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Tales from Shakespeare

Material Information

Title:
Tales from Shakespeare
Creator:
Lamb, Charles, 1775-1834
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616
Lamb, Mary, 1764-1847
Paget, Walter, 1863-1935 ( Illustrator )
Nister, Ernest ( Publisher )
E.P. Dutton (Firm) ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London
New York
Publisher:
Nister
Dutton
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
319 p. : ill. ; 22 cm.

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Subjects / Keywords:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1910 ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1910
Genre:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
fiction ( marcgt )

Notes

Statement of Responsibility:
by Charles and Mary Lamb ; with 6 colour plates and 70 half-tone illustrations by W. Paget.

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University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
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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:
026528165 ( ALEPH )
ALF9746 ( NOTIS )
19912693 ( OCLC )

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TLE following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young

reader as an introduction to the study of Shakespeare, 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 interrupt 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.

Ln those Tales which have been taken from the Tragedies,
as my soung readers will perceive when they come to see the
source from which these stories are derived, Shakespeare's own
words, with little alteration, recur very frequently in the narra-
tive 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 young people not used to the
dramatic form of writing. But this fault—if it be as I fear
a faullt—has been caused by my earnest wish to give as much
of Shakespeare's own words as possible; and if the “He said”
and “She said,” the question and the reply, should sometimes



PREFACE, 5

seem tedious to their young cars, they must pardon tt, because
zt was the only way L knew of in which I could give them a
few hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure which
awaits then in thetr 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 im-
perfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image. Faint and
imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of his
language ts 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 few 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.

L have wished to make these Tales easy reading for very
young children. To the utmost of my ability I have constantly
kept this in my mind; but the subjects of most of them made
this a very difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the
histories of men and women in terms familiar to the appre-
hension of a very young mind. For 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 having the best scenes of
Shakespeare 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.



6 PREFACE.

And Tf 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 understood from their having some
notion of the general story from one of these imperfect abridg-
ments, which, if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightful
to any of you, my young readers, L hope witl have no worse
effect upon you than to make you wish yourselves 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 judicious 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 untouched—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
muck more tt is my wish that the true Plays of Shakespeare



may prove to you in older years—enrichers of the fancy,
strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and
mercenary thoughts, a lesson of atl sweet and honourable
thoughts and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity,
humanity; for of examples teaching these virtues, his pages
are fall,





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WSUS ss MUPIB SIE

HERE was a certain island
in the sea, the only inhabi-
tants 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 en-
chanted 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
commands. 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 mischievous in
his nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in
tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban, for he owed. him

2





[oO TALES LROM SHANESPEARE.

a grudge because he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax.
This Caliban Prospero found in the woods, a strange mis-
shapen 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
slyly 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 hedgehog 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, Pros-
pero 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. If I had
power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather than
the good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious
souls within her.”

“Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,” said Prospero;
“there is no harm done. I have so ordered it that no per-
son 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 Iam your father, and live in this poor
caye. Can you remember a time before you came to this



THLE TEMPEST: Lt

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 of a
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 remember how you
came here?”

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

“Twelve years ago, Miranda,’ continued Prospero, “I 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, neglecting 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
power, began to think himself the duke indeed. The op-
portunity 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 at that hour
destroy us?”

“My child,” answered her father, ‘they durst not, so dear
was the love that my people bore me. Antonio 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 !”

a



12 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

“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.”

“Fleaven 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 himself 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 invisible
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 performed your task?”

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the
terrors of the mariners; and how the King’s son, Ferdinand,
was the first who leaped into the sea; and his father thought
he saw his 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,
whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking they saw
him perish. Of the ship's crew not ohe 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.”



TNE :

Ariel: “ Full fathom Jive thy father lies.’ (P. 13.)









THE TEMPEST. 15

“Ts 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.”

“How now!” said Prospero. “You do not recollect what
a torment I freed you from. Have you forgot 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.

“OQ was she so?” said Prospero. “I must recount what
you have been, which I find you do not remember. 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 commands.”

“Do so,” said Prospero, “and I will set you free.” He
then gave orders what further 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.

“OQ my young gentleman,” said Ariel, when he saw him,
“T 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 :

)

“Tull 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 prince
‘from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in



16 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

amazement the sound of Ariel’s voice, till it led him to Pros-
pero and Miranda, who were sitting under the shade of a large
tree. Now, Miranda had never seef a man before, except
her own father.

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

“‘O 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 ?”

“No, girl,” answered her father; “it eats, and sleeps, and
has senses such as we 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 grey
beards like her father, was delighted with the appearance of
this beautiful young prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a
lovely lady in this desert place, and from the strange sounds
he had heard expecting nothing but wonders, thought he was
upon an enchanted island, and that Miranda was the goddess
of the p.ace, 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 Pros-
pero 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 con-
stancy, 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, to take
it from him who was the lord of it. “Follow me,” said he.
“T 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



THE TEMPEST. 17

ig the second man I ever saw, and to me he seems a
true one.”

“Silence !” said het 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. I 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.”

“] have not, indeed,” answered Ferdinand; and not know-
ing that it was by magic he was deprived of all power of
resistance, he was astonished to find himself 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 | might once
a day behold this fair maid.”

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within 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. Kings’ 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 rest your-
Seliice

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

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

Go



8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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, invisible, 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 lis-
tened well pleased to a long speech of Ferdinand’s, in which
he professed to love her above all the ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said
exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, “I 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 companion 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 precepts
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 Naples, and that she
should be his queen.

“Ah, sir!” said she, “I ama 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 appearing
visible before them.

“Fear nothing, my child,” said he; “I have overheard,
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



THE TEMPEST. 19

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; 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 voracious monster
with wings, and the feast vanished away. Then, to their
utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, remind-
ing them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his duke-
dom, 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, re-
pented the injustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel
told his master he was certain their penitence 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 Gon-
zalo in their train, who had followed him, wondering 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 formerly 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 stupefied 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 he was the injured Prospero.



20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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.

“OQ wonder!” said Miranda, “what noble creatures these
are! It must surely be a brave world that has such people
in it.”

The King of Naples was almost as much 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 Pro-
vidence 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 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 forgive-
ness.” ,

“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 duke-
dom 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.



THE TEMPEST, 21

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to com-
fort his brother, so filled Antonio with shame and remorse
that he wept and was unable to speak, and the kind old Gon-
zalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for
biessings 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 meantime,” said he, “partake of such refreshments
as my poor cave affords, and for your evening’s entertainment



Ariel: “On the bat’s back I do Ly cae C2222)

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 upon him.

Before Prospero left the island he dismissed Ariel from
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 uncon-



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

ww.
bo

trolled 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, “I 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 sang 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 bough.’

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 overcome 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 wit-
ness 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 voyage, soon arrived.





ye NN ONTO To



a as a

i A i i ct

A



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

ee was a law in the city
of Athens, which gave to its
citizens the power of compelling
their daughters to marry whom-
soever they pleased; for upon a
daughter’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 unfrequently 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 Athens) to complain that his
daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded to marry De-
metrius, 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 distraction; but



24, TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

this honourable reason which Hermia 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 it; 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 him up 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 proposed to
meet, was the favourite haunt of those little beings known
by the name of Fairies.

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 hap-
pened, at this time, a sad disagreement: they never met by
moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant wood but they



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 25

were quarrelling, till all their fairy elves would creep into
acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania’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.

“jl met by moonlight, proud Titania,’ said the fairy
king. The queen replied, ‘What! jealous Oberon, is it you?
Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn 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:
“Defore the morning dawns I will torment you for this injury.”
Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy
councillor.

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow)
was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that 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 fantastic 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 melancholy story, Puck would slip
her three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled the

4



20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Idleness’; 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 sight, which I can
do with another charm Tr 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 expos-
tulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love and
professions 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 Demetrius. However that might be, when Puck
returhed 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 dex-
trously, and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to













A MIDSOMMER NIGHTS DRILEAMS OF

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 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, lulla, 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 important 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 truc-love take.’

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 con-
duct her to his aunt’s house, but before they had passed half
through the wood Hermia was.so much fatigued that Ly-
sander, who was very careful of this dear lady, who had
proved her affection for him even by hazarding her life for



28 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 disdainful 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 behe'd when he opened his eyes; and, strange to
relate, so powerful was the love-charm that 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, but she could not
continue this unequal race long, men being always better
runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon lost sight
of Demetrius, and as 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 touching 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-







A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 29

like speeches. Helena, knowing Lysander was 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 everyone? 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 Ly-
sander 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 meantime Demetrius, not being able to find
Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with his fruit-
less search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon
had learnt by some questions he had asked of Puck that he
had applied the love-chaim 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.



30 LALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Ly-
sander 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 goddess, 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 flower, both on the same
sampler wrought, growing up together in fashion of a double
cherry, scarcely seeming parted? Hermia, it is not friendly
ia you, it is not maidenly, to join with men in scorning
your poor friend.”

‘“T am amazed at your passionate words,” said Hermia:
“T scorn you not; it seems you scorn me.” “Ay, do!” re-
turned Helena, “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 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



A MNMIDSOMUMER NIGHT? S DREAM. 31

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 think it is their rival’s tongue they hear.
See you do this till they are so weary they can go no farther,



Titania: * Attend upon this sweet gentleman.” (P. 32)

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 return 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



32 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

all that has passed a vexatious 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, “shail be my Titania’s true-
love” ; and clapping an ass’s head over the clown’s, it seemed
to fit him as well as if it had grown upon his own shoulders.
Although 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 en-
amoured queen. “I am a spirit of no common rate. I love
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.

“Attend,” said the queen, ‘upon this sweet gentleman;
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
Jet 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 courtship, but very
proud of his new attendants.

“Flere, 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





A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 33

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?”

“Nothing,” said the clown, ‘good Mr. Mustard-seed, but
to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch. I must go-to a bar-
ber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks Iam marvellous hairy
about the face.”

“My sweet love,” said the queen, ‘‘ what will you have to
eat? I have 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 disturb me,
for I have a mind to sleep.”

“Sleep, then,” said the queen,
“and I will wind you in my arms.
O how I 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, fTelena.
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 dis-
graceful situation into which, by his merry contrivance,
he had brouzht 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

5





270 _LTALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.
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 reconciled,
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, sleeping 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 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 wondering at his strange
inconstancy. Lysander presently opening his eyes, and seeing
. his dear Hermia, recovered 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 bewildering dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake, and a
sweet sleep having quieted Helena’s disturbed and angry
spirits, she listened with delight to the professions of love
which Demetrius still made to her, and which, to her surprise
as well as pleasure, she began to perceive were sincere.

These tair 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 return to Athens
for this friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the
sight of Egeus, Hermia’s father, who came to the wood in
pursuit of his runaway daughter.





A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’ S DREAM. 35

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now
marry his daughter, he no longer opposed her marriage with
Lysander, but gave his consent that they 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 be-
loved and now faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators
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 approaching 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 unreason-
able as to be offended with a pretty harmless Midsummer
Night’s Dream.



WeVe, WOIUN IMIR TS WANE.

eo King of Sicily,

and his queen, the beauti-°
fuland virtuous Hermione, once
lived in the greatest harmony
together. So happy was Leon-
tes in the love of this excellent
lady. that he had no wish
ungratified, except that hesome-
times desired to see again, and
to present to his queen, his
old companion andschoolfellow,
_ Polixenes, King of Bohemia.

