevere in her industrious and
virtuous course, and that if ever she heard from him
again it should be for her good. lLysimachus thought
Marina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding, and
excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all out-
ward graces, that he wished to marry her, and not-
withstanding her humble situation, he hoped to find
that her birth was noble; but ever when they asked
her parentage, she would sit still and weep.
Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the anger
of Dionysia, told her he had killed Marina; and that
wicked woman gave out that she was dead, and made
a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately
monument; and shortly after Pericles, accompanied
by his loyal minister Hellicanus, made a voyage from
Tyre to Tharsus, on purpose to see his daughter, in-
tending to take her home with him; and, he never
having beheld her since he left her an infant in the
care of Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince
rejoice at the thoughts of seeing this dear child of his
buried queen! but when they told him Marina was
dead, and showed the monument they had erected for
her, great was the misery this most wretched father
endured, and not being able to bear the sight of that
country where his last hope and only memory of his
flear Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and hastily
Pericles, 273

departed from Tharsus, From the day he entered the
ship a dull and heavy melancholy seized him. He
never spoke, and seemed totally insensible to every-
thing around him.
Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in its course
passed by Metaline, where Marina dwelt ; the gover-
“nor of which place, Lysimachus, observing this royal
vessel from the shore, and desirous of knowing who
was on board, went in a barge to the side of the ship,
to satisfy his curiosity. Hellicanus received him very
courteously, and told him that the ship came from
Tyre, and that they were conducting thither, Pericles,
their prince; “A man, sir,” said Hellicanus, “ who
has not spoken to any one these three months, nor
taken any sustenance, but just to prolong his grief ;
it would be tedious to repeat the whole ground of his
distemper, but the main springs from the loss of a
beloved daughter and a wife.” Lysimachus begged
to see this afflicted prince, and when he beheld
Pericles, he saw he had been once a goodly person,
and he said to him, “Sir king, all hail, the gods
preserve you, hail royal sir!” But in vain Lysi-
machus spoke to him. Pericles made no answer, nor
did he appear to perceive any stranger approached.
And then Lysimachus bethought him of the peerless
maid Marina, that haply with her sweet tongue she
might win some answer from the silent prince: and
with the consent of Hellicanus he sent for Marina,
and when she entered the ship in which her own
father sat motionless with grief, they welcomed her
on board as if they had known she was their princess;
and they cried, “She is a gallant lady.” Lysimachus
was well pleased to hear their commendations, and he
zaid “She is such a one, that were I well assured she
r
and Tales froin Shakspeare.

came of noble birth, I would wish no: better choice,
and think me rarely blessed in a wife.” And then he
addressed her in courtly terms, as if the lowly-seem-
ing maid had been the high-born lady he wished to
find her, calling her Fair and beautiful Marina,
telling her a great prince on board that ship had
fallen into a sad and mournful silence; and as if
Marina’'had the power of conferring health and
felicity, he begged she would undertake to cure the
royal stranger of his melancholy. “Sir,” said Marina,
I will use my utmost skill in: his recovery,. provided
none but I and my maid be suffered to-ecome near
him.” ae
She, who at Metaline had so’ carefully concealed
her birth, ashamed to tell that one of royal ancestry
was now a slave, first. began to speak to Pericles of
the wayward changes in her own fate, telling him
from what a high estate herself had fallen. As if she
had known it was her royal father she stood before,
all the words she spoke were of her own sorrows,
but her reason for so doing was, that. she knew.
nothing more wins the attention of the unfortunate
than the recital of some sad calamity to: match: their’
own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused the
drooping prince; he lifted up his eyes, which: had
been so long fixed and motionless; and. Marina, who
was the perfect image of her mother, presented to his.
amazed sight the features of his beloved queen, ‘The
long-silent prince was once more heard to speak
“My dearest wife,” said the awakened Pericles, “ was
tke this maid, and such a one might my daughter
have been. My queen's square brows, her stature to
an inch, as wandlike straight, as silver-voiced, her
eyes as jewellike: Where do-you live, young maid? '
Pericles. 275

Report your parentage. I think you said you had
been tossed from wrong to injury, and that you
thought your griefs would equal mine, if both were
opened.” “Some such thing I said,” replied Marina,
“and said no more than what my thoughts did war
rant me as likely.” “Tell me your story,” answered
Pericles ; “if I find you have known the thousandth
-part of my endurance, you have borne your sorrows
like a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you
do look like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and
smiling Extremity out of act. How lost you your
name, my most kind virgin? Recount your stoty, I
beseech you. Come sit by me.” How was Pericles
surprised when she said her name was A@arina, for he
knew it-was no usual name, but had been invented
by himself for his own child to signify seaborn: “O,
Iam mocked,” said he, “and you are sent hither by
some incensed God to make the world laugh at me.”
“Patience, good sit,” said Marina, “or I must cease
here.” “Nay,” said Pericles, “I will be patient ; you
ttle know how you do startle me, to call yourself
Marina.” “The name,” she replied, “was given me
by one that had some power, my father, and a king.”
“ How, a king’s daughter!” said Pericles, “ and
called Marina! But are you flesh and blood? Are
you no fairy? Speak on; where were you born?
and wherefore called Marina?” She replied, “I
was called Marina, because I was born at sea. My
mother was the daughter of a king; she died the
minute I was born, as my good nurse Lychorida has
often told me weeping. The king my father left me
at Tharsus, till the cruel wife of Cleon sought to
murder me. A crew of pirates came and rescued meg
and brought me here to Metaline. But, good sir, why

T2
276 Tales from Shakspeare.

do you weep? It may be, you think me an impostor.
But indeed, sir, I am the daughter to king Pericles, if
good king Pericles be living.” Then Pericles, terrified
as it seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful if
this could be real, loudly called for his attendants,
who rejoiced at the sound of their beloved king’s
voice; and he said to Hellicanus, “O Hellicanus,
strike me, give me a gash, put me to present pain,
lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me, overbear
the shores of my mortality. O, come hither, thou
{hat was born at sea, buried at Tharsus, and found at
sea again. O Hellicanus, down on your knees, thank
the holy gods! This is Marina. Now blessings on
thee, my child! Give me fresh garments, mine own
Hellicanus! She is not dead at Tharsus, as she
should have been by the savage Dionysia. She shall
tell you all, when you shall kneel to her, and call
her your very princess. Who is this?” (observing
Lysimachus for the first time.) “Sir,” said Hellicanus,
“it is the governor of Metaline, who, hearing of your
melancholy, came to see you.” “I embrace you, sir,”
said Pericles. “Give me my robes! I am well with
beholding- O Heaven bless my girl! But hark!
what music is that+~” for now, either sent by some:
kind god, or by his own delighted fancy deceived, he
seemed to hear soft music. “ My lord, I hear none,”
replied Hellicanus. “None,” said Pericles ; ‘“ why, it
is the music of the spheres.” As there was no music
to be heard, Lysimachus concluded that the sudden
joy had unsettled the prince’s understanding ; and he
said, It is not good to cross him ; let him have his
way :” and then they told him they heard the music 5
and he now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming
over him, Lysimachus persuaded him to rest on a


Pericles. 277

couch, and placing a pillow under his head, he, quite
overpowered with excess of joy, sunk into a sound
sleep, and Marina watched in silence by the couch of
her sleeping parent.

While he slept,. Pericles dreamed a dream which
made him resolve to go to Ephesus. His dream was,
that Diana, the goddess of the Ephesians, appeared
to him, and commanded him to go to her temple at
Ephesus, and there before her altar to declare the
story of his life and misfortunes; and by her silver
bow she swore, that if he performed her injunction,
he should meet with some rare felicity, When he
awoke, being miraculously refreshed, he told his
dream, and that his resolution was to obey the bid-
ding of the goddess.

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on
shore, and refresh himself with such entertainment
as he should find at Metaline, which courteous offer
Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the
space of a day or two. During which time we may
well suppose what feastings, what rejoicings, what
costly shows and entertainments the governor made
in Metaline, to greet the royal father of his dear
Marina, whom in her obscure fortunes he had so
respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon Lysimachus’s
suit, when he understood how he had honoured his
child in the days of her low estate, and that Marna
shewed herself not averse to his proposals; only he
made it'a condition, before he gave his consent, that
they should visit with him the shrine of the Ephesian
Diana: to whose temple they shortly after all three
undertook a voyage ; and, the goddess herself filling
their sails with prosperous winds, after a few weeks
they arrived in safety at Ephesus.
278 Tales from Shakspeare.

There was standing near the altar of the goddess,
when Pericles with his train entered the temple, the
good Cerimon (now grown very aged) who had re-
stored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life ; and Thaisa,
now a priestess of the temple, was standing before
the altar; and though the many years he had passed
in sorrow for her loss had much altered Pericles,
Thaisa thought she knew her husband’s features, and
when he approached the altar and began to speak,
she remembered his voice, and listened’ to his words
with wonder and a joyful amazement. And these
were the words that Pericles spoke before the altar:
“ Hail, Diana! to perform thy just commands, I here
confess myself the prince of Tyre, who, frightened
from my country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair
Thaisa: she died at sea in child-bed, but brought
forth a maid-child called Marina. She at Tharsus
was nursed with Dionysia, who at fourteen years
thought to kill her, but her better stars brought her
to Metaline, by whose shores as I sailed, her good
fortunes brought this maid on board, where. by her
most clear remembrance she made herself known to
be my daughter.” ;

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his
words had raised in her, cried out, “You are, you
are, O royal Pericles”—-and fainted. “ What means
this woman?” said Pericles: “she dies! gentlemen,
help.” —“ Sir,” said Cerimon, “if vou have told Diana’s
altar true, this is your wife.” “Reverend gentleman,
no;” said Pericles: “I threw her overboard with
these very arms.” Cerimor then recounted how,
early one tempestuous morning, this lady was thrown
upon the Ephesian shore ; how, opening the coffin,
he found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how
Pericles. 279

happily he recovered her, and~placed her here in
Diana’s temple. And now, Thaisa being restored
from her swoon, said, “O my lord, are you not
Pericles? Like him you speak, like him you are,
Did you not name a tempest, a birth, and a death 4”
He, astonished, said, “The voice of dead Thaisa!”
“That Thaisa am I,” she replied, “supposed dead
and drowned.” “O true Diana!” exclaimed Pericles,
in a passion of devout astonishment. “And now,”
said Thaisa, “I know you better. Such a ring as I
see on your finger did the king my father give you,
when we with tears parted from him at Pentapolis.”
“Enough, you Gods!” cried Pericles, “ your present
kindness makes my past miseries sport. O come,
Thaisa, be buried a second time within these arms.”

And Marina said, “ My heart leaps to be gone into
my mother’s bosom.” Then did Pericles show his
daughter to her mother, saying, “ Look who kneels
here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthem at sea, and called
Marina, because she was yielded there.” “Blessed
and my own!” said Thaisa: and while she hung in
rapturous joy over her child, Pericles knelt before the
altar, saying, ‘Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision.
For this, I will offer oblations nightly to thee.” And
then and there did Pericles, with the consent of Thaisa,
solemnly affiance their daughter, the virtuous Marina,
to the well deserving Lysimachus in marriage.

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and
daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed by
calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, to teach
patience and constancy to men), under the same
guidance becoming finally successful, and triumphing
over chance and change. In Hellicanus we have be-
held a notable pattern of truth, of faith, and loyalty,
220 Zales from shakspeare.

who, when he might have succeeded to a throne,
chose rather to recall the rightful owner to his posses.
gion than to become great by another’s wrong. In
the worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we
re instructed how goodness directed by knowledge,
in bestowing benefits upon mankind, approaches: te
the nature of the gods. It only remains to be told.
that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an
end proportionable to her deserts ; the inhabitants of
Tharsus, when her cruel attempt upon Marina was
known, rising in a body to revenge the daughter of
their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of
Cleon, burnt both him and her, and their whole
household: the gods seeming well pleased, that so
foul a murder, though but intentional, and never
carried into act, should be punished in a way befitting
its €normity,

nN
GH
_

The (Wimers Tale.

THE WINTER'S TALE.

LeonTEs, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful
and virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest
harmony together. So happy was Leontes in the love
of this excellent lady, that he had no wish ungratified,
except that he sometimes desired to see again, and to
present to his queen, his old companion and school-
fellow, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. Leontes and
Polixenes were brought up together from their in-
fancy, but being by the death of their fathers called
to reign over their respective kingdoms, they had not
met for many years, though they frequently inter-
changed gifts, letters, and loving embassies.

At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes
came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make
his friend Leontes a visit.

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to
Leontes. He recommended the friend of his youth
to the queen’s particular attention, and seemed in the
presence of his dear friend and old companion to have
his felicity quite completed. They talked over old
times: their school-days and their youthful pranks
were remembered, and recounted to Hermione, who
always took a cheerful part in these conversations.

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing
to depart, Hermione, at the desire of her husband,
joined her entreaties to his that Polixenes would
prolong his visit.
2d2 Tales from Shakspeare.

And now began this good queen’s sorrow; for
Polixenes refusing to stay at the request of Leontes,
was won over by Hermione’s gentle and persuasive
words to put off his departure for. some weeks longer.
Upon this, although Leontes had so long known
the integrity and honourable principles of his friend
Polixenes, as well as the excellent disposition of his
virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernable
jealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to
Polixenes, though by her husband’s particular desire,
and merely to please him, increased the unfortunate
king’s jealousy ; and from being a loving and true
friend, and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes
became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster.
Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his court,
and telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he
commanded him to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing
that the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest
foundation in truth, instead of poisoning Polixenes,
acquainted him with the king his master’s orders,
and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian
dominions; and Polixenes, with the assistance of
Camillo, arrived safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia,
where Camillo lived from that time in the king’s
court, and became the chief friend and favourite
of Polixenes.

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes
still more; he went to the queen’s apartment, where
the good lady was sitting with her little son Mamillus,
who was just beginning to tell one of his best stories
to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and
taking the child away, sent Hermione to prison.

Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his
The Winter's Tale. » 283

mother tenderly ; and when he saw her so dishonoured,

-and found she was taken from him to be put into
a prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped
and pined away by slow degrees, losing his appe-
tite and his sleep, till it was thought his grief would
kill him.

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison,
commanded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords,
to go to Delphos, there to enquire of the oracle at
the temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful
to him,

When Hermione had been a short time in prison,
she was brought to bed of a daughter ; and the poor
lady received much comfort from the sight of her
pretty baby, and she said to it, “My poor little
prisoner, I am as innocent as you are.”

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited
Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian
lord: and when the lady Paulina heard her royal
mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison
where Hermione was confined; and she said to
Emilia, a lady who attended upon Hermione, “I
pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her majesty
dare trust me with her little babe, I will carry it to the
king its father ; we do not know how he may soften
at the sight of his innocent child.” “ Most- worthy
madam,” replied Emilia, “I will acquaint the queen
with your noble offer; she was wishing to-day that
she had any friend who would venture to present the
child to the king.” “And tell her,” said Paulina,
“that I will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence.”
“ May you be for ever blessed,” said Emilia, “for your
kindness to our gracious queen!” Emilia then went
to Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby to the
284 Tales from Shakspeare.

care of Paulina, for she had feared that no one would
dare venture to present the child to its father.

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing
herself into the king’s presence, notwithstanding her
husband, fearing the king’s anger, endeavoured to
prevent her, she laid the babe at its father’s feet, and
Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence
of Hermione, and she reproached him severely for his
inhumanity, and implored him to have mercy on his
innocent wife and child. But Paulina’s spirited 1¢-
monstrances only aggravated Leontes’ displeasure,
and he ordered her husband Antigonus to take her
from his presence.

When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at
its father’s feet, thinking, when he was alone with it,
he would Jook upon it, and have pity on its helpless
innocence.

The good Paulina was mistaken ; for no sooner was
she gone than the merciless father ordered Antigonus,
Paulina’s husband, to take the child, and carry it out
to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well
obeyed the orders of Leontes; for he immediately
carried the child on ship-board, and put out to sea.
intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could
find.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt o
Hermione, that he would not wait for the return of
Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent to consult
the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen
was recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief
for the loss of her precious baby, he had ner brought
’ to a public trial before all the lords and nobles of his
court. And when all the great lords, the judges, and
The Winters Tale, 285

ail the nobility of the land were assembled together to
try Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing
as a prisoner before her subjects to receive their
judgment, Cleomenes and Dion entered the assembly,
and presented to the king the answer. of the oracle
sealed up; and Leontes commanded the seal to be
broken, and the words of the oracle to be read aloud,
and these were the words :—“ Hermione is innocent,
Lolixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a
‘ealous tyrant, and the king shall live without an heir if
that which is lost be not found.” The king would give
no credit to the words of the oracle: he said it was
a falsehood invented by the queen’s friends, and he
desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the queen ;
but while Leontes was speaking a man entered and
told him that the prince Mamillus, hearing his mother
was to be tried for her life, struck with grief and
shame, had suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear
affectionate child, who had lost his life in sorrowing
for her misfortune, fainted; and Leontes, pierced to
the heart by the news, began to feel pity for his un-
happy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies
who were her attendants, to take her away, and use
means for her recovery. Paulina soon returned, and
told the king that Hermione was dead.