- Leontes and Polixenes were

brought up together from their
infancy; but being, by the
death of their fathers, called

Leontes and Camillo. to reign over their respective

kingdoms, they had not met
for many years, though they frequently interchanged 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 par-
ticular 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 schooldtys and their youthful
pranks were remembered and recounted to Hermione, who
always took a cheerful part in these conversations.





THE WINTERS TALE. OY)

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.

And now began this good queén’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 de-
_ parture 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 a true frend, and the best and fond-
est of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage and in-
human monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of
_ his court, and telling h:m of the suspicion he entertained, he
- commanded him to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a gocd 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 s'ill
‘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 motier,
when the king entered, and, taking the child away, sent
_ Hermione to prison.

‘ Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his 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 de-
‘grees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it was thought
his grief would kill him. ,

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, com-
















38 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

manded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to
Delphos, there to inquire 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 had
a little 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 had a new baby,
she went to the prison where Hermione was confined, and
she said to Emilia, a lady who attended upon Hermione, sl
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,
“T 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 forever blessed,” said Emilia, “for your kindness to
our gracious queen!” Emilia then went to Hermione, who
joyfully gave up her baby to the 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 remonstrances
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
look 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





THE WINTERS TALE. 39

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





Sew,

This pocr deserted baby was found by a shepherd. (@ 41)

shipboard, 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 of 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 grief







ee ee



40 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

for the loss of her precious baby, he had her brought to a
public trial before all the lords and nobles of his court. And
when all the great lords, the judges, and all 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 ts innocent, Polixenes blameless, Ca-
millo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the hing
shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found. a
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 affec-
tionate child, who had lost. his lite in sorrowing for her mis-
fortune, fainted; and Leontes, pierced to the heart by the
news, began to feel pity for his unhappy 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 to!d 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 hs ill usage
had broken Hernones 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 con-
cluded was his young daughter, he should be without an
heir, the young Prince Mamillus being dead; and he would
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 Anti-
gonus landed, and here he leit the “little baby.





The... gueen-like deportment of Perdita caused the prince
instantly to fall tn love. . 43)







THE WINTERS TALE, 43

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes 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 King
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 pinned a paper to its mantle, with the
name of Perdita written thereon, and words obscurely inti-
mating 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 riches, 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 daugh-
ter, yet so did the natural graces she inherited from her
royal mother shine forth in her 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 deport-
ment 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 to the old
shepherd’s house. Florizel’s frequent absences 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.



4a TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the
old shepherd's dwelling while they were celebrating 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. Some 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 quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased
with the conversation of each other 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 elegant manner in which
Perdita conversed with his son did not a little surprise Polix-
enes: he said to Camillo, “This is the prettiest low-born
lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks like
something greater than herself, too noble for this place.”

Camillo replied, “Indeed, she is the very cream of curds
and cream.”

“Pray, my good friend,” said the king to the old shep-
herd, “what fair swain is that talking with your daughter?”
“They call him Doricles,’ replied the shepherd. “He says
he loves my daughter; and to speak the 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 -



THE WINTERS TALE. AB

trifles; the gifts which Perdita expects from me are locked
up in my heart.” Then turning to Perdita, he said to her,
“© hear me, Perdita, before this ancient gentleman, who
it seems was once himself 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 con-
tract himself to this low-born maiden, calling Perdita ‘“shep-
herd’s-brat, sheep-hook,” and other disrespectful names; and
threatening, 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
cottage, but looks on both alike.” Then sorrowfully she said,
“But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it
no further. 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 perceiving 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
favourite scheme he had in his mind.

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the King of Sicily,
was become a true penitent; and though Camillo 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 proposed to Florizel and Perdita that
they should accompany him to the Sicilian court, where he
would engage Leontes should protect them, till through his



40 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

mediation they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his
consent to their marriage.

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who
conducted everything relative to their flight, allowed the old
shepherd to go along with them.

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita’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 introduced 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 friend-
ship 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 comparing the time when
he found the little Perdita with the manner of its exposure,
the jewels and other tokens of its high birth; from all which
it was impossible for him not to conclude that Perdita and
the king’s lost daughter were the same.

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina,
were present when the old shepherd related to the king the
manner in which he had found the child, and also the cir-
cumstance 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 pro-
duced a jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied
about Perdita’s neck; and he gave up the paper which
Paulina knew to be the writing of her husband: it could
not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes’ own daughter; but
oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her



THE WINTERS TALE. 47
husband’s death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the
king’s heir, his long-lost daughter, being found. When Leontes
heard that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that
he felt that Hermione was not living to behold her child
made him that he could say nothing for a long time but
“OQ thy mother! thy mother!”

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet 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 it was Hermione herself. Thither then
they all went, the king anxious to see the semblance of his
Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother
she never saw did look like.

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed
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, “Oh, thus she stood, even with
such majesty, when I first woced 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 Hermione 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.” “I must draw the
curtain, my lege,” 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 J will kiss her.” ‘Good my lord, forbear!”
said Paulina. “The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you will



48 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the cur-
tain?” “No, not these twenty years,” said Leontes.

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling and behold-
ing in silent admiration the statue of her matchless mother,
said now, “And so long could I stay here looking upon my
dear mother.”

“Kither forbear this transport,’ said Paulina to 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,
“T 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, the living
queen !

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of
Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve her
royal mistress’s life, and with the good Paulina Hermione
had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes should know
she was living till she heard Perdita was found; for though
she had long 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 speeches
were heard on all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked



THE WINTERS TALE. 49

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 conjec-
tured he should find the fugitives here; and, following them
with all speed, he happened to arrive just at this, the hap-
piest moment of Leontes’ life.

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave 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.

“NI



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[ aueLS 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 disposition,
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

BORO T passing through Messina on their return

from a war then just ended, in which

they had distinguished 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 acquaintance.

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 discourse, interrupted
Benedick with saying, “I wonder that you will still be talk-





MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 51
ing, 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
remembered 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 dis-
pleased with each other. Therefore when Beatrice stopped
him in the middle of his discourse 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 argument 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 kiiled there, and cbserving the prince take
delight in Benedick’s conversation, she called him “the
prince's jester.” This sarcasm sank 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 buffuonery, because the charge
comes sometimes a little too near the truth, therefore Bene-
dick perfectly hated Beatrice when she called him “the
prince’s jester.”

The modest Lady Hero was silent before the noble 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 ad-
mirable young lady), the prince was highly amused with
listening to the humorous 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 for
Benedick.” Leonato replied to this suggestion, “O my lord,



52 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

my lord, if they were but a week married they would talk
themselves mad.” But though Leonato 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 diffi-
culty in persuading the geutle Hero herself to listen to the
suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare endow-
ments and highly accomplished ; 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 accomplishment 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 assistance; 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 gentlemen



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 53
should make Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with
him, and that Hero should make Beatrice believe that Bene-
dick 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 Benedick? 1
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 so 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 cer-
tainly 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 Bene-
dick.” 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 weve 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



bd. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 him, and said with her usual tartness, “Against
my will Iam sent to bid you to 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 con-
cealed meaning of kindness under the uncivil words she
uttered, and he said aloud, “If I do not take pity on her,
I am a villain. If I do not love her, I ama 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 attended 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 her steal into that pleasant arbour where honeysuckles,
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 Bene-
dick, 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 in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look
where 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





NSA

TTero: “Look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by

the ground. (P. 3.)







MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 57

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 to let Beatrice know of it.” “Certainly,”
replied Ursula; “it were not good she knew his love, lest
she made sport of it.” “Why, to say the truth,” said Hero,
“T 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.” “Ob, you wrong your
cousin,” said Ursula; ‘she cannot be so much without true
judgment as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior Bene-
dick.” ‘He hath an excellent good name,” said Hero: “in-
deed, 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 her 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 breath-
less eagerness to this dialogue, when they went away ex-
claimed, “What fire is in my ears? Can this be true? Fare-
well, contempt and scorn, and maiden pride, adieu! Bene-
dick, love on! I will requite you, taming my wild heart
to your loving 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 re-
verse in the fortunes of Hero must now be thought of. The
morrow, which was to 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

8



58 TALES FROM SITAKESPEARE :

hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio, because
he was the prince’s friend, and he determined to prevent
Claudio’s marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure
of making 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. This Borachio
paid his court to Margaret, Hero’s attendant; and Don John,
knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret pro-
mise 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 com-
pass by this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and
told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and 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 him, and Claudio said, “If
1 see anything 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 chamber
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



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, 59
talked with a man from her window the very night before
she was going to be married to the noble Claudio,

The next day when 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 pro-
ceeding to pronounce the marriage ceremony, Claudio, in
the most passionate language, proclaimed the guilt of the
blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange oni he uttered,
said meekly, “Is my lord well, that he does speak so wide?”

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, “My
lord, why speak not you?” “What should I speak?” said
the prince; “I stand dishonoured, that I have gone about
to link my dear friend to an unworthy woman. Leonato,
upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this grieved
Claudio did see and hear her last night at midnight talk
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 sank down in a fainting-fit, to all appear-
ance dead. The prince and Claudio left the church without
staying to see if Hero would recover, 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 principles, 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 obser-
vation on human nature, and he had attentively marked the
lady’s countenance when she heard herself accused, and
noted a thousand blushing shames to start into her face, and
then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away those blushes,
and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error that



6o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

the prince ‘did speak against her maiden truth, and he said
to the sorrowing father, “Call me a fool, trust not my read-
ing 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 misunderstand-
ing 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
shall become of this?” said Leonato; “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 that 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 nut so accused
her; yea, though he thought his accusation true.”

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.”

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrow-
fully, “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 re-
mained alone; and this was the meeting from which their
{riends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected
so much diversion—those friends who were now overwhelmed



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. O1

with affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts of merri-
ment 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 Bene-
dick, “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 friendship? I
do love nothing in the world
so much as you; is not that
strange?” “It were as pos-
sible,’ 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 Benedick, “you love me,
and I protest I love you.
Come, bid me do anything |
for you.” “Kill Claudio,” said
Beatrice. “Ha! not for the
wide world,” said Benedick;
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 window;
a proper saying ! Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is slan-
dered; she is undone. O that I were a man for Claudio’s
sake! or that 1 had any friend who would be a man for my
sake! but valour is melted into courtesies and compliments.



Beatrice and Benedick.



62 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 swearing 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 Bene-
dick, 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 nevertheless must have accepted this chal-
lenge of Benedick, 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.

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking ot the
challenge of Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio 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 Claudio’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 suspicion had remained, it must have been re-
moved by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies
were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of
his brother.



| MUCH ADO ABOUT NOT "“HING. 6%

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 Jay 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 though she 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 agreeable surprise 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,
“Ts not this Hero, Hero that was dead?” Leonato replied,
“She died, my lord, but while her slander lived.” The friar
promised them an explanation 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



644, TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

married 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 merry invention had cheated them into,
was grown too powerlul 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 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 complete 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 discontented man, to see the joy and
feastings which, by the disappointment of his plots, took place
at the palace in Messina.



mor VOW Abie Ir

[DURING the time that France

was divided into 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 lawtul
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
bad put themselves into a voluntary
exile for his sake, while their land
and revenues enriched the false
= Se usurper ; and custom soon made the
Orlando and Adam. life of careless ease they led here
more sweet to them than the
pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier’s life. Here they
all 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 inhabitants
of the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them
to supply themselves with venison for food. When the cold
winds of winter made the duke feel the change of his ad-
verse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and say, “These
chilling winds which blow upon my body are true councillors:

9





66 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

they do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condition;
and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so
keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that, how-
soever 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 Rosa-
lind, whom the usurper, Duke Frederick, when he banished
her father, still retainedin 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 means in
her power to make amends to Rosalind for the injustice of
her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind; and when-
ever the thoughts of her father’s banishment, 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, they must come instantly to the court before
the 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 wrest-
ling 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.