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he
repented of his cruelty to her; and now that he
thought his ill usage had broken Hermione’s heart,
- he believed her innocent; and he now thought the
words of the oracle were true, as he knew “if that
which was lost was not found,” which he concluded,
was his young daughter, he should be without an heir,
the young prince Mamillus being dead ; and he would
286 Tales from Shakspeare.

give his kingdom now to recover his lost daughter :
and Leontes gave himself up to remorse, and passed
many years in mournful thoughts and repentant:
grief.

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant
princess out to sea, was driven by a storm upon the
coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good king
Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left
the little baby.

Antigonus never returiied to Sicily to tell Reoatés
where he had left his daughter, for as he was going
back to the ship, a bear came out of the woods, and
tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for
obeying the wicked order of Leontes.

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels ;
for Hermione had: made it very fine when she sent it
to Leontes, and Antigonus had pirined a paper to its:
mantle, with the name of /¢rdita written thereon,
and words obscurely intimating its high birth and
untoward fate.

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd.
He was a humane man, and so’ he carried the little
Perdita home to‘his wife, who nursed it tenderly ; but
poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich
prize he had found : therefore he left that part of the
country, that no’ one might know where he got his
siches, and with part of Perdita’s jewels he bought
herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He
brought up Perdita as his own child, and’ she knew
not she was any other than’a shepherd's daughter.

The little Perdita- grew up a lovely maiden; and
though she had no’ better education than that of a
shepherd’s daughter, yet so did the natural graces she
inherited from: her royal mother shine forth in: her
The Winter's Tale. 28

untutored mind, that no’ one from her behaviour
would have known she had not been brought up in
her father’s court.

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son,
whose name was Florizel. As this young prince was
hunting near the shepherd’s dwelling, he saw the old
man’s supposed daughter; and the beauty, modesty,
and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him
instantly to fall in love with her. He soon, under
the name of Doricles, and in the disguise of a private
gentleman, became a constant visitor at-the old shep-
herd’s house.

Florizel’s frequent absence from court alarmed
Polixenes ; and setting people to watch his son, he
discovered his love for the shepherd’s fair daughter.

Polixenes then called. for Camillo, the faithful
Camillo, who: had preserved his life from the fury of
Leontes ; and desired that he would accompany him
to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of
Perdita.

Polixenes'and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at
the old shepherd’s: dwelling while they were celebra-
ting the feast of sheep-shearing: and though they
were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest
‘being made welcome, they were invited to walk in,
and join in the general festivity.

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward.
Tables were spread, and great. preparations: were
making for the rustic feast. Sorne lads and lasses
were dancing on the green: before the house, while
others of the young men were buying ribands, gloves,
and such-toys, of a pedlar at the door.

While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel
and*Perdita sat ouietly in a retired corner, seemingly
288 Zales from Shakspeare.

more pleased with the conversation of each othe,
than desirous of engaging in the sports and silly
amusements of those around them.

The king was so disguised that it was impossible
his son could know him; he therefore advanced near
enough to hear the conversation. The simple yet ele-
gant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son
did not a little surprise Polixenes : he said to Camillo,
“This is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; no-
thing she does or says but looks like something greater
than herself, too noble for this place.”

Camillo replied, “ Indeed she is the very queen of
curds and cream.”

“Pray, my good friend,” said the king to the old
shepherd, “what fair swain is that talking with your
daughter?” They call him Doricles,” replied the
shepherd. “Fle says he loves my daughter; and to
speak truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves
the other best. If young Doricles can get her, she
shall bring him that he little dreams of :” meaning
the remainder of Perdita’s jewels; which, after he
had bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had
carefully hoarded up for her marriage portion.

Polixenes then addressed his son. ‘ How, now, ~
young man!” said he: “your. heart seems full of
something that takes off your mind from feasting.
When I was young, I used to load my love with
presents; but you have let the pedlar go, and have
bought your lass no toy.”

The young prince, who little thought he was talking
to the king his father, replied, “ Old sir, she prizes
not such trifles; the gifts which Perdita expects from
me are locked up in my heart.” Then turning to
Perdita, he said to her, “Oh hear me Perdita, before
The Winter's Tale. 289

this ancient gentleman, who it seems was once him-
self a lover; he shall hear what I profess.” Florizel
then called upon the old stranger to be a witness
to a solemn promise of marriage which he made to
Perdita, saying to Polixenes, “I pray you, mark our
contract.”

“Mark your divorce, young sir,” said the king,
discovering himself. Polixenes then reproached his
son for daring to contract himself to this low-born
maiden, calling Perdita “shepherd’s brat, sheep-
hook,” and other disrespectful names; and threa-
tening, if ever she suffered his son to see her again,
he would put her, and the old shepherd her father, to
a cruel death.

The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered
Camillo to follow him with prince Florizel.

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal
nature was roused by Polixenes’ reproaches, said,
“Though we are all undone, I was not much afraid ;
and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him
plainly that the selfsame sun which shines upon his
palace, hides not his face from our cotiage, but looks
on both alike.” Then sorrowfully she said, “ But
now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it
no farther. ‘Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes,
and weep.” ,

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the
spirit and propriety of Perdita’s behaviour; and per-
ceiving that the young prince was too deeply in love
to give up his mistress at the command of his royal
father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers,
and at the same time to execute a favourable scheme
Le had in his mind.

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of

: YU
290 Lales from Shakspeare.

‘Sicily, was become a true penitent; and though Ca-
millo was now the favoured friend of king Polixenes,
_he could not help wishing once more to see his late
royal master and his native home. He therefore pro-
posed to Florizel and Perdita, that they should accora-
pany him to the Sicilian court, where he would, engage
Leontes should protect them, till, through his media-
tion, they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and
his consent to their marriage.

To this proposal they’ joyfully agreed; and Ca-
millo, who conducted everything relative to their flight,
allowed the old shepherd to go along with them.

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Per-
dita’s jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper which
he had found pinned to her mantle.

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita,
Camillo and the old shepherd, arrived in safety at
the court of Leontes. Leontes, who still mourned his
- dead Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo
with great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to
prince Florizel. But Perdita, whom Florizel intro-
duced as his princess, seemed to engross all Leontes’
attention : perceiving a resemblance between her and
his dead queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh,
and he said, such a lovely creature might his own
daughter have been, if he had not so cruelly destroyed
her. “And then too,” said he to Florizel, “I lost
the society and friendship of your brave father, whom
I now desire more than my life once again to look
upon.”

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the
king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a
daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to com.
paring the time when he found the little Perdita, with
ihe Winter's Tale. 291

the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other
tokens of its high birth; from all which it was im-
possible for him not to conclude, that Perdita and
the king’s lost daughter were the same.

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Pau-
lina, were present when the old shepherd related to
the king the manner in which he had found the child,
and also the circumstance of Antigonus’ death, he
having seen the bear seize upon him. He showed the
rich mantle in which Paulina remembered Hermione
had wrapped the child; and he produced a jewel
which she remembered Hermione had tied about
Perdita’s neck ; and he gave up the paper which Pau-
lina knew to be the writing of her husband ; it coulsi -
not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes’ own daugh-
ter: but oh, the noble struggles of Paulina, between
sorrow for her husband's death, and joy that the
oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long-lost
daughter, being found! When (Leantes iheardl that
Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that lt
that Hermione was not living to behold her child,
made him that he could say nothing for a leng tre,
but, “ O thy mother, thy mother!”

Paulina interrupted this joyful vet distressful scene,

_ with saying to’ Leontes, that she had a statue, newly
finished by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano,
which was such a perfect resemblance of the queen,
that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house
and look upon it, he would almost be ready to think

_ itwas Hermione herself. ‘hither then they all went ;

the king anxious to see the semblance of his Her-
mione, and Perdita longing to behold wast the mother
she never saw did look like.






ve
292 Tales from Shakspeare.

cealed this famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble

“Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was renewed at
the sight : for a long time he had no power to speak
or move.

“T like your silence, my liege,” said Paulina; “it
the more shows your wonder. Is not this statue very
like your queen?”

At length the king said, “O, thus she stood, even
with such majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet,
Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this ‘statue
looks.” Paulina replied, “So much the more the
carver’s excellence, who has made the statue as Her.
mione would have looked had she been living now.
But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently you
think it moves.”

The king then said, “Do not draw the curtain!
Would I were dead! See, Camillo, would you not
think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion
in it.’ “TY must draw the curtain, my liege,” said
Paulina. “You are so transported, you will persuade
yourself the statue lives.” ‘‘O sweet Paulina,” said
Leontes, “make me think so twenty years together !
Still methinks there is an air comes from her. What
fine chisel could ever yet cut breath? ‘Let no man
mock me, for I will kiss her.” “Good my lord,
forbear!” said Paulina. “The ruddiness upon her
lips is wet ; you will stain your own with oily painting.
Shall I draw the curtain?” “No, not these twenty
years,” said Leontes.

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and
beholding in silent admiration the statue of her
matchless mother, said now, “And so long could
I stay here, looking upon my dear mother.”

* Either forbear this transport,” said Paulina to




Lhe Winters Lale. 293

Leontes, “and let me draw the curtain ; or prepare
yourself for more amazement. I can make the statue
move indeed ; ay, and descend from off the pedestal,
and take you by the hand. But then you will think,
which I protest I am not, that I am assisted by some
wicked powers.”

“What you can make her do,” said the astonished
king, “I am content to look upon. What you can
make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is as
easy to make her speak as move.”

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music,
which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up;
and to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue
came down from off the pedestal, and threw its arms
around Leontes’ neck. ‘The statue then began to
speak, praying for blessings on her husband, and on
her child, the newly found Perdita.

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes
neck, and blessed her husband and her child. No
wonder ; for the statue was indeed Hermione herself
the real and living queen.

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death
of Hermione, thinking that the only means to pre-
serve her royal mistress’s life; and with the good
Paulina, Hetmione had lived ever since, never
choosing. Leontes should know she was living, till
she heard Perdita was found; for though she had
iong forgiven the injuries which Leontes had done to
herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant
daughter.

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost
daughter found, the long-sorrowing Leontes could
scarcely support the excess of his own happiness.

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate
294 Tales from Shakspeare.

speeches were heard on all sides. Now the de-
lighted parents thanked prince Florizel for loving
their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed
the good old shepherd for preserving their child.
Greatly did Camillo and Paulina rejoice, that they
had lived to see so good an end of all their faithful
services.

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete
this strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes
himself now entered the palace.

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo,
knowing that Camillo had long wished to return to
Sicily, he conjectured he should find the fugitives
here; and, following them with all speed, he hap-
pened to arrive just at this, the happiest moment of
Leontes’ life.

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he for-
gave his friend Leontes the unjust jealousy he had
conceived against him, and they once more loved
each other with all the warmth of their first boyish
friendship. And there was no fear that Polixenes
would now oppose his son’s marriage with Perdita.
She was no “sheep-hook” now, but the heiress of
the crown of Sicily.

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-
suffering Hermione rewarded. That excellent lady
lived many years with her Leontes and her Perdita,
the happiest of mothers and of queens, ,
All’s Well that Ends Well. 295

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

BERTRAM, count of Rossilion, had newly come to
his title and estate, by the death of his father. The
king of France loved the father of Bertram, and when
he heard of hhis death, he sent for his son to come
immediately to his royal court in Paris; intending,
for the friendship he bore the late count, to grace
young Bertram with his especial favour and protec-
tion.

Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed
countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of the French
court, came to conduct Bertram to the king. The
king of France was an absolute monarch, and the
invitation to court was in the form of a royal man-
date, or positive command, which no subject, of what
high dignity soever, might disobey ; therefore though
the countess, In parting with this dear son, seemed a
second time'to bury her husband, whose loss she had
so lately mourned, yet she dared not to keep hima
single day, but gave instant orders for his departure.
Lafeu, who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the
countess for the loss of her late lord, and her son’s
absence ; and he said, in a courtier’s flattering man-
ner, that the king was so kind a prince, she would
‘find in his majesty a husband, and that he would be
a father to her son ; meaning only, that the good king
would befriend the fortunes of Bertram. Lafeu told


296 Taces trom Shakspeare.

the countess that the king had fallen into a sad malady,

which was pronounced by his physicians to be incu-

rable. The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing

this account of the king’s ill health, and said, she

wished the father of Helena (a young gentlewoman

who was present in attendance upon her) were living, ¢
for that she doubted not he could have cured his

majesty of his disease. And she told Lafeu. some-

thing of the history of Helena, saying she was the

only daughter of the famous physician Gerard de

Narbon, and that he had recommended his daughter:
to her care when he was dying, so that, since his

death, she had taken Helena under her protection ;

then the countess praised the virtuous disposition and

excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited

these virtues from her worthy father. While she was

speaking, Helena wept in sad and mournful silence,

which made the countess gently reprove her for too

much grieving for her father’s death.

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The coun-
tess parted with this dear son with tears and many
blessings, and commended him to the care of Lafeu,
saying, “Good, my lord, advise him, for he is an
unseasoned courtier.”

Bertram’s last words were spoken to Helena, but
they were words of mere civility, wishing her happi-
ness ; and he concluded his short farewell to her with
saying, “ Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress,
and make much of her.”

Helena had long loved Bertram, apd when she
wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears she shed
were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena loved her
father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the
object of which she was about to lose, she had for-
All’s Well that Ends Well, 297

gotten the very form and features of her dead father,
ner imagination presenting no image to her mind bu;
Bertram’s. :

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always
remembered that he was the count of Rossilion, de-
scended from the most ancient family in Paris. She
of humble birth. Her parents of no note at all. His
ancestors all noble. And therefore she looked up to
the highborn Bertram as to her master and to her
dear lord, and dared not form any wish but to live his
servant, and so living to die his vassal. So great the
distance seemed to her between his height of dignity
and her lowly fortunes, that she would say, “It were
all one that I should love a bright peculiar star, and
think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me.”

Bertram’s absence filled her eyes with tears, and
her heart with sorrow ; for though she loved without
hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him
every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his
dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine
hair, till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet
of her heart, that heart too capable of retaining the
memory of every line in the features of that loved
face. .

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other
portion than some prescriptions of rare and well
proved virtue, which by deep study and long experi-
ence in medicine, he had collected as sovereign and
almost infallible remedies. Among the rest, there
was one set down as an improved medicine for the
disease under which Lafeu said the king at that time
languisaed ; and when Helena heard of the king’s
complaint, she who till now had been so humble and
sc hopeless, formed an ambitious project in her mind
298 Tales frou Shakspeare,

to go herself to Paris, and undertake the cure of the
king. But though Helena was the possessor of this
choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as
well as his physicians were of opinion that his disease
was incurable, that they would give credit to a poor
unlearmed virgin, if she should offer to perform a cure.
The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if she
might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more
than even her father’s skill warranted, though he was
the most famous physician of his time; for she felt
a strong faith that this good medicine was sanctified
by all the luckiest stars in heaven, to be the legacy
that should advance her fortune, even to the high
dignity of being count Rossilion’s wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess
was informed by her steward, that he had overheard
Helena talking to herself, and that-he understood,
from some words she uttered, she was in love with
- Bertram, and had thought of following him to, Paris
The countess dismissed the steward with thanks, and
desired him to tell Helena she wished to speak with
her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the
remembrance of days long past into the mind of the
countess; those days probably when -her love for
Bertram’s father first began ; and she said to herself,
“ Even so it was with me when I was young. Love
is a thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; for in
the season of youth, if ever we are nature’s children,
these faults are ours, though then we think not they
are faults.” While the countess was thus meditating
on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena
entered, and she said to her, ‘Helena, you know I
am a mother to you.” Helena replied, “You are
my honourable mistress.” “You are my daughtez,”
All’s Well that Ends Well. 299

said the countess again: “I say Iam your mother.
Why do you start and look pale at my words?”
With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing
the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied,
“Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother; the
count Rossilion cannot be my brother, nor I your
daughter.” “Yet, Helena,” said the countess, ‘you
might be my daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is
what you mean to be, the words mother and daughter
so disturb you. Helena, do you love my son?”
“Good madam, pardon me,” said the affrighted
Helena. Again the countess repeated her question,
“Do you love my son?” “Do not you love him,
madam?” said Helena. The countess replied, ‘ Give
me not this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come,
disclose the state of your affections, for your love
has to the full appeared.” Helena on her knees
now owned her love, and with shame and _ terror
implored the pardon of her noble mistress: and
with words expressive of the sense she had of the
inequality between their fortunes, she protested
Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her
humble unaspiring love to a poor Indian, who adores
the sun, that Jooks upon his worshipper, but knows
of him no more. The countess asked Helena if she
had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena
owned the design she had formed in her mind, when
she heard Lafeu speak of the king’s illness. “ This
was your motive for wishing to go to Paris,” said the
countess, “was it? Speak truly.” Helena honestly
answered, “My lord your son made me to think of this
else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, had from
the conversation of my thoughts been absent then,”
The countess heard the whole of this confession
300 Tales from Shakspeare.,

without saying a word either of approval or of blame,
but she strictly questioned Helena as to the proba.
bility of the medicine being useful to the king. She
found that it was the most prized by Gerard de Narbon
of all he possessed, and that he had given it to his
daughter on his deathbed; and remembering the
solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in
regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the
life of the king himself, seemed to depend on the
execution of a project (which though conceived by
the fond suggestions of a loving maiden’s thoughts,
- the countess knew not but it might be the unseen
workings of Providence to bring to pass the recovery
of the king, and to lay the foundation of the future
fortunes of Gerard de Narbon’s daughter), free leave
the gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and gene-
rously furnished her with ample means and suitable
attendants; and Helena set out for Paris with the
blessings of the countess, and her kindest wishes for
her success.