AS NOG (IKE 17. 67

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 wish to per-
suade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and see if
you can move him.”

The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane 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 relused 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, “I
am 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 1 be conquered, there is one shamed that was
never gracious; 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 1 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 wrest-
ling, 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 completely 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 skillshown by this young stranger, and desired to know



68 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

lis 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 king for this brave young man was

changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill
humour. Hating 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, awa 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 friends the
banished duke had among the nobility, and having been for



AS YOU LIKE IT. 69

some time displeased with his niece, because the people
praised her for her virtues and pitied her 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 in-
stantly 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 account.” “TI
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 to-
gether, rose at the same instant, learned, played, and eat
together, I cannot live out of her company.” Frederick
replied, ‘‘She is too subtle 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. Rosa-
lind 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 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.



70 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

The Lady Rosalind (or Ganimed, as she must now be
called) with her manly garb seemed to have put ona manly
courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown in accom-
panying 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 accommodations
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
Ganimed tried to recollect that it was a man’s duty to com-
fort 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 longer support them; for though
they were in the forest of Arden, they knew not where to
find the 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 to 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 ourselves, for this young maid,
my sister, is much fatigued with travelling, and faints for
want of food.”

The man replied that he was only a servant to a shep-
herd, 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 would be welcome to
what there was. They followed the man, the near prospect
of relief giving them fresh strength, and bought the house



AS YOU LIKE JT. Vil

and sheep of the shepherd, and took the man who con-
ducted 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 jour-
ney, they began to like their new way of life, and almost
fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess 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 .Or-
lando was many miles distant, even so many weary miles
as they had travelied, 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 unworthy brother; and disregarding
the commands of his dying father, he never put his brother
to school, but kept him at home untaught and entirely ne-
glected. 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 en-
vied 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



Te TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 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 hear-
ing the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke’s
palace, intended 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 together, and before your
youthful wages are spent I shall light upon some means for
both our maintenance.”

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 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



AS YOU LIKE IT. 7
dear master, I die for want of food, I can go no farther !”
He then laid himse!f 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 awhile, 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 covert of some large trees.



The name of Rosalind carved on the trees. (&. 74)

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his
sword, intending to take their meat by force, and said, “For-
bear, 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
all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the
countenance of stern command; but whatever men you are,

10



m4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

that in this desert, under 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 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 _ habi-
tation 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 Or-
lando, “who has limped after me many a weary step in pure
love, oppressed at once with two 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 returned,
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 cheered his heart, and he revived, and
recovered his health and strength again,

The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when 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 find
the name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets
fastened to them, all addressed to Rosalind; 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 Prin-









Ganimed: “i will feign myself to be Ros

shali feign to court me, (P. 75)

oO



AS YOU LIKE IT. 74
cess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension and favour,
had so won his heart that he passed his whole time in carv-
ing her name upon the trees, and writing sonnets in praise
of her beauty; but being much pleased with the graceful
air of this pretty shepherd youth, he entered into conversation
with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed to
his beloved 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 be-
tween 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 ‘ Rosa-
lind’ 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 ladies to their 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 mis-
tresses. It does not 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 Rosulind),
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



70 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

knowing these fine love 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 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.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganimed, 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 Orlando 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 the furious 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



AS YOU LIKE IT. 77



Gantmed met the duke one day. (P. 76.)

at the risk of his own life, shame and remorse at once seized
him, and he repented of his unworthy conduct, and besought
with many tears his brother’s pardon for the injuries he had
done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent, and
readily forgave him: they embraced each other; and from
that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true 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 Ganimed, and therefore
he desired his brother to go and tell Ganimed, “whom,”



78 TALES. FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 told her he felt for his
fault, he as suddenly fell in love with her. But while love
was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he
was no less busy with Ganimed, who hearing of the danger
Orlando 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 pale-
ness of his complexion that he did really faint, and much
wondering at the weakness of the young man, he said, “ Well,
if you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to
bea man.” “So I do,’ replied Ganimed, truly, “but I should
have been a woman by right.”

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 Ganimed’s fainting at the hear-
ing 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 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 wed-
ding 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 -



AS YOU LIKE IT. 79

to Aliena; and Ganimed, whom Orlando had perceived ap-
proaching, 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, Or-
lando 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 cou'd so easily perform, he pretended
he would bring to pass by the aid of 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 consent of
Aliena, they came into the presence of the duke, and with
them also came Orlando.

They being all assembled to celebrate this double mar-
riage, 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 be-
lieved the shepherd boy could really do what he had pro-
mised; 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 mar-
riage with Orlando. “That I would,’ said the duke, “if I
had kingdoms to give with her.” Ganimed then said to



_ 80 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

Orlando, “And you will say you will ay 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, was with as little trouble transformed into the
Lady Celia.

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando that he
thought the shepherd Ganimed looked very like his daughter
Rosalind; and Orlando said he also had observed the re-
semblance.

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. Jt 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 her banish-
ment, 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 pleasant 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 to 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.



AS YOU LIKE IT. 81

advanced towards the forest, intending to seize his brother,
and put him, with all his faithful followers, to the sword;
but, by a wonderful 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 re-
solved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the re-
mainder 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 rejoicings at the
wedding of the princesses. Celia complimented her cousin
on th's good fortune which had happened to the duke, Rosa-
lind’s father, and wished joy very sincerely, though she her-
self was no longer heir to the dukedom, but by this restora-
tion 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 ad-
verse fortune, were very well pleased to return in peace and
prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke.



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

“[ HERE lived in the city of Verona
two young gentlemen, whose
ames were Valentine and Protheus,
between whom a firm and uninter-
rupted friendship had long subsisted.
They pursued their studies together,
and their hours of leisure were
always passed in each others com-
pany, except when Protheus 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 himself a lover, was some-
times a little weary of hearing his
friend for ever talking of his Julia,
and then he would laugh at Protheus,
and in pleasant terms ridicule the
passion of love, and declare that no
Valentine. such idle fancies should ever enter
his head, greatly preferring (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 |





THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, 83

wits. If your affection were not chained to the sweet glances
of your honoured Julia, I would entreat you to accompany
me, to see the wonders of the world abroad;-but since you
are a lover, love on still, and may your 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 rejected 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 re-
tiring, she stooped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter ;
but Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said in pre-
tended 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 she could
the torn fragments. She first made out these words, ‘Love-
wounded Protheus”; and lamenting over these and suchlike
.loving words which she made out, though they were all torn
asunder, or, she said, wounded (the expression “love-wounded
Protheus” giving her that idea), she talked. to these kind



84 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 pretty lady-
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 favour-
able 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 favours; and how
he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune.”

“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 ot his friend was



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 85

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, “Louk not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve
you shall spend some time in the Duke of Milan’s court,
for what I will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow be
in readiness to go. Make no excuses, for I am peremptory.”
Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections to
his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will; 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. a
Now that Julia found she was going to lose Protheu
for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference; and
they bade each other a mournful
farewell, with many vows of love
and constancy. Protheus and Julia
exchanged rings, which they both
promised to keep for ever in remem-
brance of each other; and _ thus,
taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus
set out on his journey to Milan, the
abode of his friend Valentine.
Valentine was in reality what
Protheus had feigned to his father,
in high favour with the Duke of .%
Milan; and another event had hap-
pened to him, of which Protheus Fulia.
did not even dream, for Valentine j =
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,





86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia
with turning everything Thurio said into ridicule, when the
duke himself entered the room, and told Valentine the welcome
news of his friend Protheus’ arrival. Valentine said, “If I
had wished a thing, it would have been to have seen him
here!” 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 advantage of his days,
and is complete in person and in mind, and in all good grace
to grace a gentleman.”

“Welcome him, then, according to his worth,” said the
duke: “Silvia, 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 Protheus, and Valentine in-
troduced him to Silvia, 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 dis-
course.”

“Ay, Protheus,’ returned Valentine, “but that life is
altered now. I have done penance for contemning 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, dine, 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” Protheus must be called no



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, 87

longer, for the same all-powerful deity Love, of whom they
were speaking (yea, even while they were talking of the
change he had made in 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 short
interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless
lover; for at the first sight of Silvia all his love for Julia
vanished away like a dream, nor did his long friendship 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 concealed 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, urged him to tell that which else no worldly good
should draw from him. He then told all he had heard from
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 intention rather than
he would conceal an unjust action, highly commended him,



88 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

and promised him not to let Valentine know from whom he
had learnt this intelligence, but by some artifice to make
Valentine betray the secret himself. Fur this purpose the
duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom
he soon saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived
somewhat 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
a while. JI wish your counsel about some affairs that concern
me nearly.” He then told Valentine an artful story, as a
prelude to draw his secret from him, saying that Valentine
knew he wished to 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 me as
if | 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 childlike duty. I now
am resolved to take a wife, and turn 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 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 elo-
quence. 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



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 809

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 under 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 Jetter of Silvia’s,
which he instantly opened and read ;



Protheus and Silvia.

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 endea-
vouring to steal away his daughter, banished him from the

12



go TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Valentine,
Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Protheus; and
her regard for him at last so far overcame her sense of pro-
priety 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, 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 con-
ducted her, a very different effect was produced to what the
kind host intended, for there, to her heart’s sorrow, she be-
held her lover, the inconstant Protheus, serenading the Lady
Silvia with music, and addressing discourse of love and ad-
miration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia from a window
talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his own



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. gI

true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; 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 wit-
nessed, 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 sent her with letters and presents to her rival Silvia,
and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him as a
parting gift 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 Protheus’ 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
forsaken 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 coming from her kind rival’s tongue cheered the
drooping heart 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



92 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded his
money.

Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by ad-
versity, that he was going into banishment, and that he had
no money, the clothes he had on being all his riches.

The robbers, hearing that he was a distress-d man, and
being struck with his noble air and manly behaviour, told
him, if he would live with them, and be their chief or cap-
tain, they would put themselves under his command; but
that if he refused to accept their offer they would kill him.

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself,
said he would consent to live with them and be their
captain, provided they did no outrage on women or poor
passengers.

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of
whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed
banditti; and in this situation he was found by Silvia, and
in this manner it came to pass:

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father
insisted upon her no longer refusing, came at last to the
resolution of following Valentine to Mantua, a‘ which place
she had heard her lover had taken refuge: bu ‘in this ac-
count she was misinformed, for he still lived .n the forest
among the robbers, bearing 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 gentleman whose name
was Eglamour, whom she took along with her for protection
on the road. She had 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 captain had an honourable mind,





BASEN

One of these robbers seized on Silvia. (.92)







THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 95

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 Valentine,’ 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 surprised 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 done to Valentine
that Valentine, whose nature 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 generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered
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



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TLE following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young

reader as an introduction to the study of Shakespeare, 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 interrupt 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.

Ln those Tales which have been taken from the Tragedies,
as my soung readers will perceive when they come to see the
source from which these stories are derived, Shakespeare's own
words, with little alteration, recur very frequently in the narra-
tive 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 young people not used to the
dramatic form of writing. But this fault—if it be as I fear
a faullt—has been caused by my earnest wish to give as much
of Shakespeare's own words as possible; and if the “He said”
and “She said,” the question and the reply, should sometimes
PREFACE, 5

seem tedious to their young cars, they must pardon tt, because
zt was the only way L knew of in which I could give them a
few hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure which
awaits then in thetr 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 im-
perfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image. Faint and
imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of his
language ts 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 few 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.

L have wished to make these Tales easy reading for very
young children. To the utmost of my ability I have constantly
kept this in my mind; but the subjects of most of them made
this a very difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the
histories of men and women in terms familiar to the appre-
hension of a very young mind. For 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 having the best scenes of
Shakespeare 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.
6 PREFACE.

And Tf 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 understood from their having some
notion of the general story from one of these imperfect abridg-
ments, which, if they be fortunately so done as to prove delightful
to any of you, my young readers, L hope witl have no worse
effect upon you than to make you wish yourselves 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 judicious 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 untouched—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
muck more tt is my wish that the true Plays of Shakespeare



may prove to you in older years—enrichers of the fancy,
strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and
mercenary thoughts, a lesson of atl sweet and honourable
thoughts and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity,
humanity; for of examples teaching these virtues, his pages
are fall,


Tue TEMPEST. ; : : : : ; : : 9
A MipsumMer Nicut’s Dream . i cue eros
Tue WINTER’sS TALE . : : : : : ee 0
Mucu Avo Axsout NorHinG 5 : : 3 ; eS O)
As You Likr It ; : : : : é : eNOS
Tue Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. ; ‘ : eS 2
THe MERCHANT of VENICE : . . . ; 298
CYMBELINE ©. : : : ; : 3 : : Neyer:
Kine Lear . i : ; i : ; : : eS
MacBeTH. : Snes : ; ; ; : . 146
Aut’s WELL THAT Enps WELL. ; : : ‘ . 160
Tue TaMING oF THE SHREW. ; : ; ; Pee lWAS
THE ComEpy oF Errors . 3 j : : ; . 186
MEASURE FOR MEASURE : : 5 4 : aaa OS
“TWELFTH NicuT; or, WHat You WiLL . : : s 220
Timon oF ATHENS. 5 5 : s 5 ; MOA
Romeo AND JULIET. : : ; : : . e248
Hamvet, Prince or DENMARK . : : : : see Ov
OTHELLO. : 3 : : : : : : . 286

PericLes, Prince or Tyre : : ; : ; er O2

WSUS ss MUPIB SIE

HERE was a certain island
in the sea, the only inhabi-
tants 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 en-
chanted 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
commands. 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 mischievous in
his nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in
tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban, for he owed. him

2


[oO TALES LROM SHANESPEARE.

a grudge because he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax.
This Caliban Prospero found in the woods, a strange mis-
shapen 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
slyly 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 hedgehog 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, Pros-
pero 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. If I had
power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather than
the good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious
souls within her.”

“Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,” said Prospero;
“there is no harm done. I have so ordered it that no per-
son 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 Iam your father, and live in this poor
caye. Can you remember a time before you came to this
THLE TEMPEST: Lt

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 of a
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 remember how you
came here?”

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

“Twelve years ago, Miranda,’ continued Prospero, “I 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, neglecting 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
power, began to think himself the duke indeed. The op-
portunity 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 at that hour
destroy us?”

“My child,” answered her father, ‘they durst not, so dear
was the love that my people bore me. Antonio 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 !”

a
12 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

“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.”

“Fleaven 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 himself 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 invisible
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 performed your task?”

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the
terrors of the mariners; and how the King’s son, Ferdinand,
was the first who leaped into the sea; and his father thought
he saw his 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,
whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking they saw
him perish. Of the ship's crew not ohe 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.”
TNE :

Ariel: “ Full fathom Jive thy father lies.’ (P. 13.)



THE TEMPEST. 15

“Ts 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.”

“How now!” said Prospero. “You do not recollect what
a torment I freed you from. Have you forgot 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.

“OQ was she so?” said Prospero. “I must recount what
you have been, which I find you do not remember. 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 commands.”

“Do so,” said Prospero, “and I will set you free.” He
then gave orders what further 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.

“OQ my young gentleman,” said Ariel, when he saw him,
“T 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 :

)

“Tull 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 prince
‘from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in
16 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

amazement the sound of Ariel’s voice, till it led him to Pros-
pero and Miranda, who were sitting under the shade of a large
tree. Now, Miranda had never seef a man before, except
her own father.

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

“‘O 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 ?”

“No, girl,” answered her father; “it eats, and sleeps, and
has senses such as we 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 grey
beards like her father, was delighted with the appearance of
this beautiful young prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a
lovely lady in this desert place, and from the strange sounds
he had heard expecting nothing but wonders, thought he was
upon an enchanted island, and that Miranda was the goddess
of the p.ace, 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 Pros-
pero 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 con-
stancy, 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, to take
it from him who was the lord of it. “Follow me,” said he.
“T 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
THE TEMPEST. 17

ig the second man I ever saw, and to me he seems a
true one.”

“Silence !” said het 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. I 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.”

“] have not, indeed,” answered Ferdinand; and not know-
ing that it was by magic he was deprived of all power of
resistance, he was astonished to find himself 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 | might once
a day behold this fair maid.”

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within 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. Kings’ 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 rest your-
Seliice

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

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

Go
8 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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, invisible, 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 lis-
tened well pleased to a long speech of Ferdinand’s, in which
he professed to love her above all the ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said
exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, “I 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 companion 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 precepts
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 Naples, and that she
should be his queen.

“Ah, sir!” said she, “I ama 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 appearing
visible before them.

“Fear nothing, my child,” said he; “I have overheard,
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
THE TEMPEST. 19

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; 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 voracious monster
with wings, and the feast vanished away. Then, to their
utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, remind-
ing them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his duke-
dom, 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, re-
pented the injustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel
told his master he was certain their penitence 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 Gon-
zalo in their train, who had followed him, wondering 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 formerly 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 stupefied 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 he was the injured Prospero.
20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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.

“OQ wonder!” said Miranda, “what noble creatures these
are! It must surely be a brave world that has such people
in it.”

The King of Naples was almost as much 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 Pro-
vidence 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 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 forgive-
ness.” ,

“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 duke-
dom 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.
THE TEMPEST, 21

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to com-
fort his brother, so filled Antonio with shame and remorse
that he wept and was unable to speak, and the kind old Gon-
zalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for
biessings 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 meantime,” said he, “partake of such refreshments
as my poor cave affords, and for your evening’s entertainment



Ariel: “On the bat’s back I do Ly cae C2222)

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 upon him.

Before Prospero left the island he dismissed Ariel from
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 uncon-
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

ww.
bo

trolled 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, “I 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 sang 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 bough.’

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 overcome 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 wit-
ness 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 voyage, soon arrived.


ye NN ONTO To



a as a

i A i i ct

A



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

ee was a law in the city
of Athens, which gave to its
citizens the power of compelling
their daughters to marry whom-
soever they pleased; for upon a
daughter’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 unfrequently 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 Athens) to complain that his
daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded to marry De-
metrius, 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 distraction; but
24, TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

this honourable reason which Hermia 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 it; 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 him up 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 proposed to
meet, was the favourite haunt of those little beings known
by the name of Fairies.

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 hap-
pened, at this time, a sad disagreement: they never met by
moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant wood but they
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 25

were quarrelling, till all their fairy elves would creep into
acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania’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.

“jl met by moonlight, proud Titania,’ said the fairy
king. The queen replied, ‘What! jealous Oberon, is it you?
Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn 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:
“Defore the morning dawns I will torment you for this injury.”
Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy
councillor.

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow)
was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that 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 fantastic 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 melancholy story, Puck would slip
her three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled the

4
20 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Idleness’; 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 sight, which I can
do with another charm Tr 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 expos-
tulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love and
professions 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 Demetrius. However that might be, when Puck
returhed 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 dex-
trously, and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to










A MIDSOMMER NIGHTS DRILEAMS OF

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 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, lulla, 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 important 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 truc-love take.’

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 con-
duct her to his aunt’s house, but before they had passed half
through the wood Hermia was.so much fatigued that Ly-
sander, who was very careful of this dear lady, who had
proved her affection for him even by hazarding her life for
28 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 disdainful 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 behe'd when he opened his eyes; and, strange to
relate, so powerful was the love-charm that 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, but she could not
continue this unequal race long, men being always better
runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon lost sight
of Demetrius, and as 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 touching 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-




A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 29

like speeches. Helena, knowing Lysander was 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 everyone? 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 Ly-
sander 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 meantime Demetrius, not being able to find
Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with his fruit-
less search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon
had learnt by some questions he had asked of Puck that he
had applied the love-chaim 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.
30 LALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Ly-
sander 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 goddess, 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 flower, both on the same
sampler wrought, growing up together in fashion of a double
cherry, scarcely seeming parted? Hermia, it is not friendly
ia you, it is not maidenly, to join with men in scorning
your poor friend.”

‘“T am amazed at your passionate words,” said Hermia:
“T scorn you not; it seems you scorn me.” “Ay, do!” re-
turned Helena, “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 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
A MNMIDSOMUMER NIGHT? S DREAM. 31

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 think it is their rival’s tongue they hear.
See you do this till they are so weary they can go no farther,



Titania: * Attend upon this sweet gentleman.” (P. 32)

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 return 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
32 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

all that has passed a vexatious 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, “shail be my Titania’s true-
love” ; and clapping an ass’s head over the clown’s, it seemed
to fit him as well as if it had grown upon his own shoulders.
Although 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 en-
amoured queen. “I am a spirit of no common rate. I love
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.

“Attend,” said the queen, ‘upon this sweet gentleman;
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
Jet 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 courtship, but very
proud of his new attendants.

“Flere, 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


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. 33

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?”

“Nothing,” said the clown, ‘good Mr. Mustard-seed, but
to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch. I must go-to a bar-
ber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks Iam marvellous hairy
about the face.”

“My sweet love,” said the queen, ‘‘ what will you have to
eat? I have 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 disturb me,
for I have a mind to sleep.”

“Sleep, then,” said the queen,
“and I will wind you in my arms.
O how I 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, fTelena.
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 dis-
graceful situation into which, by his merry contrivance,
he had brouzht 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

5


270 _LTALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.
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 reconciled,
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, sleeping 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 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 wondering at his strange
inconstancy. Lysander presently opening his eyes, and seeing
. his dear Hermia, recovered 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 bewildering dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake, and a
sweet sleep having quieted Helena’s disturbed and angry
spirits, she listened with delight to the professions of love
which Demetrius still made to her, and which, to her surprise
as well as pleasure, she began to perceive were sincere.

These tair 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 return to Athens
for this friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the
sight of Egeus, Hermia’s father, who came to the wood in
pursuit of his runaway daughter.