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of
her friend, the old lord Lafeu, obtained an audience
of the king. She had still many difficulties to en-
counter, for the king was not easily prevailed on to
try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor,
But she told him she was Gerard de Narbon’s daughter
(with whose fame the king was well acquainted), and
she offered the precious medicine as the darling trea-
sure which contained the essence of all her father’s
long experience and skill, and she boldly engaged to
forfeit her life, if it failed to restore his majesty to
perfect health in the space of two days. The king
at length consented to try it, and in two days’ time
Tielena was to lose her life if the king did not recover ;


Alls Well that Ends Well, 301

but if she succeeded, he promised to give her the
choice of any man throughout all France (the princes
only excepted) whom she could like for a husband;
the choice of a husband being the fee Helena de-
manded, if she cured the king of his disease.

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she con-
ceived of the efficacy of her father’s medicine. Before
two days were at an end, the king was restored to
perfect health, and he assembled all the young noble-
men of his court together, in order to confer the
promised reward of a husband on his fair physician ;
and he desired Helena to look round on this youthful
parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her husband,
Helena was not slow to make her choice, for among
these young lords she saw the count Rossilion, and
turning to Bertram, she said, “This is the man. I
dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I give me
and my service ever whilst I live, into your guiding
power.” “ Why then,” said the king, “ young Bertram,
take her; she is your wife.” Bertram did not hesitate
to declare his dislike to this present of the king’s of
the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor
physician’s daughter, bred at his father’s charge, and
now living a dependant on his mother’s bounty.
Helena heard him speak these words of rejection and
of scorn, and she said to the king, “ That you are well,
my lord, Iam glad. Let the rest go.” But the king
would not suffer his royal command to be so slighted ;
for the power of bestowing their nobles in marriage
was one of the many privileges of the kings of France;
and that same day Bertram was married to Helena, a
forced and uneasy marriage to Bertram, and of no
promising hope to the poor lady, who, though she
gained the noble husband she had hazarded her life
302 Tales from Shakspeare,

to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank,
her husband’s love not being a gift in the power of the
king of France to bestow.

Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired
by Bertram to apply to the king for him for leave of
absence from court; and when she brought him the
king’s permission for his departure, Bertram told her
that.as he was not prepared for this sudden marriage,
it had much unsettled him, and therefore she must not
wonder at the course he should pursue. If Helena
wondered not, she grieved when she found it was his
intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to
his mother. When Helena heard this unkind com-
mand, she replied, “Sir, I can say nothing to this, but
that I am your most obedient servant, and shall ever
with true observance seek to eke out that desert,
wherein my homely stars have failed to equal my great
fortunes.” But this humble speech of Helena’s did
not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle
wife, and he parted from her without the common
civility of a kind farewell.

Back to the countess then Helena rettirned. She
had accomplished the purport of her journey, she-
had preserved the life of the king, and she had wed-
ded her heart’s dear lord, the count. Rossilion ; but
she returned back a dejected lady to her noble
mother-in-law, and as soon as she entered the house,
she received a letter from Bertram which almost broke
her heart.

The good countess received her with a cordial wel
come, as if she had been her son’s own choice, and a
lady of high degree, and she spoke kind words, to
comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram. in
sending his wife home on her bridal day alone. But
All’s Well that Ends Well. 303

this gracious reception failed to cheer the sad mind of
Helena, and she said, “ Madam, my lord is gone, for
ever gone.” She then read these words out of Ber-
tram’s letter: When you can get the ring from my
finger which never shall come off, then call me husband,
bui in such a Then [write a Never. “This is a dread-
ful sentence.” said Helena. The countess begged
her to have patience, and said, now Bertram was gone,
she should be her child, and that she deserved a lord
that twenty such rude boys as Bertram might tend
upon, and hourly call her mistress. But in vain by
respectful condescension and kind flattery this match-
less mother tried to soothe the sorrows of her
daughter-in-law. Helena still kept her eyes fixed
upon the letter, and cried out in an agony of grief,
Till I have no wife, Ll have nothing in France. The
countess asked her if she found those words in the
letter? ‘Yes, madam,” was all poor Helena could
answer.

The next morning Helena was missing. She left a
letter to be delivered to the countess after she was
gone, to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden
absence : in this letter she informed her, that she was
so much grieved at having driven Bertram from his
native country and his home, that, to atone for her
offence, she had undertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine
of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded with requesting
the countess to inform her son, that the wife he so
hated had left his house for ever.

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and
there became an officer in the Duke of Florence’s
army, and after a successful war, in which he dis-
tinguished himself by many brave actions, Bertram
received letters from his mother, containing the ac-
304 Tales from Shakspeare.

ceptable tidings that Helena would no more disturb
him; and he was preparing to return hon.e when
Helena herself, clad in her pilgrim’s weeds, arrived at
the city of Florence.

Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used
to pass on their way to St. Jaques le Grand; and
when Helena arrived at this city, she heard that a
hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to receive
into her house the female pilgrims that were going
to visit the shrine of that saint, giving them lodging
and kind entertainment. To this good lady therefore
Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous
welcome, and invited her to see whatever was curious
in that famous city, and told her that if she would
like to see the duke’s army, she would take her where
she might have a full view of it. “And you will see
a countryman of yours,” said the widow; “his name
is count Rossilion, who has done worthy service in
the duke’s wars.” Helena wanted no second invita-
tion, when she found Bertram was to make a part of
the show. She accompanied her hostess; and a sad
and mournful pleasure it was to her to look once more
upon her dear husband’s face. “Is he not a hand-
some man?” said the widow. “TI like him well,”
replied Helena with great truth. All the way they
walked, the talkative widow’s discourse was all of
Bertram: she told Helena the story of Bertram’s
marriage, and how he had deserted the poor lady his
wife, and entered into the duke’s army to avoid living
with her. To this account of her own misfortunes
Helena patiently listened, and when it was ended, the
history of Bertram was not yet done, for then the
widow began another tale, every word of which sunk
deep into the mind of Helena: for the story she now
told was of Bertram’s love for her daughter.
All’s Well that Ends Well, 305

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced
on him by the king, it seemg he was not insensible
to love, for since he had been stationed with the army
at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair
young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who
was Helena’s hostess; and every night, with music of
all sorts, and songs composed in praise of Diana’s
beauty, he would come under her window, and solicit
her love; and all his suit to her was, that she would
permit him to visit her by stealth after the family were
retired to rest; but Diana would by no means be per-
suaded to grant this improper request, nor give any
encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a
married man ; for Diana had been brought up under
the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though she
was now in reduced circumstances, was well-born, and
descended from the noble family of the Capulets.

All this the good lady related to Helena, highly
praising the virtuous principles of her discreet daugh-
ter, which she said were entirely owing to the excellent
education and good advice she had given her; and
she farther said, that Bertram had been particularly
amportunate with Diana to admit him to the visit he
so much desired that night, because he was going to
‘eave Florence early the next morning.

Thongh it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram’s love
for the widow's daughter, yet from this story the
ardent mind of Helena conceived a project (nothing
discouraged at the ill success of her former one) to
recover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow,
that she was Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram,
and requested that her kind hostess and her daughter
would suffer this visit from Bertram to take place, and
allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana;

x
306 Tales from Shakspeare.

telling them, her chief motive for desiring to have this
secret meeting with her husband, was to get a ring
from him, which he had said, if ever she was in pos-
session of, he would acknowledge her as his wife. -

The widow and-her daughter promised to assist her
in this affair, partly moved by pity for this unhappy
forsaken wife, and partly won over to her interest by
the promises of reward which Helena made them,
ziving them a purse of money in earnest of her future
favour. In the course of that day Helena caused
information to be sent to Bertram that she was dead ;

oping that when he thought himself free to make a
second choice by the news of her death, he would
offer marriage to her in her feigned. character of
Diana. And if she could obtain the ring and this
promise too, she doubted not she should make some
future good come of it.

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was ad-
mitted into Diana’s chamber, and Helena was there
ready to receive him. The flattering compliments
and love-discourse he addressed to Helena were
precious sounis to her, though she knew they were
meant for Diana; and Bertrain was so well pleased
with her, that he made her a solemn promise to be
her husband, and to love her for ever; which she
hoped would be prophetic of a real affection, when he
should know it was his own wife, the despised Helena,
whose conversation had so delighted him.

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena
was, else perhaps he would not have been so regard-
-less of her ; and seeing her every day, he had entirely
overlooked her beauty ; a face we are accustomed to
see constantly, losing the effect which is caused by
‘the first sight either of beauty or of plainness; and
All’s Well that Ends Well. 307

of her understanding it was impossible he should
judge, because she felt such reverence, mixed with
her love for him, that she was always silent in his
presence ; but now that her future fate, and the happy
ending of all her love-projects, seemed to depend
on her leaving a favourable impression on the mind of
Bertram from this night’s interview, she exerted all
her wit to please him ; and the simple graces of her
' lively conversation and the endearing sweetness of
her manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she
should be his wife. Helena begged the ring from oft
his finger as a token of his regard, and he gave it to
her; and in return for this ring, which it was of
such importance to her to possess, she gave him
another ring, which was one the king had made het
a present of. Before it was light in the morning, she
sent Bertram away; and he immediately set out on
his journey towards his mother’s house.

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to ac-
company her to Paris, their farther assistance being
necessary to the full accomplishment of the plan she
had formed.. When they arrived there, they found
the king was gone upon a visit to the countess of
Rossilion, and Helena followed the king with all the
speed she could make.

The king was still in perfect health, and his grati-
tude to her who had been the means of his recovery
was so lively in his mind, that the moment he saw
the countess of Rossilion, he began to talk of Helena,
calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly
of her son; but seeing the subject distressed the
- countess, who sincerely lamented the death of Helena
he said, “My good lady, I have forgiven and for
gotten all.” But the good-natured old Lafeu, who

X2
308 Tales from Shakspeare.

was present, and could not bear that the memory of
his favourite Helena should be so lightly passed over,
said, “This I must say, the young lord did great
offence to his majesty, his mother, and his lady ; but
to himself he did the greatest wrong of all, for he has
lost a wife whose beauty astonished all eyes, whose
words took all ears captive, whose deep perfection
made all hearts wish to serve her.” The king said,
' Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.
Well—call him hither ;” meaning Bertram, who now
presented himself before the king: and, on his ex-
pressing deep sorrow for the injuries he had done to
Tielena, the king, for his dead father’s and his ad-
mirable mother’s sake, pardoned him and restored
him once more to his favour. But the gracious
countenance of the king was soon changed towards
him, for he perceived that Bertram wore the very ring
upon his finger which he had given to Helena ; and
he well remembered that Helena had called all the
saints in heaven to witness she-would never part with
that ring, unless she sent it to the king himself upon
some great disaster befalling her; and Bertram, on
the king’s questioning him how he came by the ring,
told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him
out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena
since the day of their marriage. The king knowing
Bertram’s dislike to his wife, feared he had destroyed
her; and he ordered ‘his guards to seize Bertram,
saying, “I am wrapped in dismal thinking, for I feai
the life of Helena was foully snatched.” At this
moment Diana and her mother entered, and presented
a petition to the king, wherein they begged his
majesty to exert his royal power to compel Bertram
to marry Diana, he having made her asolemn promise
All's Weill that Ends Well. 309

of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king’s anger, denied
he had made any such promise ; and then Diana pro-
duced the ring (which Helena had put into her hands?
to confirm the truth of her words; and she said that
she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in
exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her.
On hearing this, the king ordered the guards to seize
her also ; and her account of the ring differing from
Bertram’s, the king’s suspicions were confirmed ; and
he said, if they did not confess how they came by this
ting of Helena’s, they should be both put to death.
Diana requested her mother might be permitted to
fetch the jeweller of whom.she bought the ring, which
being granted, the widow went out, and presently
returned leading in Helena herself.

The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld
her son’s danger, and had even dreaded that the
suspicion of his having destroyed his wife might
possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she
loved with even a maternal affection, was still living,
felt a delight:she was hardly able to support ; and the
king, scarce believing for joy that it was Helena,
. said, “Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?”
Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife,
replied, ‘No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of
a wife you see, the name and not the thing.” Bertram
cried out, “ Both, both! O pardon!” “O my lord,”
said Helena, “when I personated this fair maid, 1
found you wondrous kind; and look, here is your
letter!” reading to him in a joyful tone those words
which she had once repeated so sorrowfully, Whe
from my finger you can get this ring— This is none,
it was to me you gave the ring. Will you be mine,
now you are doubly won?” Bertram replied, “If you
gio Tales from Shakspeare.

can make it plain that you were the lady I talked with
that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever dearly.”
This was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana
came with Helena purposely to prove this fact ; and
the king was so well pleased with Diana, for the
friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he
so truly valued for the service she had done him, that
he promised her also a noble husband: Helena’s
history giving him a hint, that it was a suitable reward
for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they per-
form notable services.

Thus Helena at last found, that her father’s legacy
was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven 3
for she was now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram,
the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself
the countess of Rossilien.
The Two Gentlemen of Verona. gir

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

THERE lived in the city of Verona two young
_ gentlemen, whose names were Valentine and Protheus,
between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendship
had long subsisted. They pursued their studies
together, and their hours of leisure were always
passed in each other’s company, except when Pro-
theus visited a lady he was in love with; and these
visits to his mistress, and this passion of Protheus
for the fair Julia, were the only topics on which these
two friends disagreed : for Valentine, not being him-
self a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing
his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he
would laugh at Protheus, and in pleasant terms ridi-
cule the passion of love, and declare that no such
idle fancies should ever enter his head, greatly pre-
ferring (as he said) the free and happy life he led, to
the anxious hopes and fears of the lover Protheus,
One morning Valentine came to Protheus to tell
him that they must for a time be separated, for that-
he was going to Milan. Protheus, unwilling to part
with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon
Valentine not to leave him; but Valentine said,
“ Cease to persuade me, my loving Protheus. I will
not, like’a sluggard, wear out my youth in idleness at
home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits.
If your affection were not chained to the sweet glances
| 312 Tales from Shakspeare.

of your honoured Julia, I would entreat you to ac
company me, to see the wonders of the world abroad ;
but since you are a lover, love on still, and may you
love be prosperous !”

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable
friendship. “Sweet Valentine, adieu!” said Protheus ;
“think on me, when you see some rare object worthy
of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your
happiness.”

Valentine began his journey that same day towards
Milan ; and when his friend had left him, Protheus
sat down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to
‘her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

‘Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, but she
was a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought it did
not become her maiden dignity too easily to be won ;
therefore she affected to be insensible of his passion,
and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of
his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she
would not receive it, and chid her maid for taking
letters from Protheus, and ordered her to leave the
room. But she so much wished to see what was
written in the letter, that she soon called in her maid
again, and when Lucetta returned, she said, “What
o'clock is it?” Lucetta, who knew her mistress more
desired to see the letter than to know the time of day,
without answering her question, again offered the re-
jected letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus
take the liberty of seeming to know what she really
wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the
floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room.
As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to pick up the
fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, who meant
The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 319

not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger
“Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you would
be fingering them to anger me.”

Julia then began to piece together as well as shie
could the torn fragments. She first made out these
words, “ Love-wounded Protheus ;” and lamenting
over these and such like loving words, which she
made out though they were all torn asunder, or, she
said, wounded (the expression “ Love-wounded Pro-
theus,” giving her that idea), she talked to these kind
words, telling them she would lodge them in her
bosom as in a bed, till their wounds were healed, and
that she would kiss each several piece, to make
amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a prettylady-
like childishness, till, finding herself unable to make
out the whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude in
destroying such sweet and loving words, as she called
them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus than
she had ever done before.

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this
favourable answer to his letter; and while he was
reading it, he exclaimed, “Sweet love, sweet lines,
sweet life!” In the midst of his raptures he was
interrupted by his father. ‘ How now!” said the
old gentleman; “what letter are you reading
there?”

“ My lord,” replied Protheus, “it is a letter from
my friend Valentine, at Milan.”

“Lend me the letter,” said his father: “let me see
what news.”

“There are no news, my lord,” said Protheus,
greatly alarmed, “ but that he writes how well beloved
he is of the duke of Milan, who daily graces him with
5r4 Tales from Shakspeare.

favours ; and how he wishes me with him, the partnet
of his fortune.” be

*‘ And how stand you affected to his wish?” asked
the father.

“As one relying on your lordship’s will, and not
depending on his friendly wish,” said Protheus.

Now it had happened that Protheus’ father had just
been talking with a friend on this very subject: his
friend had said, he wondered his lordship suffered his
son to spend his youth at home, while most men were
sending their sons to seek preferment abroad: “some,”
said he, “to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and
some to discover islands far away, and some to study
in foreign universities ; and there is his companion
Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan’s court.
Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will be a
great disadvantage to him in his riper age, not to have
travelled in his youth.”

Protheus’ father thought the advice of his friend
was very good, and upon Protheus telling him that
Valentine “wished him with him, the partner of his
fortune,” he at once determined to send his son to
Milan ; and without giving Protheus any reason for
this. sudden resolution, it being the usual habit of this .
positive old gentleman to command his son, not
reason with him, he said, “My will is the same as
Valentine’s wish :” and seeing his son look astonished,
he added, “Look not amazed, that I so suddenly re-
solve you shall spend some time in the duke of Milan’s
court ; for what I will I will, and there isan end. To-
morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses 3
for I am peremptory.”

Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections

to his father, who never suffered him to dispute his
The Two Gentlemen of Verona, 315

wil ; and he blamed himself for telling his father an
untruth about Julia’s letter, which had brought upon
him the sad necessity of leaving her.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Protheus
for s& long a time, she no longer pretended indif-
ference ; and they bade each other a mournful fare-
well, with many vows of love and constancy. Protheus
and Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised
to keep for ever in remembrance of each other; and
thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus set out on
his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valen-
tine.

Valentine was in reality what Protheus had feigned
to his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan ;
and another event had happened to him of which
Protheus did not even dream, for Valentine had given
up the freedom of which he used so much to boast,
and was become as passionate a lover as Protheus.

She who had. wrought this wondrous change in
Valentine was the lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of
Milan, and she also loved him ; but they concealed
their love from the duke, because although he showed
much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every
day to his palace, yet he designed to marry his
daughter to a young courtier whose name was Thurio.
Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the
fine sense and excellent qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one
day on a visit to Sylvia, and Valentine was entertaining
Sylvia with turning everything Thurio said into ridi-
cule, when the duke himself entered the room, and
told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Pro-
theus’ arrival. Valentine said, “If I had wished a
thing, it would have been to have seen him here!”
316 Tales from Shakspeare.

and then he highly praised Protheus to the duke,
saying, “ My lord, though I have been a truant of
my time, yet hath my friend made use and fair ad
vantage of his days, and is complete in person and in —
mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman,”

“Welcome him then according to his worth,” said
the duke: “Sylvia, I speak to you, and you, sir
Thurio ; for Valentine, I need not bid him do so.”
They were here interrupted by the entrance of Pro-
theus, and Valentine introduced him to Sylvia, saying,
“ Sweet lady, entertain him to be my fellow-servant to
your ladyship.”

When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit,
and were alone together, Valentine said, “ Now tell
me how all does from whence you came? How does
your lady, and how- thrives your love?” Protheus
replied, “My tales of love used to weary you. I
know you joy not in a love discourse.”

“Ay, Protheus,” returned Valentine, “but that
life is altered now. I have done penance for con-
demning love. For in revenge of my contempt of
Love, Love has chased sleep from my enthralled
eyes. O gentle Protheus, Love is a mighty lord, and
hath so humbled me, that I confess there is no woe
like his correction, nor no such joy on earth as in his
service. I now like no discourse except it be of love.
Now I can break my fast, diné, sup, and sleep, upon
the very name of love.”

This acknowledgment of the change which love
had made in the disposition of Valentine was a great
triumph to his friend Protheus. But “friend” Pro.
theus must be called no longer, for the same all-power-
ful deity Love, of whom they were speaking, (yea, even
while they were talking of the change he had made in
The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 317

Valentine,) was working in the heart of Protheus ; and
he, who had till this time been a pattern of true love
and perfect friendship, was now, in one snort interview
with Silvia, become a false friend anda faithless lover ;
for at the first sight of Silvia, all his love for Julia
vanished away like a dream, nor did his long friend-
ship for Valentine deter him from endeavouring to
supplant him in her affections; and although, as it
will always be, when people of dispositions naturally
good become unjust, he had many scruples before he
determined to forsake Julia, and become the rival of
Valentine ; yet he at length overcame his sense of
duty, and yielded himself up, almost without remorse,
to his new unhappy passion.

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole
history of his love, and how carefully they had con-
cealed it from the duke her father, and told him, that,
despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent,
he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father’s
palace that night, and go with him to Mantua; then
he showed Protheus a ladder of ropes, by help of
which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of
the windows of the palace, after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend’s
dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed,
but so it was, that Protheus resolved to go to the
:duke, and disclose the whole to him.

; This false friend began his tale with many artful
speeches to the duke; such as, that by the laws of
friendship he ought to conceal what he was going
to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had
shown him, and the duty he owed his grace, urgea
him to tell that, which else no worldly good should
draw from him. He then told all he had heard from
313 Lales from Shakspeare.

Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the
manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them
under a long cloak.

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of
integrity, in that he preferred telling his friend’s in-
tention rather than he would conceal an unjust
action; highly commended him, and promised him
not to let Valentine know from whom he had learnt
this intelligence, but by some artifice to make Valen-
tine betray the secret himself For this purpose
the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the
evening, whom he soon saw hurrying towards the
palace, and he perceived something was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-
ladder.

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, “ Whither
away so fast, Valentine?” ‘‘ May it please your grace,”
said Valentine, “there is a messenger, that stays to
bear my letters to my friends, and I am going to
deliver them.” Now this falsehood of Valentine’s
had no better success in the event than the untruth
Protheus told his father.

“ Be they of much import?” said the duke.

“No more, my lord,” said Valentine, “than to tell
my father I am well and happy at your grace’s
court.”

“Nay, then,” said the duke, “no matter: stay
with me awhile. I wish your counsel about some
affairs that.concern me nearly.” He then told Valen-
tine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret
from him, saying, that Valentine knew he wished ta
match his daughter with Thurio, but that she was
stubborn and disobedient to his commands, “ neither
regarding,” said he, “that she is my child, nor fearing
The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 319

me as if I were her father. And I may say to thee,
this pride of hers has drawn my love from her. I had
thought my age should have been cherished by her
childikke duty. I now am resolved to take a wife,
and tum her out to whosoever will take her in.
‘Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for me and
my possessions she esteems not.”

Valentine, wondering where all this would end,
made answer, “ And what would your grace have me
to do in all this ?”

“ Why,” said the duke, “the lady I would wish to
marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem
my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship
is much changed since I was young: now I would
willingly have you to be my tutor to instruct me how
I am to woo.”

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes
of courtship then practised by young men, when they
wished to win a fair lady’s love, such as presents,
frequent visits, and the like. ,

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse
a present which he sent her, and that she was so
strictly kept by her father, that no man might have
access to her by day.

“Why, then,” said Valentine, “you must visit her
by night.”

“But at night,” said the artful duke; who was now
coming to the drift of his discourse, “her doors are
fast locked.”

Valentine -then unfortunately proposed, that the
‘duke should get into the lady’s chamber at night by
means of a ladder of ropes, saying, he would procure
him one fitting for that purpose ; and in conclusion
advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes undet
320 Tales from Shakspeare,

such a cloak as that which he now wore. “Lend me
your cloak,” said the duke, who had feigned this long
story on purpose to have a pretence to get off the
cloak : so, upon saying these words, he caught hold:
of Valentine’s cloak, and throwing it back, he dis-
covered not only the ladder of ropes, but also a
letter of Silvia’s, which he instantly opened, and
read ; and this letter contained a full account of their
intended elopement. The duke, after upbraiding
Valentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the
favour he had shown him, by endeavouring to steal
away his daughter, banished him from the court
and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was
forced to depart that night, without even seeing
Silvia,

While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring Valen-
time, Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of
Protheus; and her regard tor him at last so far
overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to
leave Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to
secure herself from danger on the road, she dressed
her maid Lucetta and herself in men’s clothes, and
they set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan,
soon after Valentine was banished from that city
through the treachery of Protheus,

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up
her abode at an inn; and her thoughts being all on
her dear Protheus, she entered into conversation with
the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking by
that means to learn some news of Protheus.

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome
young gentleman (as he took her to be), who, from
his appearance, he concluded was of high rank, spoke
so familiarly to him ; and being a good-natured man,
The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 321

he was sorry to see him look so melancholy ; and to
amuse his young guest he offered to take him to hear
some fine music, with which, he said, a gentleman that
evening was going to serenade his mistress. __

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was,
that she did not well know what Protheus would think
of the imprudent step she had taken; for she knew
he had loved her for her noble maiden pride and
dignity of character, and she feared she should lower
herself in his esteem: and this it was that made her
wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with
him, and hear the music; for she secretly hoped she
might meet Protheus by the way.

But when'she came to the palace whither the host
conducted her, a very different effect was produced
to what the kind host intended; for there, to her
heart’s sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant
Protheus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and
addressing discourse of love and admiration to her.
And Julia overheard Silvia from a window talk with
Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his own
true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valen-
‘tine: and then Silvia left the window, not choosing
to listen to his music and his fine speeches ; for she
was a faithful lady to her banished Valentine, and

-abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend
Protheus.

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just
witnessed, yet did she still love the truant Protheus ;
and hearing that he had lately parted with a servant,
she contrived with the assistance of her host, the
friendly. innkeeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a
page ; and Protheus knew not she was Julia, and he

y.
322 Zales from Shakspeare.

sent her with letters and presents to her rival Silvia,
and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him
asa Panne pift at Verona.

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was
most glad to find that Silvia utterly rejected the suit
of Protheus; and Julia, or the page Sebastian, as
she was called, entered into conversation with Silvia
about Prothets’ first love, the forsaken lady Julia.
She, putting in (as one may say) a good word for
herself, said she knew Julia ; as well she might, being
herself the Julia of whom she spoke: telling how,
fondly Julia loved her master Protheus, and how his
unkind neglect would grieve her: and then she with
a pretty equivocation went on: “ Julia is about my
height and of my complexion, the colour of her eyes
and hair the same as mine :” and indeed Julia looked
a most beautiful youth in her boy’s attire. Silvia was
moved to pity this* lovely lady, who was so sadly for-
saken by the man she loved; and when Julia offered
‘the ring which Protheus had sent, refused it, saying,
“The more shame for him that he sends me that ring ;
I will not take it, for I have often heard him say his
Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for
pitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse; I give it
you for Julia’s sake.” These comfortable words com-
ing from her kind rival’s tongue cheered the drooping

eart of the disguised lady.

But to return to the banished Valentine; who
scarce knew which way to bend his course, being
unwilling to return home to his father a disgraced
and banished man: as he was wandering over a
lonely forest, not far distant from Milan, where he
had left his heart’s dear treasure, the lady Silvia, he

ras set upon by TODD SIS, who demanded his money.
The Two Gentlemen of Verona, 323

Valentine told them, that he was a nian crossed
by adversity; that he was goitig into banishment, and
that he had no money, the clothes he had on being all
his riches.

The robbers; heating that he was a distressed man,
and being struck with his noble air and manly be-
haviour, told him, if he would live with them, and
be their chief, or captain, they would put themsélves
under his command ; but that, if he refused to accept
their offer, they would kill fifth.

Valentine, who cared little what became of hiiiself,
said, he would consent to live with them and bé their
captain, provided they did no outrage on woineri or
poor passengers.

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin
Hood, of whom we tread in ballads, a captain of
robbers and outlawed banditti: and in this situation
he was found by Silvia, atid in this manrier it came to
pass. :

Silvia; to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whomi her
father insisted, upon her no longer refusing, caitie
at last to the resolution of following Valentine to
Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover
had taken refuge; but in this account she was mis- _
informed, for he still lived in the forest among the
robbers, beating the name of their captain, but taking
no part in their depredations, and using the authority
which they had imposed upon him in no other way
than to compel them to show compassion to the
travellers they robbed.

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her
father’s palace in company with a worthy old gentle-
man, whose name was Eglamour, whoni she took
along with her for protection on the road. She had

Y2
324 Tales from Shakspeure.

to pass through the forest where Valentine and the
banditti dwelt: and one of these robbers seized on
Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour, but he
escaped.

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror
she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for that he was
only going to carry her to a cave where his captain
lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their cap-
tain had an honourable mind, and always showed
humanity to women, Silvia found little comfort in
hearing she was going to be carried as a prisoner
before the captain of a lawless banditti, “O Valen-
tine,” she cried, “ this I endure for thee!”

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of
his captain, he was stopped by Protheus, who, still
attended by Julia in the disguise of a page, having
heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to
this forest. Protheus now rescued her from the hands
of the robber ; but scarce had she time to thank him
for the service he had done her, before he began to
distress her afresh with his love-suit: and while he
was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and
his page (the forlorn Julia) was standing beside him
in great anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great service
which Protheus had just done to Silvia should win her
to show him some favour, they were all strangely sur-
prised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who,
having heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner,
came to console and relieve her.

Protheus was courting Silvia; and he was so much
ashamed of being caught by his friend, that he was
all at once seized with penitence and remorse ; and
he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he
had dons to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature
Lhe Lwo Gentlemen of Verona. 325

was noble and generous, even to a romantic degree,
not only forgave and restored him to his former place
in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of heroism he
said, “I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I
have in Silvia, I give it up to you.” Julia, who was
standing beside her master as a page, hearing this
strange offer, and fearing Protheus would not be able
with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted,
and they were all employed in recovering her: else
would Silvia have been offended at being thus made
over to Protheus, though she could scarcely think that
Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained
and too: gencrous act of friendship. When Julia re-
covered from the fainting fit, she said, “I had forgot,
my master ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia.”
Protheus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the
one he gave to Julia, in return for that which he
received from her, and which he had sent by the
supposed page to Silvia. “How is this?” said he, |
“this is Julia’s ring: how came you by it, boy?”
Julia answered, “Julia herself did give it me, and
Julia herself hath brought it hither.”

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, plain!y
perceived that the ‘page Sebastian was no other than
¢he lady Julia herself; and the proof she had given of
her constancy and true love so wrought in him, that
his love for her returned into his heart, and he took
again his own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pre-
tensions to the lady Silvia to Valentine, who had so
well deserved her.

Protheus and Valentine were expressing their hap-
piness in their reconciliation, and in the love of their
faithful ladies, when they were surprised with the sight
32600 Liles from Shakspeare.

of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in
pursuit of Silvia. 2

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize
Silvia, saying, “Silvia is mine.” Upon this Valentine:
jaid to him in a very spirited manner, “Thurio, keep
back : if once again you say that Silvia is yours, you
shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but
possession of her witha touch! I dare you but to
breathe upon my love.” Hearing this threat, Thurio,
who was a great coward, drew back, and said he cared
not for her, and that none but a fool would fight for a
girl who loved him not.