A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’ S DREAM. 35

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now
marry his daughter, he no longer opposed her marriage with
Lysander, but gave his consent that they 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 be-
loved and now faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators
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 approaching 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 unreason-
able as to be offended with a pretty harmless Midsummer
Night’s Dream.
WeVe, WOIUN IMIR TS WANE.

eo King of Sicily,

and his queen, the beauti-°
fuland virtuous Hermione, once
lived in the greatest harmony
together. So happy was Leon-
tes in the love of this excellent
lady. that he had no wish
ungratified, except that hesome-
times desired to see again, and
to present to his queen, his
old companion andschoolfellow,
_ Polixenes, King of Bohemia.

- Leontes and Polixenes were

brought up together from their
infancy; but being, by the
death of their fathers, called

Leontes and Camillo. to reign over their respective

kingdoms, they had not met
for many years, though they frequently interchanged 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 par-
ticular 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 schooldtys and their youthful
pranks were remembered and recounted to Hermione, who
always took a cheerful part in these conversations.


THE WINTERS TALE. OY)

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.

And now began this good queén’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 de-
_ parture 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 a true frend, and the best and fond-
est of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage and in-
human monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of
_ his court, and telling h:m of the suspicion he entertained, he
- commanded him to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a gocd 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 s'ill
‘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 motier,
when the king entered, and, taking the child away, sent
_ Hermione to prison.

‘ Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his 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 de-
‘grees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it was thought
his grief would kill him. ,

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, com-













38 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

manded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to
Delphos, there to inquire 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 had
a little 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 had a new baby,
she went to the prison where Hermione was confined, and
she said to Emilia, a lady who attended upon Hermione, sl
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,
“T 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 forever blessed,” said Emilia, “for your kindness to
our gracious queen!” Emilia then went to Hermione, who
joyfully gave up her baby to the 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 remonstrances
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
look 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


THE WINTERS TALE. 39

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





Sew,

This pocr deserted baby was found by a shepherd. (@ 41)

shipboard, 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 of 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 grief







ee ee
40 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

for the loss of her precious baby, he had her brought to a
public trial before all the lords and nobles of his court. And
when all the great lords, the judges, and all 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 ts innocent, Polixenes blameless, Ca-
millo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the hing
shall live without an heir if that which is lost be not found. a
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 affec-
tionate child, who had lost. his lite in sorrowing for her mis-
fortune, fainted; and Leontes, pierced to the heart by the
news, began to feel pity for his unhappy 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 to!d 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 hs ill usage
had broken Hernones 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 con-
cluded was his young daughter, he should be without an
heir, the young Prince Mamillus being dead; and he would
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 Anti-
gonus landed, and here he leit the “little baby.


The... gueen-like deportment of Perdita caused the prince
instantly to fall tn love. . 43)

THE WINTERS TALE, 43

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes 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 King
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 pinned a paper to its mantle, with the
name of Perdita written thereon, and words obscurely inti-
mating 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 riches, 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 daugh-
ter, yet so did the natural graces she inherited from her
royal mother shine forth in her 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 deport-
ment 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 to the old
shepherd’s house. Florizel’s frequent absences 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.
4a TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the
old shepherd's dwelling while they were celebrating 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. Some 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 quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased
with the conversation of each other 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 elegant manner in which
Perdita conversed with his son did not a little surprise Polix-
enes: he said to Camillo, “This is the prettiest low-born
lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks like
something greater than herself, too noble for this place.”

Camillo replied, “Indeed, she is the very cream of curds
and cream.”

“Pray, my good friend,” said the king to the old shep-
herd, “what fair swain is that talking with your daughter?”
“They call him Doricles,’ replied the shepherd. “He says
he loves my daughter; and to speak the 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 -
THE WINTERS TALE. AB

trifles; the gifts which Perdita expects from me are locked
up in my heart.” Then turning to Perdita, he said to her,
“© hear me, Perdita, before this ancient gentleman, who
it seems was once himself 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 con-
tract himself to this low-born maiden, calling Perdita ‘“shep-
herd’s-brat, sheep-hook,” and other disrespectful names; and
threatening, 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
cottage, but looks on both alike.” Then sorrowfully she said,
“But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it
no further. 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 perceiving 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
favourite scheme he had in his mind.

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the King of Sicily,
was become a true penitent; and though Camillo 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 proposed to Florizel and Perdita that
they should accompany him to the Sicilian court, where he
would engage Leontes should protect them, till through his
40 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

mediation they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his
consent to their marriage.

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who
conducted everything relative to their flight, allowed the old
shepherd to go along with them.

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita’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 introduced 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 friend-
ship 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 comparing the time when
he found the little Perdita with the manner of its exposure,
the jewels and other tokens of its high birth; from all which
it was impossible for him not to conclude that Perdita and
the king’s lost daughter were the same.

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina,
were present when the old shepherd related to the king the
manner in which he had found the child, and also the cir-
cumstance 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 pro-
duced a jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied
about Perdita’s neck; and he gave up the paper which
Paulina knew to be the writing of her husband: it could
not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes’ own daughter; but
oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her
THE WINTERS TALE. 47
husband’s death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the
king’s heir, his long-lost daughter, being found. When Leontes
heard that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that
he felt that Hermione was not living to behold her child
made him that he could say nothing for a long time but
“OQ thy mother! thy mother!”

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet 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 it was Hermione herself. Thither then
they all went, the king anxious to see the semblance of his
Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother
she never saw did look like.

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed
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, “Oh, thus she stood, even with
such majesty, when I first woced 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 Hermione 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.” “I must draw the
curtain, my lege,” 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 J will kiss her.” ‘Good my lord, forbear!”
said Paulina. “The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you will
48 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the cur-
tain?” “No, not these twenty years,” said Leontes.

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling and behold-
ing in silent admiration the statue of her matchless mother,
said now, “And so long could I stay here looking upon my
dear mother.”

“Kither forbear this transport,’ said Paulina to 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,
“T 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, the living
queen !

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of
Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve her
royal mistress’s life, and with the good Paulina Hermione
had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes should know
she was living till she heard Perdita was found; for though
she had long 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 speeches
were heard on all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked
THE WINTERS TALE. 49

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 conjec-
tured he should find the fugitives here; and, following them
with all speed, he happened to arrive just at this, the hap-
piest moment of Leontes’ life.

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave 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.

“NI
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[ aueLS 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 disposition,
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

BORO T passing through Messina on their return

from a war then just ended, in which

they had distinguished 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 acquaintance.

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 discourse, interrupted
Benedick with saying, “I wonder that you will still be talk-


MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 51
ing, 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
remembered 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 dis-
pleased with each other. Therefore when Beatrice stopped
him in the middle of his discourse 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 argument 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 kiiled there, and cbserving the prince take
delight in Benedick’s conversation, she called him “the
prince's jester.” This sarcasm sank 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 buffuonery, because the charge
comes sometimes a little too near the truth, therefore Bene-
dick perfectly hated Beatrice when she called him “the
prince’s jester.”

The modest Lady Hero was silent before the noble 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 ad-
mirable young lady), the prince was highly amused with
listening to the humorous 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 for
Benedick.” Leonato replied to this suggestion, “O my lord,
52 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

my lord, if they were but a week married they would talk
themselves mad.” But though Leonato 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 diffi-
culty in persuading the geutle Hero herself to listen to the
suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare endow-
ments and highly accomplished ; 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 accomplishment 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 assistance; 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 gentlemen
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 53
should make Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with
him, and that Hero should make Beatrice believe that Bene-
dick 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 Benedick? 1
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 so 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 cer-
tainly 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 Bene-
dick.” 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 weve 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
bd. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 him, and said with her usual tartness, “Against
my will Iam sent to bid you to 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 con-
cealed meaning of kindness under the uncivil words she
uttered, and he said aloud, “If I do not take pity on her,
I am a villain. If I do not love her, I ama 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 attended 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 her steal into that pleasant arbour where honeysuckles,
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 Bene-
dick, 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 in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look
where 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


NSA

TTero: “Look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by

the ground. (P. 3.)

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 57

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 to let Beatrice know of it.” “Certainly,”
replied Ursula; “it were not good she knew his love, lest
she made sport of it.” “Why, to say the truth,” said Hero,
“T 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.” “Ob, you wrong your
cousin,” said Ursula; ‘she cannot be so much without true
judgment as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signior Bene-
dick.” ‘He hath an excellent good name,” said Hero: “in-
deed, 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 her 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 breath-
less eagerness to this dialogue, when they went away ex-
claimed, “What fire is in my ears? Can this be true? Fare-
well, contempt and scorn, and maiden pride, adieu! Bene-
dick, love on! I will requite you, taming my wild heart
to your loving 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 re-
verse in the fortunes of Hero must now be thought of. The
morrow, which was to 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

8
58 TALES FROM SITAKESPEARE :

hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio, because
he was the prince’s friend, and he determined to prevent
Claudio’s marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure
of making 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. This Borachio
paid his court to Margaret, Hero’s attendant; and Don John,
knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret pro-
mise 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 com-
pass by this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and
told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and 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 him, and Claudio said, “If
1 see anything 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 chamber
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
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, 59
talked with a man from her window the very night before
she was going to be married to the noble Claudio,

The next day when 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 pro-
ceeding to pronounce the marriage ceremony, Claudio, in
the most passionate language, proclaimed the guilt of the
blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange oni he uttered,
said meekly, “Is my lord well, that he does speak so wide?”

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, “My
lord, why speak not you?” “What should I speak?” said
the prince; “I stand dishonoured, that I have gone about
to link my dear friend to an unworthy woman. Leonato,
upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this grieved
Claudio did see and hear her last night at midnight talk
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 sank down in a fainting-fit, to all appear-
ance dead. The prince and Claudio left the church without
staying to see if Hero would recover, 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 principles, 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 obser-
vation on human nature, and he had attentively marked the
lady’s countenance when she heard herself accused, and
noted a thousand blushing shames to start into her face, and
then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away those blushes,
and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error that
6o TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

the prince ‘did speak against her maiden truth, and he said
to the sorrowing father, “Call me a fool, trust not my read-
ing 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 misunderstand-
ing 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
shall become of this?” said Leonato; “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 that 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 nut so accused
her; yea, though he thought his accusation true.”

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.”

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrow-
fully, “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 re-
mained alone; and this was the meeting from which their
{riends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected
so much diversion—those friends who were now overwhelmed
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. O1

with affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts of merri-
ment 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 Bene-
dick, “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 friendship? I
do love nothing in the world
so much as you; is not that
strange?” “It were as pos-
sible,’ 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 Benedick, “you love me,
and I protest I love you.
Come, bid me do anything |
for you.” “Kill Claudio,” said
Beatrice. “Ha! not for the
wide world,” said Benedick;
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 window;
a proper saying ! Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is slan-
dered; she is undone. O that I were a man for Claudio’s
sake! or that 1 had any friend who would be a man for my
sake! but valour is melted into courtesies and compliments.



Beatrice and Benedick.
62 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 swearing 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 Bene-
dick, 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 nevertheless must have accepted this chal-
lenge of Benedick, 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.