The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said
now in great anger, “The more base and degenerate
_ in you to take such means for her as you have done,

and leave her on such light conditions.” “Then

turning to Valentine, he said, “I do applaud your

spirit, Valentine, and think you worthy of an em-.
press’s love. You shall have Silvia, for you have

well deserved her.” Valentine then with great hu-

mility kissed the duke’s hand, and accepted the noble

present which he had made him of his daughter with

becoming thankfulness ; taking occasion of this joyftn

minute to entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon

the thieves with whom he had associated in the forest,

assuring him, that when reformed and restored to

society, there would be found among them many

good, and fit for great employment; for the most

of them had been banished, like Valentine, for state

offences, rather than for any black crimes they had

been guilty of. To this the ready duke consented ;

and now nothing remained but that Protheus, the
‘false friend, was ordained, by way of penance for his

love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital of
Zhe Lwe Gentlemen of Veroua. 32]

the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the
duke ; and the shame of the recital to his awakened
conscience was judged sufficient punishment: which
being done, the lovers, all four, returned back to Milan,
and their nuptials were solemnized in presence of the
duke, with high triumphs and feasting.
328 Tales from Shakspeare.

CYMBELINE.

Durine the time of Augustus Cesar, emperor of
Rome, there reigned in England (which was then
called Britain) a king whose name was Cymbeline.

Cymbeline’s first wife died when his three children
(two sons and a daughter) were very young. Imogen,
the eldest of these children, was brought up in her
father’s court; but by a strange chance the two sons
of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when
the eldest was but three years of age, and the young
est quite an infant: and Cymbeline could never dis-
cover what was become of them, or by whom they
were conveyed away. .

Cymbeline was twice married ; his second wife was
a wicked, plotting woman, and a cruel step-mother to
Imogen, Cymbeline’s daughter by his first wife.

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished
her to marry a’son of her own by a former husband
(she also having been twice married): for by this
means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to
place the crown of Britain upon the head of her son
Cloten : for she knew that, if the king’s sons were not
found, the princess Imogen must be the king’s heir.
But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who
married without the consent or even knowledge of her
father or the queen.

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen’s
Cymbeline. 329

husband) was the best scholar and most accomplished
gentleman of that age. His father died fighting in
the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his
mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband.

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan,
took Posthumus (Cymbeline having given him that
name, because he was born after his father’s death)
and educated him in his own court.

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the
same masters, and were play-fellows from their in-
fancy ; they loved each other tenderly when they were
children, and their affection continuing to increase
with their years, when they grew up they privately
married.

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for
she kept spies constantly in watch upon the actions of
‘ her daughter-in-law, and she immediately told the king
of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline,
when he heard that his daughter had been so forget-
ful of her high dignity as to marry a subject. He
commanded Posthumus'to leave Britain, and banished
him from his native country for ever.

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the
grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered to
procure them a private meeting before Posthumus set
out on his journey to Rome, which place he had
chosen for his residence in his banishment: this
seeming kindness she showed, the better to succeed
in her future designs in regard to her son Cloten; for
she meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband
was gone, that her marriage was not lawful, being
contracted without the consent of the king.

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate
339 - Lales from Shakspeare.
]

eave of each other. Imogen gave her husband a
diamond ring which had been her mother’s, and
Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; and.
he fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which
he begged she would preserve with great care, as a
token of his love; they then bid each other farewell,
with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity.

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in
her father’s court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome,
the place he had chosen for his banishment.

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some
gay young men of different nations, who were talking
freely of ladies ; each one praising the ladies of his
own country, and his own mistress. Posthumus, who
‘had ever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that
his wife, the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise,
and constant lady in the world.

One of these gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo,
being offended that a lady of Britain should be so
praised above the Roman ladies, his country-women,
provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the con-
stancy of his‘so highly-praised wife; and, at length,
after much altercation, Posthumus consented to a
proposal of Iachimo’s, that he (Iachimo) should go to
Britain, and endeavour to gain. the love- of the mar-
ried Imogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo
did not succeed in this wicked design, he was to
forfeit a large sum of money; but if he could win
Imogen’s favour, and prevail upon her to give him the
bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly desired
she would keep as a token of his love, then the wager
was to terminate with Posthumus giving to Iachimo
the ring, which was Imogen’s love-present when she
parted with her husband. Such firm faith had Post-
Uvmbeline. 331

humus in the fidelity of Imogen, that he thought he
ran no hazard in this trial of her honour.

Tachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admit-
tance, and a courteous welcome from Imogen, as a
friend of her husband ; but when he began to make
professions of love to her, she repulsed him with
disdain, and he soon’ found that he could have no
nope of succeeding in his dishonourable design.

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him
now have recourse to a stratagem to impose upon
Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed some of
Imogen’s attendants, and was by them conveyed into
her bedchamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he
remained shut up till Imogen had retired to rest, and
had fallen to sleep ; and then getting out of the trunk,
he examined the chamber with great attention, and

‘wrote down everything he saw there, and particularly
noticed a mole which he observed upon Imogen’s
neck, and then softly unloosing the bracelet from her
arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he retired
into the chest again ; and the next day he set off for
Rome with great expedition, and boasted to Posthumus
that Imogen had given him the bracelet, and likewise
permitted him to pass a night in her chamber: and
in this manner Iachimo told his false tale: “ Her bed-
chamber,” said he, “‘was hung with tapestry of silk
and silver, the story was “e proud Cleopatra when
she met her Anthony, a piece of work most bravely
wrought.” eS

“This is true,” said Posthumus; “but this you
might have heard spoken of without seeing.”

“Then the chimney,” said Iachimo, “is south of
the chamber, and the chimney-piece is Diana bathing;
never saw I figures livelier expressed.”
332 Tales from Shakspeare,

“This is a thing you might have likewise heard,”
said Posthumus, “ for it is much talked of.”

Tachimo as accurately described the roof of the
chamber, and added, “Thad almost forgot her and-
irons, they were ‘wo winking Cupids made of silver,
each on one foot standing.” He then took out the
bracelet, and said, “Know you this jewel, sir? She
gave me this. She took it from her arm. I see her
yet; her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yet
enriched it too. She gave it me, and said, she prized
it once.” THe last of all described the mole he had
observed upon her neck.

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful
recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into the
most passionate exclamations against Imogen. He
delivered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which
he had agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the
bracelet from Imogen.

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio,
a gentleman of Britain, who was one of Imogen’s
attendants, and had long been a. faithful friend to
Posthumus ; and after telling him what proof he had
of his wife’s disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take
Tmogen to Milford Haven, a sea-port of Wales, and
there kill her. And at the same time he wrote a
deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring her to go with
Pisanio, for that, finding he could live no longer with-
out seeing her, though he was forbidden upon pain of
death to return to Britain, he would come to Milford
Haven, at which place he begged she wouid meet him
She, good unsuspecting lady, who loved her husband
above all things, and desired more than her life to see
him, hastened her departure with Pisanio, and the
same night she received the letter she set out.
Cymbedrie. 332

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio,
who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to
serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen the
cruel order he had received.

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and be-
loved husband, found herself doomed by that husband
to suffer death, was afflicted beyond measure.

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait
with patient fortitude for the time when Posthumus
should see and repent his injustice: in the mean time,
as she refused in her distress to return to her father’s
court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes
for more security in travelling; to which advice she
agreed, and thought in that disguise she would go over
to Rome, and see her husband, whom, though he
had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to
love. |

When Pisanio had provided her with her new
apparel, he left her to her uncertain fortune, being
obliged to return to court: but before he departed he
gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the queen
had given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders.

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a
friend to Imogen and Posthumus, gave him this phial,
which she supposed contained poison, she having
ordered her physician to give her some poison, to try
its effects (as she said) upon animals: but the phy-
sician, knowing her malicious disposition, would not
trust her with real poison, but gave her a drug which
would do no other mischief than causing a person to
sleep with every appearance of death for a few hours.
This mixture, which Pisanio thought a choice cordial,
he gave to Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself
ill upon the road, to take it; and so, with blessings
334 Lales from Shakspeare.

and prayers for her safety and happy deliverance frorn
her undeserved troubles, hé left’ her.

Providence strangely directed Imogen’s steps to the
dwelling of her two brothers, who had been stolen
away in their infancy. JBellarius, who stole them
away, was a lord in the court. of Cymbeline, and
having. been falsely accused to the king of treason,
and banished from the court, in revenge fs stole away
the tivo sons of Cymbeline, and Brotight them up in
a forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He
stole them through revenge; but he soon loved them
as tenderly as if they had been his own children,
educated them carefully, and they grew up fine youths,
their princely spirits leading them to bold and daring
actions ; and as they subsisted by hunting, they were
active and hardy, and were always pressing their sup-
posed father to let them seek their fortune in the wars,

At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was
Imogen’s fortune to arrive. She had lost her way in
a large forest througn which her road lay to Milford
Haven (from whence she meant to embark for Rome):
and being unable to find any place where she could
purchase food, she was with weariness and hunger
almost dying ; for it is not merely putting on a man’s
apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought
up, to bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely
forests like a man. Seeing this cave, she entered,
hoping to find some one within of whom she could
procure food. She found the cave empty, but looking
about she discovered some cold meat, and her hunger
was so pressing, that she could not wait for an invi-
tation, but sat down, and began to eat, “Ah!” said —
she, talking to herself, “I see a man’s life is a tedious
one; how tired am I! for two nights together I have
Cymbeline. 335

made the ground my bed: my resolution helps me, or
I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford
Haven from the mountain-top, how near it seerned !”
Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel
mandate came across her, and she said, “My dear
Posthumus, thou art a false one.”

The two brothers of. Imogen, who had been hunting
with their reputed father Bellarius, were by this time
returned home. Bellarius had given thei the names
of Polidore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but
supposed that Bellarius was their father; but the real
names of these princes were Guiderius and Arviragus.

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen,
stopped themi, saying, “Come not in yet; it eats our
victuals, or I should think that it was a fairy.”

“What is the matter, sir?” said the young men.
“ By Jupiter,” said Bellarius again, “there is an angel
in the cave, or if not, an earthly paragon.” So bean-
tiful did Imogen look in her boy’s apparel.

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from
the cave, and addressed them in these words: “ Good
rnasters, do not harm me ; before I entered your cave,
I had thought to have begged or bought what I have
eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I,
though I had found gold strewed on the floor. Here
is money for my meat, which I would have left on the
board when I had made my meal, and parted with
prayers for the provider.” They refused her money with
great earnestness. “I see you are angry with me,” said
the timid Imogen: “but, sirs, if you kill me for my
fault, know that I should have died if Ihad not made it.”

“Whither are you bound?” asked Bellarius, “and
what is your name?”
336 Tales from Shakspeare.

a kinsman, who is bound for Italy; he embarked at
Milford Haven, to whom being going, almost spent
with hunger, I am fallen into this offence.”

“Prithee, fair- youth,” said old Bellarius, “do not
think us churls, nor measure our good minds by this
rude place we live in. You are well encountered ; it
is almost night. You shall have better cheer before
you.depart, and thanks to stay and eat it.. Boys, bid
him welcome.”

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed
Imogen to their cave with many kind expressions,
saying they would love her (or, as they said, Az) as
a brother; and they entered the cave, where (they
having killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen
delighted them with her neat housewifery, assisting
them in preparing their supper; for though it is not
the custom now for young women of high birth to
understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled
in this useful. art; and, as her brothers prettily ex-
pressed it, Fidele cut their roots in characters, and _
sauced their broth, as if Juno had been sick, and
Fidele were her dieter. ‘“ And then,” said Polidore
to his brother, “ how angel-like he sings!”

They also remarked to each other, that though
Fidele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did
overcloud his lovely face, as if grief and patience had
together taken possession of him.

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was
their near relationship, though they knew it not)
Imogen (or, as the boys called her, Hidele) became
the doting-piece of her brothers, and she scarcely less
loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her
dear Posthumus, she could live and die in the cave
with these wild forest youths; and she gladly con-
Cymbeline 337

sented to stay with them, till she was enough rested
from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way to
Milford Haven,

When the venison they had taken was all eaten, and
they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not
accompany them, because she was unwell. Sorrow,
no doubt, for her husband’s crue: usage, as well as the
fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the cause of
her illness.

They then bid her farewell, and went to their hunt,
praising all the way the noble parts and graceful de-
meanour of ‘the youth Fidele.

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected —
the cordial Pisanio had given her, and drank it off,
and presently fell into a sound and deadlike sleep.

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from
hunting, Polidore went first into the cave, and sup-
posing her asleep, pulled off his heavy shoes, that he
might tread softly and not awake her; so did true
gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely
foresters: but he soon discovered that she could not
be awakened by any noise, and concluded her to be
dead, and Polidore lamented over her with dear and
brotherly regret, as if they had never from their
infancy been parted.

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the
forest, and there celebrate her funeral with songs and
solemn dirges, as was then the custom.

Imogen’s two brothers:then carried her to a shady
covert, and there laying her gently on the grass, they
gang repose to her departed spirit, and covering her

over with leaves and flowers, Polidore said, “‘ While

summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew

thy sad grave. The pale primrose, that flower most
g
338 Lates from Shakspeur e.

like thy face; the blue-bell, like thy clear veins; and
the leaf of eglantine, which is not sweeter than was
thy breath ; all these I will strew over thee. Yea, and
the furred moss in winter, when there are no flowers
to cover thy sweet corse.”

When they had finished her funeral obsequies, they
departed very sorrowful.

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the
effect of the sleepy drug going off, she awakened, and
easily shaking off the slight covering of leaves and
flowers they had thrown over her, she arose, and
imagining she had been dreaming, she said, “I>
thought I was.a cave-keeper, and cook to honest
creatures ; how came I here, covered with flowers?”
Not being able to find her way back to the cave, and
seeing nothing of her new companions, she concluded
it was certainly all a dream ; and once more Imogen
set out on her weary pilgrimage, hoping at last she
should find her way to Milford Haven, and thence get
a passage in some ship bound for Italy ; for all her
thoughts were still with her husband-Posthumus, whom
she intended to seek in the disguise of a page.

But great events were happening at this time, of
which Imogen knew nothing ; for a war had suddenly
broken out between the Roman emperor Augustus
Cesar, and Cymbeline the king of Britain: and a
Roman army had landed to invade Britain, and was
advanced into the very forest over which Imogen was
journeying. With this army came Posthumus.

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the
Roman army, he did not mean to fight on their side
against his own countrymen, but intended to join the
army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who
had banished him.
t

Cymbeline. 339

He stiil believed Imogen false to him ; yet the death
of her he had so fondly loved, and by his own orders
too (Pisanio having written him a letter to say he
had obeyed his command, and that Imogen was dead),
sat heavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to
Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or to be.
put to ‘death by Cymbeline for returning home from
banishment.

Imogen, before she reached Milford Haven, fell into
the hands of the Roman army ; and her presence and
deportment recommending her, she was made a page
to Lucius, the Roman general.

Cymbeline’s army now advanced to meet the enemy,
and when they entered this forest, Polidore and
Cadwal joined the king’s army. The young men
were eager to engage in acts of valour, though they
little thought they were going to fight for their own
royal father : and old Bellarius went with them to the
battle. He had long since repented of the injury he
had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons ; and
having been a warrior in his youth, he gladly joined
the army to fight for the king he had so injured.

And now a great battle commenced between the
armies, and the Britons would have been defeated,
and Cymbeline himself killed, but for the extraordi-
nary valour of Posthumus, and Bellarius, and the two
sons of Cymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved
his life, and so entirely turned the fortune of the day,
that the Britons gained the victory.

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not
found the death he sought for, surrendered himself up
to one of the officers of Cymbeline, willing to suffer
the death which was to be his punishment if he re-

turned from banishment.
zZ2
E40 Tales from Shakspeare.

Imogen and the master she served were taken
prisoners, and brought before Cymbeline, as was also
her old enemy Iachimo, who was an officer in the
Roman army; and when these prisoners were before
the king, Posthumus was brought in to receive his _
sentence of death; and at this strange juncture of
tame, Bellarius with Polidore and Cadwal were also
brought before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due
‘to the great services they had by their valour done
for the king. Pisanio, being one of the king’s attend-
ants, was likewise present.

Therefore there was now standing in the king’s
presence (but with very different hopes and_ fears)
Posthumus, and Imogen, with her new master the
Roman general ; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the
false friend Jachimo ; and likewise the two lost sons
of Cymbeline, with Bellarius, who had stolen them
away.

‘The Roman general was the first who spoke; the
rest stood silent before the king, though there was
many a beating heart among them.

Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, though he
was in the disguise of a peasant; but he did not know
her in her male attire: and she knew Iachimo, and
she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be
her own, but she did not know him as yet to have
been the author of all her troubles: and she stood
before her own father a prisoner of war.

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed
her in the garb of a boy. “It is my mistress,”
thought he ; “since she is living, let the time run on
to good or bad.” Bellarius knew her too, and softly
said to Cadwal, “Is not this boy revived from death?”
“One sand,” replied Cadwal, “does not more resemble
Cymbeline. 341

another than that sweet rosy Jad is like the dead
Fidele.” ‘The same dead thing alive,” said Polidore,
“Peace, peace,” said Bellarius ; “if it were he, I am
“sure he would have spoken to us.” “ But we saw
him dead,” again whispered Polidore. “Be silent,”
replied Bellarius.

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome
sentence of his own death; and he resolved not to
disclose to the king that he had saved his life in the
battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him.

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen
under his protection as his page, was the first (as has
been before said) who spoke to the king. He wasa
man of high courage and noble dignity, and this was
his speech to the king:

“T hear you take no ransom for your prisoners,
but doom them all to death: I am a Roman, and with
a Roman heart will suffer death. But there is one
thing. for which I would entreat.”” Then bringing

. Imogen before the king, he said, “ This boy is a Briton
born. Let him be ransomed. He is my page. Never
master had a page so kind, so duteous, so diligent on
all occasions, so true, so nurse-like. He hath done
no Briton wrong, though he hath served a Roman,
$ave him, if you spare no one beside.”

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imo-
gen. He knew her not in that disguise; but it
seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his heart,
for he said, “I have surely seen him, his face appears
familiar to me. I know not why or wherefore I say,
Live, boy; but I give you your life, and ask of me
what boon you will, and I will grant it you. Yea, even
though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have.”

“T humbly thank your highness,” said Imogen.
342 Tales from Shakspeare.

-What was then called granting a boon was the same
as a promise to give any one thing, whatever it might
be, that the person on whom that favour was conferred
chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hear
what thing the page would ask for; and Lucius her
master said to her, “I do not beg ny life, good lad,
but I know that is what you will ask for.” “No, no,
alas!” said Imogen, “I have other work in hand,
good master ; your life I cannot ask for.” _

This seeming want of gratitude inthe boy astonished
the Roman general.

Imogen then, fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded
no other boon than this, that Iachimo should be made
to confess whence he had the ring he wore on his
finger.

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened
Iachimo with the torture if he did not confess-how
he came by the diamond ring on his finger.

Tachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all
his villany, telling, as has been before related, the
whole story of his wager with Posthumus, and how
he had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity.

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the
innocence of his lady, cannot be expressed. He
instantly came forward, and confessed to Cymbeline
the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to
execute upon the princess; exclaiming wildly, “«O
Imogen, my queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen |”

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this
distress without discovering herself,.to the unutterable
joy of Posthumus, who was thus relieved from a
weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the good
graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated,
Cymbeline. . 343

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as ne
with joy, at finding his lost daughter so strangely re.
covered, received her to her former piace in his_
‘fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband
' Posthumus his life, but consented to acknowledge
him for his son-in-law.

Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation
to make his confession. He presented Polidore and
Cadwal to the king, telling him they were his two
lost sons Guiderius ‘and Arviragus. _

Cymbeline forgave old pelalns y for who couid
think of punishment at a season of such universal
happiness? To find his daughter living, and his lost
sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had
seen so bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for
joy indeed!

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services
for her late master, the Roman general Lucius, whose
life the king her father readily granted at her re-
quest; and by the mediation of the same Lucius a
peace was concluded between the Romans and the
Britons, which was kept inviolate many years.

How Cymbeline’s wicked queen, through despair
of bringing her projects to pass, and touched with
remorse of conscience, sickened and died, having ©
first lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a
ate which he had provoked, are events too tragica?

o interru(:. t2is happy conclusion by more than merely
coctinng upon, It is sufficient that all were made
happy, who were deserving ; and even the treacherous
Jachimo, in consideration of his villany having missed
its final aim, was dismissed without punishment.


LIFE OF SHAKSPEARKE,

AFTER all'the laborious research which has been
expended on the subject of Shakspeare’s biography,
few particulars are known on those points which
would be most gratifying to the curiosity of his
rational admirers. We may trace his ancestors to the
doomsday book, and his posterity till they dwindle
into tongueless obscurity ; but of his own habits and
domestic character we know comparatively nothing.
During his early days, his path of life was so humble,
that all our inquiries necessarily terminate in disap-
pointment ; and of the more busy periods of his ex-
istence, when he wrote for the stage, and was the
public favourite, his remarkable humility of mind and
manners induced him to avoid the eye of notoriety ;
and, unfortunately, there was no Boswell or Medwin
to make memoranda of his conversations, or transmit
to our times a fac-simile of the great dramatist in
the familiar moments of relaxation and friendly in-
tercourse. Such hiatuses in the life of Shakspeare
cannot be now supplied; now about two hundred
years have elapsed since his mortal remains were left
to moulder beneath a tomb, over which Time: has
shaken the dust of his wings too often to allow of
our recovering details, local and fugitive, however
interesting. Rowe was the first, whose researches
elicited anything like a satisfactory memoir of our
Life of Shakspeare. 245

great bard. Poets and critics have laboriously re-
trodden his steps; the genius of Pope and the acu.
men of Johnson have been employed on the same
subject, but the sun of their adoration had gone
down before their intellectual telescopes were levelled
to discover its perfections. Malone has done the
most, and appears indeed to have exhausted the
subject ; but, from inadvertency or carelessness, he
has overlooked many particulars which deserve pre-
servation.* Having turned-over a variety of books,
and consulted every accessible authority, we shall
attempt to condense, under one head, such recollec-
‘tions of Shakspeare as are at present scattered over
many volumes, as well as the more obvious and
familiar portions of his history.

It appears a family, designated indifferently Shax-
per, Shakespeare, Shakspere, and Shakspeare, were
well known in Warwickshire during the sixteenth
century. Rowe says: “It seems by the register and
other public writings of Stratford, that the poet’s
family were of good figure and fashion there, and are
rnentioned as gentlemen.”

This account turns out to be very incorrect; for on
reference to the authorities cited, we find that the
Shakspeares, though their property was respectable,
never rose above the rank of tradesmen or husband-
men. Nothing is known of the immediate ancestors
of John Shakspeare, the poet’s father, who was
originally a glover, afterwards a butcher, and in the
last place, a qwoot-stapéer, in the town of Stratford,

* Since the above was written, some forty years ago, a much
abler critic and investigator has come forward to illustrate the
somewhat dim knowledge hitherto existing of Shakspeure’s
family,—Charles Knight.
346 Life of Shakspeare.

Being very industrious, his wealth gave him impor-
tance among his neighbours, and having served various
offices in the borough with credit, he ultimately ob-
tained its supreme municipal honours, being elected
high-bailiff, at Michaelmas, 1568. His town folks no
doubt considered this the summit of earthly felicity ;
but however reverend the corporation of Stratford in
its own estimation, we cannot but smile at these eru-
dite sages, out of znefeen of whom, as we find from
their signatures, attached to a public document, 1564,
only seven were able to write their names. While
chief magistrate of the borough, and on his marriage
with Mary Arden, he obtained a grant of arms from
the Herald’s College, and was allowed to impale his
own achievement with that of the ancient family of
the Ardens.

In the deed respecting John Shakspeare, his pro-
perty is declared to be worth five hundred pounds, a
sum by no means inconsiderable in those days ; and, on
the whole, we have sufficient evidence of his worldly
prosperity. From some unexplained causes, however,
his affairs began to alter for the worse about 1574, and
after employing such expedients to relieve his growing
necessities as in the end served only to aggravate them,
he at length fell into such extreme poverty, that he
was obliged to give security for a debt of five pounds;
and a distress issuing for the seizure of his goods, it
was returned: “Joh’es Shakspere nihil habet unde
distr. potest ievari.” (John Shakspere has no effects
on which a distraint can be levied.) During the last
ten years of his life we have no particular account of
his circumstances ; but, as in 1597 he describes him-
self as “of very small wealth and very few friends,” we
‘may justly suppose that he remained in great indi.
Life of Shakspeare. 34

gence. He seems, indeed, to have falict: mto decay
with his native town, the trade of which was almost
ruined ; as we may learn from the application of the
burgesses, in 1590. The town had then “ fallen into
much decay, for want of such trade as heretofore they
had by clothing, and making of yarn, employing and
maintaining a number of poor people by the same,
which now live in great penury and misery, by reason
they are not set to work as before they have been.”

John Shakspeare died in 1601. His family consis-
ted of eight children, Jane, Margaret, William, Gilbert,
Lorie, Anne, Richard, and Edmund. Lorie and
Margaret ‘died when but a few months old. Of Gil-
bert nothing is known but the register of his baptism.
Jane married one, Hart, a hatter of Stratford, and died
in 1646, leaving three sons. She is mentioned. with
much kindness in her illustrious brother’s will; and
the descendants of her children were to be found in
Stratford within these few years. In 1749, a house
of Shakspeare’s, in Henly-street, belonged to. Thomas
Hart, a butcher, and the sixth in descent from Jane.
Anne Shakspeare died an infant ; Richard, according
to the parish register, was buried in 1612. Edmund
Shakspeare, actuated probably by his brother's repu-
tation at the theatre, became an actor; he performed
at the Globe, lived in St. Saviour’s, Southwark, and

“was interred in the church-yard of that parish, on the
3ist of December, 1606.

William Shakspeare was born April 23rd, 1564, at
Stratford-upori-Avon. The house, in which ¢he poet
first saw the light, was bought in 1597, from a family
of the name of Underhill. It had been called the great
house, not because it is really large, but on account of
its having been at that time the best in the town. In
345 Life of Shakspeare.

its present dilapidated state, the ablest artists have
exerted their skill, to preserve the outline of so re
markable a building for the gratification of posterity,
and the most minute particulars concerning it have
been collected with the utmost avidity.

The chamber, in which our unrivalled dramatist 1s.
said to have drawn his first breath, is pencilled over
with the names of innumerable visitors in every grade
of life. Royalty has been proud to pay this simple
tribute to exalted intellect ; and genius has paused in
its triumphs, to inscribe these hallowed walls with the
brief senténces which record its love and veneration .
for the wonderful man, who once recognised this
lowly tenement as his Aome. The following lines are
ascribed to Lucien Buonaparte, who, during his stay
in England, made an excursion into Warwickshire,
expressly to gratify his curiosity respecting our all-
praised Shakespeare :

“ The eye of Genius glistens to admire

How memory hails the sound of Shakspeare’s lyre.
One tear I'l shed to form a crystal shrine

Of all that’s grand, immortal, and divine,

Let princes o’er their subject kingdoms rule,

*Tis Shakspeare’s province to command the soul!
To add one leaf, oh, Shakspeare ! to thy bays,
Low vain the effort, and how mean my lays!
Immortal Shakspeare! o’er thy hallow’d page,
Age becomes taught, and youth is e’en made sage.”

This house, so venerable on account of its former
inmate, is now divided, one part being a butcher's
shop, and the other a public-house.

Of Shakspeare’s infancy we know nothing, except
that he narrowly escaped falling a victim to the plague,
which at that time almost depopulated his native
town. We next find him at the free grammar-school
of Stratford, where we may suppose he acquired the
Life of Shaksheare, 349

‘small Latin and less Greek,’ for which Ben Jouson
gives him credit. But even this imperfect species of
education was soon interrupted, the poverty of his
father presenting an insurmountable obstacle to his
further progress. There can be little doubt, however,
that his quick and apprehensive mind would profit
materially even by this limited supply of instruction.
In after life, he seems to have been acquainted with
Italian and French, but these languages he probably
acquired through his own unassisted industry. He
now for a considerable period remained at nome,
and attended to his father’s occupation, that of a
' butcher; and Aubrey, an author in whom we should
not put implicit confidence, relates that young Skak-
speare killed a calf “in high style,” and graced the
slaughter with an oration. The same writer informs
us, that growing disgusted with this employment, he
commenced schoolmaster, but this, from his juvenility
at the time mentioned, is highly improbable.
Shakspeare’s eighteenth year was scarcely past
when, relinquishing his school, or his office, (for
Malone makes him an attorney’s clerk,) he ventured
to contract that important engagement, on which the
happiness or misery of life generally turns. He
selected for his wife Anne Hathaway, the daughter
of a reputable yeoman in the vicinity of Stratford.
At her marriage, she was eight years older than her
husband, and Shakspeare’s domestic felicity does not
appear to have been advanced by the connection. In
the year following, 1583, his daughter Susanna was
born; and in eighteen months afterwards, his wite
bore him twins, a boy, and a girl, baptized by the
name of Hamnet and Judith. This was the whole of
the poet’s family ; from which we are perhaps justi-
350 Life of Shakspeare.

fied in concluding, as there are other circumstances
to strengthen the opinion, that his connubial lot wag
not enviable; indeed, his wife’s years were so ill-
assorted to his own, that little congeniality of senti-
ment was to be expected. Hamnet, Shakspeare’s only
son, died at the early age of twelve years, an event
long and deeply regretted: the daughters, Susanna
and Judith, were married, and had children. Shak-
speare’s last lineal descendant was Lady Barnard,
buried, in 1670, at Abingdon, in Berkshire. Some
branches of the family still exist, and are resident at
‘Tewkesbury and Stratford; they are in great indi-
gence, and it reflects disgrace on the age, that a
proposal for their benefit, recently made, received
hardly any attention. Surely, when our nobility
patronise the refuse of society, in the shape of pedes-
trians and pugilists, their generosity might be exer-
cised in succouring those who claim kindred with him,
who was the glory of his country and of human nature.

The inhabitants of Shakspeare’s native town were
passionately fond of dramatic entertainments, Tra-
velling companies of players appear to have visited
Stratford on more than twenty occasions, between
1569 (when the poet was under six years of age) and
1587. Burbage and Green, two celebrated actors,
were his townsmen, and even from childhood his
attention must have been attracted to the stage, by
the powerful influence of novelty, and ‘in all proba-
bility, by his personal acquaintance with some of the
comedians. When, therefore, his views in life were
unavoidably altered, it was natural that the theatre
should present itself to his mind as his best asylum
and directing his fugitive steps to the metropolis, he
became a player, and, in the end, a writer for the
I

Life of Shakspeare.

vd.

35
stage. Tne tale of Shakspeare’s attending at the
Globe, on his first arrival at London, to take the
charge of gentlemen’s horses, during the performance,
is much doubted at present; but it seems likely that
the first office he held in the theatre, was that of ca//-
éoy, or prompter’s attendant. He did not long con-
tinue in that capacity, being soon admitted to perform
minor parts in the popular plays of that period.

Shakspeare followed the profession of an- actor
upwards of seventeen years, and till within about
thirteen years of his death ; but we have good reason
to suppose that six shillings and eight-pence a-week
was the highest reward of his dramatic efforts. Of
his merit as a player, we have no positive data on
‘which to found an estimate, and accordingly there is
great difference of opinion among the critics. Tra-
gedians and dramatists were not then so jealously
watched as at present: diurnal reviewers were un-
known, and an actor’s fame depended entirely on
the caprice of judges, who were too frequently very
incompetent to form a correct decision. From some
satirical passages in the writings of his contempo:
raries, we may fairly suppose that he was not a
favourite performer with the public. His instructions
to the players in Hamlet, however, bespeak such
mastery in their art, and are in themselves so ex.
cellent, that we are strongly inclined to believe, tha.
his unpopularity must be attributed more to the bad
taste of his auditors, than to the deficiency of his
own powers. Acting, considered as a science, was
then in its infancy ; he that “strutted and bellowed”
most, would be esteemed the best actor. Shakspeare’s
adherence to nature would be misunderstood, and his
gentleness would be censured as tameness.
pas life of Shakspeare.

The only characters, which we know with certainty
to have been personated by Shakspeare, are the Ghost |
in Hamlet, and Adam in As You Like It: his name
appears in the list of players attached to Ben Jonson’s
Sejanus, and Every Man in his Humour; but it is
sufficiently evident, that he never sustained any very
important part, and, but for his genius as a poet, which
neither indigence nor obscurity could repress, that
name, which we now repeat with reverence and love,
would have been lost in the darkness of oblivion.
That Shakspeare was not more successful on the
stage, might arise from the injustice and false taste of
his audience: but this is hardly to be lamented, since,
had he been eminent as an actor, he would probably
have neglected composition. “It may indeed be
considered (says Dr. Drake) as a most fortunate cir-
cumstance for the lovers of dramatic poetry, that our
author, in point of execution, did not attain to the
loftiest summit of his profession. He would in that
case, it is very probable, have either sat down content
with the high reputation accruing to him from this
source, or would have found little time for the labours
of composition, and consequently we should have
been in a great degree, if not altogether, deprived
of what now constitutes the noblest efforts of human
genius.”