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking ot the
challenge of Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio 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 Claudio’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 suspicion had remained, it must have been re-
moved by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies
were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of
his brother.
| MUCH ADO ABOUT NOT "“HING. 6%

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 Jay 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 though she 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 agreeable surprise 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,
“Ts not this Hero, Hero that was dead?” Leonato replied,
“She died, my lord, but while her slander lived.” The friar
promised them an explanation 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
644, TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

married 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 merry invention had cheated them into,
was grown too powerlul 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 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 complete 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 discontented man, to see the joy and
feastings which, by the disappointment of his plots, took place
at the palace in Messina.
mor VOW Abie Ir

[DURING the time that France

was divided into 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 lawtul
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
bad put themselves into a voluntary
exile for his sake, while their land
and revenues enriched the false
= Se usurper ; and custom soon made the
Orlando and Adam. life of careless ease they led here
more sweet to them than the
pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier’s life. Here they
all 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 inhabitants
of the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them
to supply themselves with venison for food. When the cold
winds of winter made the duke feel the change of his ad-
verse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and say, “These
chilling winds which blow upon my body are true councillors:

9


66 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

they do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condition;
and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so
keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that, how-
soever 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 Rosa-
lind, whom the usurper, Duke Frederick, when he banished
her father, still retainedin 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 means in
her power to make amends to Rosalind for the injustice of
her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind; and when-
ever the thoughts of her father’s banishment, 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, they must come instantly to the court before
the 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 wrest-
ling 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.
AS NOG (IKE 17. 67

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 wish to per-
suade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and see if
you can move him.”

The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane 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 relused 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, “I
am 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 1 be conquered, there is one shamed that was
never gracious; 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 1 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 wrest-
ling, 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 completely 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 skillshown by this young stranger, and desired to know
68 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

lis 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 king for this brave young man was

changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill
humour. Hating 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, awa 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 friends the
banished duke had among the nobility, and having been for
AS YOU LIKE IT. 69

some time displeased with his niece, because the people
praised her for her virtues and pitied her 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 in-
stantly 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 account.” “TI
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 to-
gether, rose at the same instant, learned, played, and eat
together, I cannot live out of her company.” Frederick
replied, ‘‘She is too subtle 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. Rosa-
lind 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 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.
70 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

The Lady Rosalind (or Ganimed, as she must now be
called) with her manly garb seemed to have put ona manly
courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown in accom-
panying 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 accommodations
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
Ganimed tried to recollect that it was a man’s duty to com-
fort 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 longer support them; for though
they were in the forest of Arden, they knew not where to
find the 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 to 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 ourselves, for this young maid,
my sister, is much fatigued with travelling, and faints for
want of food.”

The man replied that he was only a servant to a shep-
herd, 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 would be welcome to
what there was. They followed the man, the near prospect
of relief giving them fresh strength, and bought the house
AS YOU LIKE JT. Vil

and sheep of the shepherd, and took the man who con-
ducted 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 jour-
ney, they began to like their new way of life, and almost
fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess 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 .Or-
lando was many miles distant, even so many weary miles
as they had travelied, 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 unworthy brother; and disregarding
the commands of his dying father, he never put his brother
to school, but kept him at home untaught and entirely ne-
glected. 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 en-
vied 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
Te TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 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 hear-
ing the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke’s
palace, intended 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 together, and before your
youthful wages are spent I shall light upon some means for
both our maintenance.”

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 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
AS YOU LIKE IT. 7
dear master, I die for want of food, I can go no farther !”
He then laid himse!f 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 awhile, 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 covert of some large trees.



The name of Rosalind carved on the trees. (&. 74)

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his
sword, intending to take their meat by force, and said, “For-
bear, 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
all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the
countenance of stern command; but whatever men you are,

10
m4 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

that in this desert, under 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 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 _ habi-
tation 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 Or-
lando, “who has limped after me many a weary step in pure
love, oppressed at once with two 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 returned,
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 cheered his heart, and he revived, and
recovered his health and strength again,

The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when 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 find
the name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets
fastened to them, all addressed to Rosalind; 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 Prin-






Ganimed: “i will feign myself to be Ros

shali feign to court me, (P. 75)

oO
AS YOU LIKE IT. 74
cess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension and favour,
had so won his heart that he passed his whole time in carv-
ing her name upon the trees, and writing sonnets in praise
of her beauty; but being much pleased with the graceful
air of this pretty shepherd youth, he entered into conversation
with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed to
his beloved 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 be-
tween 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 ‘ Rosa-
lind’ 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 ladies to their 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 mis-
tresses. It does not 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 Rosulind),
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
70 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

knowing these fine love 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 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.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganimed, 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 Orlando 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 the furious 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
AS YOU LIKE IT. 77



Gantmed met the duke one day. (P. 76.)

at the risk of his own life, shame and remorse at once seized
him, and he repented of his unworthy conduct, and besought
with many tears his brother’s pardon for the injuries he had
done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent, and
readily forgave him: they embraced each other; and from
that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true 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 Ganimed, and therefore
he desired his brother to go and tell Ganimed, “whom,”
78 TALES. FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 told her he felt for his
fault, he as suddenly fell in love with her. But while love
was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he
was no less busy with Ganimed, who hearing of the danger
Orlando 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 pale-
ness of his complexion that he did really faint, and much
wondering at the weakness of the young man, he said, “ Well,
if you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to
bea man.” “So I do,’ replied Ganimed, truly, “but I should
have been a woman by right.”

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 Ganimed’s fainting at the hear-
ing 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 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 wed-
ding 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 -
AS YOU LIKE IT. 79

to Aliena; and Ganimed, whom Orlando had perceived ap-
proaching, 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, Or-
lando 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 cou'd so easily perform, he pretended
he would bring to pass by the aid of 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 consent of
Aliena, they came into the presence of the duke, and with
them also came Orlando.

They being all assembled to celebrate this double mar-
riage, 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 be-
lieved the shepherd boy could really do what he had pro-
mised; 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 mar-
riage with Orlando. “That I would,’ said the duke, “if I
had kingdoms to give with her.” Ganimed then said to
_ 80 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

Orlando, “And you will say you will ay 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, was with as little trouble transformed into the
Lady Celia.

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando that he
thought the shepherd Ganimed looked very like his daughter
Rosalind; and Orlando said he also had observed the re-
semblance.

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. Jt 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 her banish-
ment, 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 pleasant 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 to 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.
AS YOU LIKE IT. 81

advanced towards the forest, intending to seize his brother,
and put him, with all his faithful followers, to the sword;
but, by a wonderful 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 re-
solved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the re-
mainder 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 rejoicings at the
wedding of the princesses. Celia complimented her cousin
on th's good fortune which had happened to the duke, Rosa-
lind’s father, and wished joy very sincerely, though she her-
self was no longer heir to the dukedom, but by this restora-
tion 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 ad-
verse fortune, were very well pleased to return in peace and
prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke.
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

“[ HERE lived in the city of Verona
two young gentlemen, whose
ames were Valentine and Protheus,
between whom a firm and uninter-
rupted friendship had long subsisted.
They pursued their studies together,
and their hours of leisure were
always passed in each others com-
pany, except when Protheus 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 himself a lover, was some-
times a little weary of hearing his
friend for ever talking of his Julia,
and then he would laugh at Protheus,
and in pleasant terms ridicule the
passion of love, and declare that no
Valentine. such idle fancies should ever enter
his head, greatly preferring (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 |


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, 83

wits. If your affection were not chained to the sweet glances
of your honoured Julia, I would entreat you to accompany
me, to see the wonders of the world abroad;-but since you
are a lover, love on still, and may your 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 rejected 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 re-
tiring, she stooped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter ;
but Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said in pre-
tended 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 she could
the torn fragments. She first made out these words, ‘Love-
wounded Protheus”; and lamenting over these and suchlike
.loving words which she made out, though they were all torn
asunder, or, she said, wounded (the expression “love-wounded
Protheus” giving her that idea), she talked. to these kind
84 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 pretty lady-
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 favour-
able 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 favours; and how
he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune.”

“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 ot his friend was
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 85

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, “Louk not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve
you shall spend some time in the Duke of Milan’s court,
for what I will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow be
in readiness to go. Make no excuses, for I am peremptory.”
Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections to
his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will; 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. a
Now that Julia found she was going to lose Protheu
for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference; and
they bade each other a mournful
farewell, with many vows of love
and constancy. Protheus and Julia
exchanged rings, which they both
promised to keep for ever in remem-
brance of each other; and _ thus,
taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus
set out on his journey to Milan, the
abode of his friend Valentine.
Valentine was in reality what
Protheus had feigned to his father,
in high favour with the Duke of .%
Milan; and another event had hap-
pened to him, of which Protheus Fulia.
did not even dream, for Valentine j =
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,


86 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia
with turning everything Thurio said into ridicule, when the
duke himself entered the room, and told Valentine the welcome
news of his friend Protheus’ arrival. Valentine said, “If I
had wished a thing, it would have been to have seen him
here!” 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 advantage of his days,
and is complete in person and in mind, and in all good grace
to grace a gentleman.”

“Welcome him, then, according to his worth,” said the
duke: “Silvia, 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 Protheus, and Valentine in-
troduced him to Silvia, 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 dis-
course.”

“Ay, Protheus,’ returned Valentine, “but that life is
altered now. I have done penance for contemning 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, dine, 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” Protheus must be called no
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, 87

longer, for the same all-powerful deity Love, of whom they
were speaking (yea, even while they were talking of the
change he had made in 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 short
interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless
lover; for at the first sight of Silvia all his love for Julia
vanished away like a dream, nor did his long friendship 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 concealed 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, urged him to tell that which else no worldly good
should draw from him. He then told all he had heard from
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 intention rather than
he would conceal an unjust action, highly commended him,
88 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

and promised him not to let Valentine know from whom he
had learnt this intelligence, but by some artifice to make
Valentine betray the secret himself. Fur this purpose the
duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom
he soon saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived
somewhat 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
a while. JI wish your counsel about some affairs that concern
me nearly.” He then told Valentine an artful story, as a
prelude to draw his secret from him, saying that Valentine
knew he wished to 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 me as
if | 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 childlike duty. I now
am resolved to take a wife, and turn 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 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 elo-
quence. 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
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 809

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 under 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 Jetter of Silvia’s,
which he instantly opened and read ;



Protheus and Silvia.

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 endea-
vouring to steal away his daughter, banished him from the

12
go TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Valentine,
Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Protheus; and
her regard for him at last so far overcame her sense of pro-
priety 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, 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 con-
ducted her, a very different effect was produced to what the
kind host intended, for there, to her heart’s sorrow, she be-
held her lover, the inconstant Protheus, serenading the Lady
Silvia with music, and addressing discourse of love and ad-
miration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia from a window
talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his own
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. gI

true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; 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 wit-
nessed, 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 sent her with letters and presents to her rival Silvia,
and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him as a
parting gift 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 Protheus’ 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
forsaken 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 coming from her kind rival’s tongue cheered the
drooping heart 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
92 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded his
money.

Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by ad-
versity, that he was going into banishment, and that he had
no money, the clothes he had on being all his riches.

The robbers, hearing that he was a distress-d man, and
being struck with his noble air and manly behaviour, told
him, if he would live with them, and be their chief or cap-
tain, they would put themselves under his command; but
that if he refused to accept their offer they would kill him.

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself,
said he would consent to live with them and be their
captain, provided they did no outrage on women or poor
passengers.

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of
whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed
banditti; and in this situation he was found by Silvia, and
in this manner it came to pass:

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father
insisted upon her no longer refusing, came at last to the
resolution of following Valentine to Mantua, a‘ which place
she had heard her lover had taken refuge: bu ‘in this ac-
count she was misinformed, for he still lived .n the forest
among the robbers, bearing 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 gentleman whose name
was Eglamour, whom she took along with her for protection
on the road. She had 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 captain had an honourable mind,


BASEN

One of these robbers seized on Silvia. (.92)

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 95

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 Valentine,’ 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 surprised 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 done to Valentine
that Valentine, whose nature 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 generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered
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
96 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 her-
self hath brought it hither.”