Despised as an actor, Shakspeare aspired to dis-
tinction as an author ; and notwithstanding his mighty
capacity, he was for a long time content with altering
and revising the productions of others. Of the dramas
produced previous to 1600, there were some which
abounded with felicitous ideas and effective situations ;
but the writers had used their materials with little skill,
end the touch of a master was required, to reduce
Life of Shakspeare. 353

them to order and consistency. The noblest geniuses
of the age did not refuse such employment. Decker,
Rowley, Heywood, ‘and Jonson, were often occupied
in conferring value on such productions; and to this
unthankful labour, the early efforts of our bard were
modestly confined.

Dramatists were, generally speaking, abjectly poor :
they were enthralled by managers, either for past
favours, existing debts, or the well-founded appre-
hension of needing their assistance. What can be
more affecting, than to find the illustrious Ben Jonson
‘supplicating from Henslowe the advance of a sum so
paltry as “jive shillings?” The calling Shakspeare
embraced was, in a majority of instances, anything
rather than profitable : his mighty mind could scarcely
have selected any sphere of action more barren of
reward : but the camp, the senate, and the bar, were
then almost exclusively filled by the young scions of
nobility ; and preferring to be first among his brother
authors, however humble their prospects, he poured
out all the wealth of his intellect on the stage, and
laid the foundation of a renown, which is perpetually
increasing, and is never likely to be equalled,

No portion of Shakspeare’s history is more obscure
. than the period at which he first ventured to rely on
the resources of his own mind, and produce an origi-
nal drama on the stage which he had so often trod
unnoticed. Every attempt to select from the long
list of his wonderful productions the one which had
paved the way for his future eminence, his maiden
effort in the arena of his coming glories, has ended
in uncertainty and disappointment. The Two Gen-
tlemen of Verona, and the Comedy of Errors, have
been pitched upon, but almost any of his other plays

AA
354 Life of Shakspeare.

might have been chosen with an equal approximation
to truth. Our bard, however, was well known as a
dramatic writer in 1592, and there is reason to sup-
pose that all his compositions for the stage were
written between 1590 and 1613, a period of about
twenty-three years. And when it is considered that
we possess ¢hzrty of his plays, which are indisputably
genuine, besides several, the authenticity of which is
doubtful, the marvellous power and range of his in-
tellect will be sufficiently evident. According to the
chronological order in which the critics have placed
his dramas, his genius appears in full vigour from its
first flight to the moment when its eagle pinions
became quiescent for ever. A Midsummer Nighi’s
Dream is the second inscription on the luminous
column of his renown. Othello, The Tempest, and
Twelfth Night, are engraven in characters of light on
its base. Other minds have had their infancy, their
maturity, and their decline. In other intellects, even
the most resplendent, we observe the unfoldings of
genius, as of the gradual unfolding of the morning’s
light, its maturity as of the full blaze of noon, and its
decline and decay as the twilight of evening and the
darkness of night. Milton wrote Sampson Agonistes
before Paradise Lost, and Paradise Regained after it ;
but the rise, progress, and termination of Shakspeare’s
brilliant career were equally glorious. In combining
author and actor in his own person, the dramatist
might in some degree alleviate his pecuniary diffi-
culties, but it could scarcely have redeemed him from
the indigence under which his brother writers were
suffering; yet his superlative merit as a poet soon
advanced him in the regard of the great and the
aoble, The players in his time were constantiy de-
Life of Shakspeare. 355

mominated and treated as servants; and when the
actor’s duty made his presence necessary at his
patron’s mansion, the dutfery was the only place to
which he expected admittance. On the contrary, the
friendship of the dramatist was frequently sought by
the opulent; even noblemen made him their com
panions, and chose him at once as the object of
bounty and esteem. In this manner, Shakspeare
pecame the bosom associate of the all-accomplished
Lord Southampton. That nobleman’s father-in-law,
Sir Thomas Heminge, was treasurer of the queen’s
chamber, in which capacity it was his duty to reward
the actors employed at court ; thus plays and players
were almost forced upon the notice of Lord South-
ampton, and the hold theatrical amusements had on
his mind is evident, even at a late period of his life,
from his shunning the court for a diurnal attendance
at the Globe, his entertainment of Cecil with “plaies,”
and his ordering Richard II. to be performed on the
night previous to the rebellion of the Earl of Essex.
Shakspeare’s intimacy with Southampton commenced
when the latter was about twenty years of age, and
from the dedications prefixed to Venus and Adonis in
1593, and the Rape of Lucrece in 1594, it is apparent
that their friendship was cemented by great liberality
in the patron, and lively gratitude in the poet.

Rowe, on the authority of Davenant, relates, that
in order to enable Shakspeare to complete a purchase,
Southampton at once presented him with a thousand
pounds, a gift truly princely. The tradition deserves
credit from the wealth which the dramatist is known
to have possessed in a few years subsequently to his
arrival in London; for it is contrary to probability,
that his opulence could have arisen from his emolu-

AA2
356 Life af Shakspeare.

ments, either as actor or author. All his original pro-
ductions were sold absolutely to the theatre, and the
gain accruing from them could not have been large, as
he neither published his plays, nor received advantag

from their dedication to the wealthy. Some of his
dramas were printed in his life-time ; but this was done
surreptitiously, and was at once a fraud on author,
proprietor, and reader.

Of Shakspeare’s comparative opulence there can be
uo doubt; in 1597, he purchased New Place, the most
respectable mansion in his native Stratford, and went
to considerable expense in alterations and repairs.

In the succeeding year, we find Richard Quyney, a
townsman, applying to him as a person of substance,
for the loan of thirty pounds; and shortly after, we
find him expressing his readiness to lend, on proper
security, a sum of money for the use of the town of
Stratford. His continued advance in worldly con-
sideration is indicated by his further purchases. In
1602, according to Wheeler, he gave 320/. for one
hundred and seventy acres of land, which he added
to his estate in New Place. In 1605, he bought for
4402, a moiety of the great and small tithes of Strat-
ford; and in 1613, a tenement in Blackfriars for r4o/.
It is remarkable in this latter purchase, that only 807,
of the money was paid down, the residue being left
as a mortgage on the premises. Malone is of opinion
that his annual income could not have been less than
200/., which, at the age when he lived, was equal to
Sood. at present.

Several of the nobility, particularly the earls of
Pembroke and Montgomery, vied with Southampton
‘n conferring benefits on Shakspeare, and he was dis-
tinguished in a most flattering manner, by the favour
Life of Shakspeare. 357

of two successive sovereigns. We are told that the
. Merry Wives of Windsor (the first draught of which
was finished in a fortnight,) was written expressly at
the command of the Virgiz Queen, who being highly
delighted with Falstaff’s humour in Henry IV., wished
him to be exhibited under the influence of love, The
character of Falstaff, one of the happiest and most
original of all the author's efforts, was, according to
Bowman the player, who cited Sir William Bishop as
his authority, drawn from a townsman of Stratford, who
either faithlessly broke a contract, or spitefully refused
to part with some land, for a valuable consideration,
adjoining to Shakspeare’s, in or near the town.

The author’s reputation was no doubt increased by
the approbation of his royal mistress, which in all
likelihood was the only solid advantage he obtained
from her notice. Rowe celebrates the “many gracious
marks of her favour” which Shakspeare received ; but
no traces of any pecuniary reward from her munifi-
cence are to be found, and the almost invariable par-
simony of Elizabeth towards literary men may fairly
_ induce us to question whether her generosity was
exhibited in anything more substantial than praise,
notwithstanding all the elegant flattery which the poet
offered on the shrine of her vanity, Elizabeth was
certainly a very highly-gifted woman, but she was too
selfish to pay for applause, which she was sure of
obtaining at an easier rate.

In James I. the stage found a warm and generous
patron. In 1599, he gave protection to a company
of English comedians in his Scottish capital ; and he
had no sooner ascended the British throne, than he
effected an absolute change in the theatrical world.
In the first year of his reign, an act of parliament
358 Life of Shakspeare.

passed, which took from the nobility the privilege of
licensing cornedians, and all the skeleton companies
then existing were immediately united into three
regular establishments patronised by the royal family.
Henry, prince of Wales, became the patron of lord
-Nottingham’s company, which performed at the Cur-
tain ; the earl of Worcester’s servants, who commonly
acted at the Red Bull, were turned over to the queen,
and ultimately designated Children of the Revels ;
while the king declared the lord chamberlain’s com-
pany-under his own especial care. The license which
James granted to Laurence Fletcher, William Shak-
speare, Richard Burbage, and others, dated May 19,
1603, constituted them his servants, gave them legal
possession of their usual house, the Globe, and allow-
ed thei to exhibit every kind of dramatic represen-
tation, in all suitable places in his dominions. From
this document we lear that the Globe was the theatre
generally occupied by the lord chaniberlain’s servants ;
but they had some interest at the house at Blackfriars,
which, in the end, they purchased. At these theatres
all Shakspeare’s plays were originally acted; the Globe
was the summer, the Blackfriars the winter house of
the company with which he was connected.

Though Elizabeth and James were particularly
fond of dramatic representations, it does not appear
that they ever visited the public theatres; they grati-
fied their taste by commanding the comedians to
perform plays at court. These entertainments were
usually given at night, which arrangement suited the
actors, as thé theatres were generally open in the
morning. ‘The ordinary fee for such a performance
in London was 62. 13s. 4@ and an additional 32 6s. 82,
was sometimes bestowed by tlie bounty of royalty.
Life of Shakspeare. 359

Shakspeare soon became iniportant in the manage-
ment of the theatre, and participated in all the emolnu.
ments of the company. It is impossible to estimate
his income from this source; we are ignorant inta
low many shares this theatrical property was divided;
nor can we tell what proportion of them was enjoyed
by our poet. If, however, he was equal with Heminges,
who is joined with him in the license, we are author-
ized by his partner to assert that it produced “a good
yearly income.” This worldly elevation induced him
to quit the drudgery of an actor, which employment he
speaks of in his Sonnets with disgust, and thenceforth
he seems to have yielded all the powers of his com-
prehensive mind to the improvemént of dramatic lite-
rature. The affectionate wish which Shakspeare formed
in early life, to return, after his brilliant career, to his
native Stratford, arid die at home, inducéd him to
purchase New Place, iii 1597. In the pleasure ground
of that unassuming mansion, he planted with his own
hand a mulberry tree, which flourished for many years,
and was regarded with reverence. To this favourite
spot, in 1613 or 1614, he retired from the applauses of
his contemporaries and the bustle of the world, to the
genuine repose and unsophisticated pleasures. of a
country life. Aubrey informs us, that it was our bard’s
custom to visit Stratford yearly ; but previotis to 1596,
the place of his residence in London has not been
discovered. He then lodged near the Bear Garden
in Southwark, and it is not improbable that he
remained there till his final retirement from the
metropolis.

Much has been said of the rivalship and dissension
between Ben Jonson and Shakspeare : we shall give
a few particulars, from which we think it will appear
360 Life of Shakspeare.

that they both were entirely free from personal ill-
will, Pope says, that Jonson “loved Shakspeare as
well as honoured his memory, celebrates the honesty,
openness, and frankness of his temper, and only dis-
tinguishes, as he reasonably ought, between the real
merit of the author, and the silly and derogatory
applauses of the players.” Gilchrist, a very clever
critic, published a pamphlet to prove that Jonson was
never a harsh or envious rival of Shakspeare, and
that the popular opinion on the subject is altogether
erroneous. Rowe gives us the subjoined anecdote,
which has been thought worthy of credit: “ Mr.
Jonson, who was at that time altogether unknown to
the world, had offered one of his plays to the players
in order to have it acted ; and the persons into whose
hands it was put, after having turned it carelessly
and superciliously over, were just upon returning it
to him with an ill-natured answer, that it would be
of no service to their company, when Shakspeare
luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something so
well in it as to engage him first to read it through,
and afterwards to recommend Mrz. Jonson and his
writings to the public.” It is not a little remarkable,
that Jonson seems to have held a higher place in
public estimation than our poet, for more than a cen-
tury after the death of the latter. Within that period,
Ben’s works went through numerous editions, and
were read with eagerness, while Shakspeare’s remained
in comparative neglect till the time of Rowe: of this
fact, abundant evidence might be given ; not only was
Jonson preferred, but even Beaumont and Fletcher,
with many dramatic writers infinitely below them in
merit, were exalted above him.

Fuller’s comparative view of these illustrious writers
Liye of Shakspeare. 361

is highly interesting: ‘“Shakspeare was an eminent
instance of the truth of that rule: Poeta non fit sed
nascitur, (one is not made, but born a poet.) Indeed
his learning was but very little; so that as Cornish
Diamonds are not polished by any lapidary, but are
pointed and smoothed even as they are taken out of.
the earth, so azure itself was all the art which was
used upon him. Many were the wit combats betwixt
him and Ben Jonson, which two I beheld, like a
Spanish great galleon, and an English man of war!
Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher,
in learning, solid but slow in his performances. Shak-
speare, with the Luglish man of war, lesser in bulk,
but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, and
take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his
wit and invention.”

The following anecdote, preserved by Malone, will
serve to shew the habits of close intimacy in which
these great and amiable men lived. In the serious
business of life, rivals, and even enemies, are often
obliged to associate: but when we find men seéking
each other in the season of relaxation, and mingling
thoughts in their sportive humours, we may safely
pronounce them to be friends. An eieor. dispute
arose concerning the motto of the Globe theatre.
“ Totus mundus agit histrionem ;” (all the world acts
a play ;) some condemned it as unmeaning, others
declared it to be a fine piece of sententious wisdom ;
Jorsor, being asked for his opinion, wrote on a scrap
of paper,

“Tf but stage actors all the world displays,
Where shall we find spectators of their plays?”

Shakspeare smiled, and taking the pen, set down

these lines under Ben’s couplet :
362 Life of Shakspeare.

“ Little or much of what we see we do,
We're all both actors and spectators too.”

All this may be called trifling; but even trifles
become interesting when connected with a Jonson
and a Shakspeare,

Mr. Gifford has triumphantly proved, that the once
generally received opinion of Jonson’s malignant
feelings towards his friend and benefactor, is void
of the slightest foundation in fact; on the contrary,
we ate justified in believing that thé author of Sejanis
was, on all occasions, ready to admit the wonderful
merit of his less learied, but more highly- gifted,
contemporary. His lines under Shakspeare’s effigy

breathe the warmest spirit of teveretice and love:

“ The figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakspeare cut ;
Wherein the graver had a strife
‘With nature to outdo the life.
O, could he but have drawne his wit
‘As well in brass as he hath hit
His face, the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass :
But since he cannot, reader looke
Not on his picture but his booke,”

Queen Elizabeth used sometimes to sit behind the
scenes, while her favourite plays were performing :
one evening, Shakspeare enacted the part of a mon-
arch (probably, in Henry IV.), The audience knew
that her majesty was present. She crossed the stage

while Shakspeare was acting, and being loudly
greeted by the spectators, curtsied politely to the
poet, who took no notice of her condescension.
When behind the scenes, she caught his eye and
moved again, but still he would not throw off his
character to pay her any attention. This made her
majesty think of some means to know whether she
Life of Shakspeare. 363

could induce him to forget the dignity of his character
while 6n the stage. Accordingly, as he was about to
make his exit, she stepped before him, dropped her
glove, and re-crossed thé stage, which Shakspeare
noticing, took it up with these words, so immediately
after finishing lis speech, that they seemed to belong
0 it:

“ And thotigh now bent on this high embassy,
Yet stoop we to take up our cousin’s glove.”

He then withdrew from the stage, and presented
the glove to the queen, who was much pleased with
his behaviour, and complimented him on its propriety.

One everiing, Burbage performed Richard III. and
while behind the scenes, Shakspeare overheard him
making an assignation with a lady of considerable
beauty. Burbage was to knock at her chamber-door:
shé was to say, “ Who comes there?” and on receiving
for answer, “’Tis I, Richard the Third,” the favoured
tragedian was to be admitted. Shakspeare instantly
determined to keep the appointment himself. Tapping
at the lady’s dooz, he made the expected response to
het interrogatory, and gained admittance. The poet’s
eloquence soon converted the fair one’s anger into
satisfaction ; btit the real Simon Pure quickly arrived ;
he rapped loudly, and to the expected query replied,
“Tis I, Richard the Third.” “Then,” quoth Shak-
speare, “go thy ways, Burby, for thou krowest that
William the Congueror reigned before Richard the
Third.”