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly per-
ceived that the page Sebastian was no other than the Lady
Julia herself; and the proof she had given of her constancy
and true love so wrought in him that his love for her re-
turned into his heart, and he took again his own dear lady,
and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the Lady Silvia to
Valentine, who had so well deserved her.

Protheus and Valentine were expressing their happiness
in their reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies,
when they were surprised with the sight of the Duke of
Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit of Silvia.

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia,
saying, ‘Silvia is mine.” Upon this Valentine said 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 with a 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 slight conditions.” Then turning to Valentine, he
said, “I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think you
worthy of an empress’s love. You shall have Silvia, for you
have well deserved her.” Valentine then with great humility
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 joyful 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,
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 07

rather than for any black crimes they had been guilty of.
To this the ready duke consented; and now nothing re-
mained but that Protheus, the false friend, was ordained, by
way of penance for his. love-prompted faults, to be present
at the recital of the whole story of his loves and falsehoods
before the duke; and the shame of the recital to his awak-
ened 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.

13
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

HYLOCK the Jew
lived at Venice; he
was an usurer, who had
amassed an immense for-
tune by lending money
at great interest to
Christian merchants.
Shylock, being a hard-
hearted man, exacted
the payment of the
money he lent with
such severity that he
: ~ was much disliked by
Shylock. all good men, and par-
ticularly by Antonio, a
young merchant of Venice; and Shylock as much hated
Antonio, 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
covétous Jew and the generous merchant Antonio. Whenever
Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he used
to reproach him with his usuries and hard dealings, which
the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he
secretly meditated revenge.
‘Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best con-
ditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in doing cour-
tesies; 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 hearest and dearest to his heart was Bas-
‘sanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony,


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 99

had nearly exhausted his little fortune by living in too ex-
pensive a manner for his slender means, as young men of
high rank with small fortunes are too apt todo. Whenever
Bassanio wanted money, Antonio assisted him; and it seemed
as if they had but one heart and one purse between them.
One day Bassanio came to Antonio, 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 speechless 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 Antonio to add to the many favours
he had shown him by lending him three thousand ducats.
Antonio 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 money upon the
credit of those ships.
Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and_
Antonio asked the Jew to lend him three thousand 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 forgive him!”
Antonio finding he was musing within himself and did not
answer, and being impatient for the money, said, “Shylock,
do you hear? will you lend the money?” To this question
the Jew replied, “Signior Antonio, 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 suffer-
ance 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 were a:
neo TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

cur, Well, then, it now appears 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 I am to lend you monies?” Antonio
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 1 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 Antonio; and then
Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that all he did was
_ to gain Antonio’s love, again said he would lend him the
three thousand ducats, and take no interest for his money,—
only Antonio 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 certain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh,
to be cut off from any part of his body that Shylock pleased.

“Content,” said Antonio. “I will sign to this bond, and
say there is much kindness in the Jew.”

Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond
for him, but still Antonio 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. I pray you tell me this, Bassanio: if he should break
his day, what should I gain by the exaction of the forfeiture ?
A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man, is not so estim-
able, 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, notwith-
standing all the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. IOI

like his friend should run the hazard of this shocking penalty
for his sake, Antonio 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 wife of Prutus.

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his
friend Antonio at the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont



““ Has a dog money?” (Pv. 0.)

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, and
that his high birth and noble ancestry were all that he could
boast of; she, who loved him for his worthy qualities, and
had riches enough not to regard wealth in a husband, an-
swered with a graceful modesty, that she would wish herself
a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times more
102 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

rich, to be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished
Portia prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an un-
lessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old. but that
she could learn, and that she would commit 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 yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this
fair mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these ser-
vants; and now this house, these servants, and myself, are
yours, my lord; I give them with this ring”: presenting 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 fortunes that he could not
express his joy and reverence to the dear lady who so
honoured him, by anything but broken words of love and
thankfulness; and taking the ring, he vowed never to part
with it.

Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia’s waiting-maid, were in at-
tendance 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, de-
sired permission to be married at the same time. é

“With all my heart, Gratiano,’ said Bassanio, “if you
can get a wife.”

Gratiano then said that he loved the Lady Portia’s 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 Antonio containing fearful tidings. When Bas-
sanio read Antonio'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
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 103

words that ever blotted paper: gentle lady, when I first im-
parted 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 Antonio,
and of Antonio’s procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and ot
the bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound
of flesh if it was not repaid by a certain day; and then Bas-
sanio read Antonio’s letter, the words of which were: “Sweet
Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the Few is for-
feited, and since in paying it is impossible I should live,
Z could wish to see you at my death, notwithstanding,
use your pleasure: tf your love for me do not persuade
you to come, let not my letter.” “OQ my dear love,’ said
Portia, “dispatch all business and be gone: you shall have
gold to pay the'money twenty times over, before this kind
friend shall lose a hair by my Bassanio’s fault; and as you
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
Antonio 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 Antonio’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 cheer-
ingly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend along with
him when he returned; yet she feared it would go hard with
Antonio, and when she was left alone, she began to think
and consider within herself if she could by any means be in-
strumental in saving the life of her dear Bassanio’s friend;
and notwithstanding, when she wished to honour her Bas-
sanio, she had said to him with such a meek and wife-like
grace, that she would submit in all things to be governed by
104. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

his superior wisdom, 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 herself to
Venice, and speak in Antonio’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 her the dress worn by a counsellor.
When the messenger returned, he brought letters from Bel-
lario of advice how to proceed, and also everything necessary
for her equipment.

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men’s
apparel, and putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took
Nerissa along with her as her clerk; and setting out imme-
diately, 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 Bel-
lario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke,
saying he would have come himself to plead for Antonio,
but that he was prevented by sickness, and he requested that
the learned young Doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia)
might be permitted to plead in his stead. This the duke
granted, much wondering at the youthful appearance of the
stranger, who was prettily disguised by her counsellor’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
Bassanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He was
standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distress 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 Venetiaa 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 unfeeling Shy-
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 105

lock’s, saying that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven
upon the place beneath, and how mercy was a double bless-
ing—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 tempered 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 her by desir-
ing to have the penalty forfeited in
the bond. “Is 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 Antonio's flesh, Bassanio begged
the learned young counsellor would
endeavour to wrest the law a little,
to save Antonio’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 Portia.
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 Antonio’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, Antonio,’ said

14


106 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

Portia, “you must prepare your bosom for the knife”; and
while Shylock was sharpening a long knife with great eager-
ness to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio,
“Have you anything to say?” Antonio, with a calm resig-
nation, 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 you well. Grieve not
that I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me
to your honourable wife, and tell her how I have loved you!”
Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied, -“Antonio, 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 expressing the love he
owed to co true a friend as Antonio 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 Gratiano, 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, if she could but
entreat some power there to change the cruel temper of this
currish Jew.” “Tt is well you wish this behind her back,
else you would 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 ex-
pectation in the court, and every heart was full of grief for
Antonio.

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.’ Shylock, whose whole
intent was that Antonio 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.”
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 107

“Then,” said Portia, “a pound of Antonio’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
Antonio, he said, “Come, prepare!”

“Tarry a little, Jew,” said Portia; “there is something
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 Shy-
lock to cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of
Antonio’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 Antonio; 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, said,
with a disappointed look, that he would take the money;
and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at Antonio’s un-
expected 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, pre-
pare, 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 nor less than by one poor scruple, nay, if the
scale turn but by the weight of a single hair, you are con-
demned by the laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth
is forfeited to the senate.” “Give me my money, and let
me go,” said Shylock. “TI have it ready,” said Bassanio ;
“here it is!

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again
stopped him, saying, ‘“Tarry, Jew; 1 have yet another hold
upon you. By the laws of Venice, your wealth is forfeited
108 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Antonio, the
other half comes to the state.”

The generous Antonio 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 Antonio knew that the Jew had an only daughter, who
had lately been married against his consent to a young Chris-
tian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio’s, which had so
offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her.

The Jew agreed to this; and being thus disappointed in
his revenge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, “I am ill.
Let me go home: send the deed after me, and I will sign
over half my riches to my daughter.” ‘Get thee gone,
then,” said the duke, “and sign 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 Antonio, and dismissed the
court. He then highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity
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 Antonio, he
added, “Reward this gentleman; 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 Antonio have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
of grievous penalties, and I beg you will accept of the three
thousand ducats due unto the Jew.” “And we shall stand
indebted to you over and above,’ said Antonio, “in love
and service evermore.”

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money ;
but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some


SNS.

Portia: “ Be merciful: . . . bid me tear the bond.” (v.03)

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, IL

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 her Bassanio again, that
made her ask him for his gloves; and she said, when she
saw the ring, “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 pro-
clamation. 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 Antonio, “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 Gra-
tiano (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 could 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 temper of
mind which never fails to attend the consciousness 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.” And hearing the sound of music from her
house, she said, “ Methinks that music sounds much sweeter’
than by day.”
112 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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
Antonio; 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 Nerissa
gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on a cutler’s
knife: ‘Love 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 until the hour of death; and now
you say you gave it to the lawyer’s clerk. I know you
gave it to a 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 coun-
sellor that by his wise pleading saved Antonio’s life. This
prating 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 some pains in writing, he
begged my ring.”

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached
Bassanio for giving away her ring; and she said Nerissa had
taught her what to believe, and that she knew some woman
had the ring.

Bassanio was very unhappy to have so offended his
dear lady, and he said, with great earnestness, “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


THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 113

there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to
give the worthy doctor.”

“Ah!” said Antonio, “I am the unhappy cause of these
quarrels.”

Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he was
welcome notwithstanding; and then Antonio 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 counsellor, and
Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his unspeak-
able wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage
and wisdom of his wife that Antonio’s life was saved.

And then Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him
letters which by some chance had fallen into her hands,
which contained an account of Antonio’s ships, that were
supposed lost, being safely arrived in the harbour. So these
tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story were all
forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued;
and there was leisure 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 keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.”’
CYMBELINE.

URING the time of

Augustus Czesar, Empe-
ror 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

Lmogen. chance the two sons of

Cymbeline were stolen out

of their nursery, when the eldest was but three years of

age, and the youngest quite an infant; and Cymbeline

could never discover 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 stepmother 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 her-
self, who married without the consent or even knowledge
of her father or the queen.




CYMBELINE, 115

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen’s 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 playfellows from their infancy: they loved
each. other tenderly when they were children, and their affec-
tion 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 forgetful 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 leave
of each other. Imogen gave her husband 1a 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 fare-
well, with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity.
116 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 countrywomen, provoked Posthumus
by seeming to doubt the constancy of his so highly-praised
wife; and at length, after much altercation, consented to a
proposal of Iachimo’s, that he (Iachimo) should go to Britain,
and endeavour to gain the love of the married 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 Posthumus 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 admittance,
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 hope in 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 was
retired to rest and had fallen asleep; and then, getting out
of the trunk, he examined the chamber with great attention,
CYMBELINE, ' LL

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 Post-
humus 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 Jachimo told his false tale:
“Her bedchamber,” said he, ‘was hung with tapestry of silk



Softly unloosing the bracelet from her arm, (. 117)

and silver, the story was the proud Cleopatra when she met
her Antony, a piece of work most bravely wrought.”