Rowe says: “The latter part of His life was spetit,
as all men of good sense would wish theits may be, in
ease, retirement, and the conversation of his friends.
His pleasurable wit and good nature engaged him in
364 Life of Shakspeare.

the acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship,
of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.” And in the
words of Dr. Drake, “ He was high in reputation as
a poet, favoured by the great and accomplished, and
beloved by all who knew him.” Nothing can be
more delightful than to contemplate this wonderful
man, in the vigour of his age, and in the full possession
of his amazing faculties, retiring from the scene of his
well-earned triumphs, to find, in the comparative
exclusion of his native town, that repose and quietude
both of mind and body, which is not to be looked for
in the bustle of the world. And if he, whose glory
was to fill the universe, and whose pursuits (if anything
connected with time can be,) were worthy of an im-
mortal soul, could pant for retirement in the meridian
of his days, what excuse have they who, in senectude
and feebleness, continue to toil among the mole-hills
of earth for a little perishable gold, for which they
have no use when they have obtained it?

Shakspeare retired from the metropolis at a period
little past the prime of life. We mect with no hint
of any failure in his constitution ; and the execution
of his will, in “perfect health and memory,” on the
25th of March, 1616, warrants no immediate expecta-
tion of his decease. The curtain was now to fall,
however, on this earthly stage of existence. He died
on the 23d of April, the anniversary of his birth, having
exactly completed his fifty-second year. On the 25th,
two days after his death, his body was laid in its
original dust, being buried under the north side of the
chancel of the great church at Stratford ; a flat stone,
protecting all that was perishable of the remains of
Shakspeare, bears this inscription :
Life of Shakspeare. 365

** Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbeare
To digg the dust enclosed here :
Bless’d be the man that spares’ these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones.”

The common opinion is, that these lines were
written by the poet himself; but this notion has,
perhaps, originated solely from the use of the word
“my” in the closing line. “The imprecation,” says
Malone, was probably suggested by an apprehension
“that our author’s remains might share the same fate
with those of the rest of his countrymen, and be
added to the immense pile of human bones deposited
in Stratford charnel-house.”

We shall now give a brief abstract of Shakspeare’s
will, which is yet extant in the Prerogative Office. It
bears date, March 25, 1616, and commences with the
following paragraphs: ;

“In the name of God, amen. I, William Shak-
speare, at Stratford-upon-Avon, in the county of
Warwick, gent.,in perfect health and memory, (God
be praised !) do make and ordain this my last will
and testament in manner and form following : that is
to say: :

“First, I commend my soul into the hands of God
my Creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through
the only* merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be
made partaker of life everlasting ; and my body to the
earth, whereof-it is made.”

It then proceeds to make the bequests enumerated
below :

To his daughter Judith he gave 150/ of lawful
English money; roo/. to be paid in discharge of her
marriage-portion within one year after his decease,
and the remaining 5o0/, upon her giving up to her
366 Life of Shakspeare, -

elder sister, Susanna Hall, all her right in a copyhold
tenement and appurtenances, parcel of the manor of
Rowington. ‘To the said Judith he also bequeathed
150/, more, if she or any of her issue were living three
years from the date of his will; but, in the contrary
event, then he directed that roof of the sum should
be paid to his niece, Elizabeth Hall, and the proceeds
of the 502 to his sister Joan, or Jone Hart, for life,
with residue to her children. He further gave to the
said Judith a broad silver-gilt bowl. To his sister
Joan, beside the contingent bequest above-mentioned,
he gave 20/ and all his wearing apparel; also the
house in Stratford, in which she was to reside for her
natural life, under the yearly rent of twelvepence.
To her three sons, William Hart, —— Hart, and
Michael Hart, he gave 5/ a-piece, to be paid within
one year after his decease. To his grand-daughter,
Elizabeth Hall, he bequeathed all his plate, the silver
bowl above excepted. To the poor of Stratford he
bequeathed 104; to Mr. Thomas Cole, his sword ; to
Thomas Russel, 57.; to Francis Collins, esq., 134
6s, 8d.; to Hamlet (Hamnet), saddler, 12 6s. 8% to
buy a ring; and alike sum, for the same purpose, to
William Renolds, gent. Anthony Nash, gent., John
Hemynge, Richard Burbage, and Henry Cundell, his
‘fellows ;” also twenty shillings in gold to his godson,
William Walker. To his daughter, Susanna Hall, he
bequeathed New Place, with their appurtenances,
situated in Henley-street ; also, all his “‘barns, stables,
orchards, gardens, lands, tenements and hereditaments
whatsoever, situate, lying, and being, or to be had,
received, perceived, or taken, within the towns, ham-
lets, villages, fields, and ground of Stratford-upon-
Avon, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, or
Life of Shakspeare, 364

in any of them in the said county of Warwick ; and
also all that messuage or tenement, with the appur-
tenances, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth, situ-
ated, lying, and being in the Blackfriars, London, near
the Wardrobe; and all my other lands, tenements,
and hereditaments whatsoever, to have and to hold
all and singular the said premises, with their appurte-
nances, unto the said Susanna Hall, for and during
the term of her natural life: and, after her decease,
to the first son of her body, lawfully issuing; and to
the heirs male of her said first son, lawfully issuing ;
and for default of such issue, to the second son of
her body, lawfully issuing, and to the heirs male of
the said second son, lawfully issuing ;” and so forth,
as to third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh sons of her
body, and their heirs male: “and for default of such
issue, the said premises to be and remain to my niece
Hall, and the, heirs male of her body, lawfully issuing ;
and for default of such issue, to her daughter Judith,
and the heirs male of her body, lawfully issuing ; and
for default of such issue, to the right heirs of me the
said William Shakspeare.” To the said Susanna Hall
and her husband, whom he.appointed executors of
his will, under the direction of Francis Collins and
_ Thomas Russel, esqs. he further bequeathed all the
rest of his “goods, chattles, leases, plate, jewels, and
household stuff whatsoever,” after the payment of his
debts, legacies, and funeral expenses ; with the excep-
tion of his “ second-best bed, with the furniture,’ which
constituted the only deguest he made to his wife, and
that by insertion after the will was written out.

A few additional facts respecting Shakspeare’s
family may be acceptable. His wife survived him
seven years, and was buried between his grave and’
368 Life of Shakspeare.

the north wall of the chancel, under a stone inlaid
with brass, and inscribed thus :

“ Heere lyeth interred the bodye of Anne, wife of
Mr. William Shakspeare, who departed this life the
sixth day of August, 1623, being at the age of sixty-
seven yeares.”

We have thus, as briefly as the importance of such
a memoir would permit, gone over the meagre biogra-
phical remains of the noblest dramatic poet the world
has ever produced. Without attempting to draw the
character of this matchless writer, we have occasion-
ally, in the course of our narrative, endeavoured to
mark the feeling of respect and admiration by which
we are influenced while contemplating the mighty
performances of a mind, which, with little assistance
from education, surpassed all the efforts of ancient
and modern genius.
Cvider cf Shakspeare's Dramas. 369

CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF SHAKSPEARE'S
DRAMAS,

ON THE AUTHORITY OF MALONE, CHALMERS, AND KNIGHT,

THE ensuing enumeration of Shakspeare’s dramas
with the dates assigned by the most generally re-
ceived authorities, is merely given as a matter of
curiosity ; for the learned commentators are so much
at variance in their chronology, that it deserves little
or no attention. Indeed, when we reflect that the first
edition of our author did not appear till several years
after his death, and was then published by the players,
who, it can scarcely be supposed, would pay any re-
gard to the order of time in their arrangement of the
dramas, it must be obvious, that with a very few ex-
ceptions, the dates given to those compositions are
purely conjectural. A cloud rests over Shakspeare’s
career as an author, which is not now likely to be
dispersed; those who were most familiar with the
operations of his extraordinary genius, seem to have
been hardly aware “that he was not for a day, but for
all time ;” they paid their shillings and applauded his
productions on the stage, perhaps, but they had little
taste or inclination to do them justice in the closet.
Shakspeare himself appears to have been remarkably |

Be
370 Order of Shakspeare’s Dramas.

careless of his own fame: he produced his great works
without effort, and bequeathed them to his country,
unconscious of their merit, and reckless of their fate,

Malone. Chalmers.
Pericles... . . Not acknowledged.
First Part of King ey VI. 1589 1589
Second ditto 1590 1590
Third ditto 159% 5595
A Midsummer Night’s Dream 1592 1598
Comedy of Errors . . . 1593 1591
Taming of the Shrew . . 1594 ° 1598
Love’s Labour’s Lost . . 1594 1592
Two Gentlemen of Verona 1595 1595
Romeo and Juliet... 1595 1592
Hamlet . . .. . . 41596 I597
King John . 2... . £1596 1598
King Richard Il. . . . 1597 1595
King Richard HII. . . .) 1597 1595
First Part of King Henry IV. 1597 ‘1596
Second ditto 1598 1597
Merchant of Venice . . 1598 I597
All’s Well that Ends Well 1598 I599
King Henry Vi... 1599 1597
Much Ado about Nothing 1600 1599
As You Like It . . . 1600 1599
Merry Wives of Windsor . » 601 1596
King Henry VIII. . «+ I6or 1613
Troilus and Cressida . + 1602 1600
Measure for Measure . . 1603 1604
The Winter’s Tale . . . 1604 1601
King Lear. . 2. 2. . 4 1605 1605
Cymbeline . . 6 1. . 1605 1606
Macbeth . . 1606 1606

Knight.

1609
1592
1594
1595

"1598

1598
1607
1598
1598
1597
1603
1598
1596
1597
1598
1600
1598

1598 ©

1600
1600
1600

' 1602

1613
1609
1604
OIL
1607

—
Order of Shakspeares Dramas. 371

Malone, Chalmers. Knight.

Julius Cesar. . . «©. 1607 1607 —
Antony and Cleopatra. . 1608 1608 —
Timon of Athens . . . 1609 1601 —
Coriolanus. . . . . + 610 1699 —

Othello. 2. . . 0. 4. « OIE 1614 1602
The Tempest. . . . . 1612 =1613 LOIr
Twelfth Night . . . . 1614 1608 1602

Titus Andronicus not acknowledged by these critics
nor indeed by any author of credit, but originally
published about 1589.

BRADBURY, ACNEW, & CO., PRINFERS, WHITEFRIARS,








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Diagrams in Colours .,

Gems of English Art of the Neneeeach Center ry By y F. T.

PALGRAVE, M. A. With 24 Plates vee in Colours ces LEIGHTON
Brothers. 4to

Birket Foster's Pictures ss of E Eng olish E peiiige With 30 saline
rate Designs by Dauzigsis, Edited by Tom ‘Taytor, Royal 4to,
gilt and gilt edges 3a ‘ é

Birthday Book of Flower ead Song. With Selectors from fhe

Poets, and page Illustrations aes in Colours se EpMuND
Evans. 4to.. J .

Routleage’s Llustrated Natural History. By the Rev. J. G.
Woop, M.A,
The Volumes Separately :

Antutals and TERE EG, 14s. Man—Africa, 14s.

Birds, 14s. Man—Anerica, Asia, Polynesia, &c.

R afdiles, Lrishes, itt Paces 145. 14S.

The Poems of Oliver Goldsmith. With Mustrations by

Birxer Foster, printed in Colours by Epmunp Evans

Linglish Saved Poetry, Edited by the Rev. J. A. Thandie
M.A. With Illustrations by H. S. Marxs and others...

The Christian Year, Illustrated by Sir eet Giusene:
R.A., Ropert Barnes, and others..

LTome A ffections Portrayed by the Poets, dited iy C MA ACKAY.
With Plates by Mituais, Gitpert, Birxer Foster, and others. 4to.

Campbell’s (Thomas) Poetical Works. With Illustrations

from Turner’s Designs, Demy 8vo, gilt and gilt edges

The Picture Natural History. By the Rev. J. G. Woon,

M.A, With zoo Ulnstrations, A page for each subject, and a
description in large type

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CATALOGUE OF ILLUSTRATED BOOKS, &e.

JLLUSTRATED BOOKS, continued,

Potd’s Beauties of Shakespeare. With Ilustrations is Sir

Joun Gituerr. 4to .. we ss ey ‘
Lamb's Tales from Shakspeare, With eee ays Sir
Joun Grupert, R.A, qto 2. a an ? ‘
The Parables vf Our Lord, With Tluste ations os J. E.
Miiziais, R.A. oe . ae : ve

Rhymes and Riuitdelayes in Praise ro a Cy Life
With Illustrations by BirKET ‘Foster. 4to, gilt edges ,

TYhe Hanging of the Crane: A Poem. By H. W. Lone.
FELLOW, With Original Illustrations. gto, gilt edges

Common Waysite Flowers, With Coloured Plates, fois
Designs by Birker Foster, 4to, gilt edges .. i

Discoveries and Inventions of the Nineteenth Century. By
J. H. Pepper and Roserr RourLeccr. 400 HMlustrations and
Coloured Plates. .

The Adventures of Captain Hatteras aS. By JULES VERNE.
With 250 Illustrations. Coz‘faining: ‘The English at the North
Pole—The Field of Ice zy os ae i ac a nie

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CLOTH BOXES OF BOOKS.

‘The ANDERSEN LIBRARY, 1g vols. .. a ee ae oo ae
The LoNGFELLow Liprary, rz vols. ‘is os es Be
The Grimm Lisrary, 10 vols. ate os Ss Bh és ats
The Fouqut Lisrary, 6 vols. oa a . a as me
Everv Boy’s Liprary, 12 vols, ms ie st si is “e

In small 4to, cloth gilt, price 8s. 6a. ; gilt edges, 9s. 6d.

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Every Boy's Book. A New Edition, Edited by EDMUND Rout-

tepcE. A Complete Cyclopedia of Sport and Recreation. With 100 IlIustra-

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38



8

6 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS?

ROUTLEDGH’S SEVEN-AND-SIXPENNY
GIFT BOOKS.

Crown 8vo, or post 8vo,

Grimm's Household
Plates. 5
Andersen's Stories for the Household,
With 220 Plates. Post 8vo, gilt
edges.

Fabez Hoge on the Microscope. 500
Illustrations,

Sheridan Knowles's DramaticWorks.

Naomi; or, The Last Days of Jeru-
salem.

National Nursery Rhymes, by J. W.
ELuiorr.

Sheppard's Fall of Rome.

Christmas Carols (uniform with ‘ Na-
tional Nursery Rhymes”).

Bonnechose's History of France.

Homes and Haunts of the British
Poets, by WituiaAmM Howirrt.

Rabinson Crusoe. With too Plates
by J..D. Warson.

The Pilgrims Progress,
Plates by J. D. Watson.

The Good Hour, by AUERBACH. With
3co Illustrations.

The Popular Natural History, by
Rev. J. G. Woop, M.A. © With
many Hundreds of Illustrations,

Stories, 220

With roo



~

Great African Travellers, by W. H.
G. KincsTon.

Language of Flowers. ColouredPlates.

L’ Allegro and Il Penseroso, Mlus-
trated by Birxet FosTer.

The Hamlet, by THomas Warton.
Illustrated by Birket Foster.

Modern Magic, by Prof, HorrmMan.
With 318 Illustrations.

Science in Sport made Philosophy in
Earnest, by Ropert RovutTLepGe.
Illustrated.

Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes and
Fairy Tales, With 6oo Illustrations
and Coloured Plates.

The Voung Lady's Book, by the Au-
thor of ‘fA ‘Trap to Catch a Sun-
beam.”? _4oo TJllustrations and
Coloured Plates. -

Prince of the House of David. With
60 Illustrations,

Paul and Virginia.
Hundred Illustrations,

Picciola; or, The Prison Flower, by
X. B. SantTINeE.

The Sunlight of Song. Original Mu-
sic by BArnsy and others. 4to, cloth.

With many

ROUTLEDGEH’S SIX-SHILLING GIFT BOOKS,

Post or Crown 8vo, with many Illustrations by the First Artists.

Pepper's Boy's Play Book of Science.
400 Plates.

D’Auinoy’s Fairy Tales, translated
by PLANcuHé.

se aha Fairy Tales, by PERRAULT,

KC.

Wood's Illustrated Natural History.

500 Engravings.

Pepper's Play Book of Mines, Mine-
vals, and Metals, 300 Illustrations.
Post 8vo, gilt.

Motley’s Dutch Republic.

Victoria History of England.

Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea, by
W.H. G, Kincsron. Illustrated.

Travelling About, by Lady BARKER.

The English at the North Pole, by
JuLes VERNE. 129 Illustrations
by Riov. 7

The Playfellow, by Harriet Mar-
TINEAU,

Aduentures of Yohuny Ivronsides.
With x15 Plates.

Adventures of Robinson Playfellow :
A Young French Marine. With 24
Plates and many Woodcuts.

The Field of Ice, by Jutes VERNE.
129 Illustrations:

A Voyage Round the World—South
America, by JULES VERNE,





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