“This is true,’ said Posthumus ; “but this you might
have heard spoken of without seeing,”

“Then the chimney,” said Iachimo, ‘“s south of the
chamber, and the chimney-piece is Diana bathing ; never
saw I figures livelier expressed.”

“This is a thing you might have likewise heard,” said
Posthumus, “for it is much’ talked of.”

Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber,
and added, “I had almost forgot her andirons: they were
118 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

two winking Cupids made of silver, each on one foot stand-
ing.”. 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.” He last of all described the mole he had observed
upon her neck. ;

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital
im an agony of doubt, now broke out into the most passionate
exclamations against Imogen. He delivered up the diamond
ring to lachimo 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 Imogen to Milford Haven, a -
seaport 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 without
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 would 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.

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, © ; a

Imogen, who, instead. of meeting a loving and beloved
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 meantime, 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 ;
CYMBELINE. , 11g

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 physician, knowing her malicious dispo-
sition, 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.
The 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 and prayers for her
safety and happy deliverance from her undeserved troubles,
he left her. é

Providence strangely directed Imogen’s steps to the dwell-
ing of her two brothers who had been stolen away in their
infancy. Bellarius, 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 he
stole away the two sons of Cymbeline, and brought 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 care-
fully, and they grew up fine youths, their princely spirits
leading them to bold and daring actions; and as they sub-
sisted by hunting, they were active and hardy, and were
always pressing their supposed 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
through which her road lay to Milford Haven, from whence
120 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 someone within of whom she could procure
food.. She found the cave empty, but looking about she dis-
covered some cold meat, and her hunger was so pressing.
that she could not wait for an invitation, 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 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 seemed!”
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 them the names of Polidore and
Cadwal, and they knew no better, but supposed that Bel-
larius was their father; but the real names of these princes
were Guiderius and Arviragus.

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen,
stopped them, 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 beautiful did Imogen
look in her boy’s apparel. eh

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the
cave and addressed them in these words: “Good masters,
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




Imogen: “Good masters, do not harm me.”


CYMBELINE. 121

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 I had not made it.”

“Whither are you bound?” asked Bellarius, “and what
is your name?”

“Fidele is my name,’ answered Imogen. “I have 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, Aim) as a brother; and they en-
tered the cave, where (they having killed venison when they
were hunting) Imogen delighted them with her neat house-
wifery, 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 expressed 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, (dele) 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
consented 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

10
eo TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not
accompany them because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt,
for her husband's cruel 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 demeanour
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 deathlike sleep.

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunting,
Polidore went first into the cave, and supposing 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 sang 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 like thy face; the bluebell, 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 de-
parted very sorrowful.

Imogen had not been iong left alone when, the effect of
the sleepy drug going off, she awaked, 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
CYMBELINE. 1D

creatures. How came I here covered with flowers?” Not .
being able to find her way back to the cave, and seeing no-
thing 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 Post-
humus, 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 Cassar and Cymbe-
line the King of Britain; and a Roman army had landed
to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very forest
through 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.

He still 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 com-
mand, 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 re-
turning 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.
124. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

And now a great battle commenced between the two
armies, and the Britons would have been defeated and Cym-
beline himself killed but for the extraordinary 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 otf
the officers of Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which
was to be his punishment if he returned from banishment.

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-time, Bellarius, 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 attendants, was likewise
present.

Therefore, there were now standing in the king’s pre-
sence (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 Iachimo; and
hkewise 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 ofaboy. “It is my mistress,” thought he: “since
she is living, let the time run on to good or bad.” Bellarius
CYMBELINE, 125
knew her too, and softly said to Cadwal, “Is not this boy
revived from death?” “One sand,” replied Cadwal, “does
not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad is like
the dead Filele.” “The same dead thing alive,” said Poli-
dore. “Peace, peace!” said Be ellarius ; iF it were he, Iam
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, Jest 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 was a man of high courage and
noble dignity, and this was his speech
to the king:

“J 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. Lucius.

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. Save him, if you spare no one
beside.”

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He
knew her not in that disguise; but it seemed that all-power-
ful 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.


126 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Yea, even though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I
have.”

“T humbly thank your highness,” said Imogen.

What was then called granting a boon was the same asa
promise to give any one thing, whatever it might be, that
the person on whom that favour was conferred might 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
my life, good lad, but 1 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 in the boy astonished the
Roman general.

Imogen then, fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no
other boon than this: that Iachimo should be made to con-
fess 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.

lachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his
villainy, telling, as he had 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 Post-
humus, 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, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy
at finding his lost daughter so strangely recovered, received
her to her former place in his fatherly affection, and not only
gave her husband Posthumus his life, but consented to ac-
knowledge him for his son-in-law.
CYMBELINE., 127

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 Bellarius; for who could think of
punishments 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 request; 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 bring-
ing her projects to pass, and touched with remorse of con-
science, sickened and died, having first lived to see her
foolish son Cloten slain in a quarrel which he had provoked,
are events too tragical to interrupt this happy conclusion
by more than merely touching upon. It is sufficient that
all were made happy who were deserving; and even the
treacherous Jachimo, in consideration of his villainy having
missed its final aim, was dismissed without punishment.
KING LEAR.

pee King of Britain, had

three daughters,—Goneril,
wife to the Duke of Albany, Regan,
wife to the Duke of Cornwall, and
Cordelia, a young maid, for whose
love the King of France and
Duke of Burgundy were joint
suitors, and were at this time
making stay for that purpose in
the court of Lear.

The old king, worn out with
age and the fatigues of govern-
"ment, he being more than four-
score years old, determined to

take no further part in state affairs,
Cordelia. 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 seemed to deserve.

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father
more than words could give out, that he was dearer to her
than the light of her own eyes, dearer than life and liberty,
with a deal of such professing stuff, which is easy to counter-
feit where there is no real love, only a few fine words de-
livered with confidence being wanted in that case. The king,
delighted to hear from her own mouth this assurance of her
love, and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in a


KING LEAR. 129

fit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her husband
one-third of his ample kingdom.

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded
what she had to say. Regan, who was made of the same
hollow metal as her sister, was not a whit behind in her pro-
fessions, but rather declared that what her sister had spoken
came short of the love which she professed to bear for his
highness; insomuch that she found all other joys dead, in
comparison with the pleasure which she took in the love of
her dear king and father.

Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, as
he thought, and could do no less, after the handsome assur-
ances which Regan had made, than bestow a third of his
kingdom upon her and her husband, equal in size to that
which he had already given away to Goneril.

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom
he called his joy, he asked what she had to say; thinking,
no doubt, that she would glad his ears with the same loving
speeches which her sisters had uttered, or rather that her
expressions would be so much stronger than theirs, as she
had always been his darling, and favoured by him above
either of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of
her sisters, whose hearts she knew were far from their lips,
and seeing that all their coaxing speeches were only intended
to wheedle the old king out of his dominions, that they and
their husbands might reign in his lifetime, made no other.
reply but this, that she loved his majesty according to her
duty, neither more nor less.

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in
-his favourite child, desired her to consider her words, and
to mend her speech, lest it should mar her fortunes.

Cordelia then told her father that he was her father, that
he had given her breeding, and loved her, that she returned
those duties back as was most fit, and did obey him, love
him, and most honour him. But that she could not frame
her mouth to such large speeches as her sisters had done,
or promise to love nothing else in the world. Why had her
sisters husbands if (as they said) they had no love for any-
thing but their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure

17
130 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

the lord to whom she gave her hand would want half her
love, half of her care and duty ; she would 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 affec-
tion 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’.

The plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so
enraged the old monarch—who in his best of times always
showed much of spleen and rashness, and in whom the
dotage incident to old age had so clouded over his reason that
he could not discern truth from flattery, nor a gay painted
speech from words that came from the heart-—that in a fury
of resentment he retracted the third part of his kingdom
which yet remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia,
and gave it away from her, sharing it equally between her
two sisters and their husbands, the Dukes of Albany and
Cornwall: whom he now called to him, and in presence of
all his courtiers, bestowing a coronet between them, invested
them jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution ot
government, only retaining to himself the name ofking. 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 Cordelia, when the passionate Lear on pain
KING LEAR. 131

of death commanded him to desist; but the good Kent was
not soto 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 besought him now that he would
see with his eyes (as he had done in many weighty matters)
and go by his advice still, and in his best consideration re-
call this hideous rashness; for he would answer with his life
his judgment that Lear’s youngest daughter did not love him
least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound gave
no token of hollowness. When power bowed to flattery,
honour was bound to plainness. For Lear’s threats, what
could he do to him whose life was already at his service ?
That should not hinder duty from speaking.

The honest freedom of this good Earl of Kent only
stirred up the king’s wrath the more, and like a frantic
patient who kills his physician and loves his mortal disease,
he banished this true servant, and allotted him but five days
to make his preparations for departure; but if on the sixth
his hated person was found within the realm of Britain, that
moment was to be his death. And Kent bade farewell to
the king, and said that since he chose to show himself in
such fashion, it was but banishment to stay there; and be-
fore he went, he recommended Cordelia to the protection ot
the gods, the maid who had so rightly thought and so dis-
creetly spoken, and only wished that her sisters’ large speeches
might be answered with deeds of love; and then he went,
as he said, to shape his old course to a new country.

The King of France and Duke of Burgundy were now
called in to hear the determination of Lear about his youngest
daughter, and to know whether they would persist in their
courtship to Cordelia, now that she was under her father’s
displeasure, and had no fortune but her own person to re-
132 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

commend her; and the Duke of Burgundy declined the
match, and would not take her to wife upon such conditions;
but the King of France, understanding what the nature of
the fault had been which had lost her the love of her father,
that it was only a tardiness of speech, and the not being
able to frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this
young maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a
dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of
her sisters, and of her father, though he had been unkind,
and she should go with him, and be queen of him and of
fair France, and reign over fairer possessions than her sisters’ ;
and he called the Duke of Burgundy in contempt a waterish
duke, because his love for this young maid had in a mo-
ment 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 taunt-
ingly 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 disposi-
tions of her sisters began to show themselves in their true
colours. Even before the expiration of the first month,
which Lear was to spend by agreement with his eldest
daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out the dif-
ference between promises and performances. This wretch
having got from her father all that he had to bestow, even
to the giving away of the crown from off his head, began
to grudge even those small remnants of royalty which the
old man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy with
the idea of being still a king, She could not bear to see
him and his hundred knights. Every time she met her
father she put on a frowning countenance; and when the
old man wanted to speak with her, she would feign sickness,
or anything, to be rid of the sight of him; for it was plain
that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and his
KING LEAR, 133
attendants an unnecessary expense: not only she herself
slackened in her expressions of duty to the king, but by her
example, and (it is to be feared) not without her private
instructions, her very servants affected to treat him with
neglect, and would either refuse to obey his orders, or still
more contemptuously pretend not to hear them. Lear could
not but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his daughter,
but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as people
commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant conse-
quences which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought
upon them.

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by
ill, than falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated
by good usage. This eminently appears in the instance of
the good Earl of Kent, who, though banished by Lear, and
his life made forfeit if he were found in Britain, chose to
stay and abide all consequences, as long as there was a
chance of his being useful to the king his master. See to
what mean shifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced to
submit sometimes; yet it counts nothing base or unworthy,
so as it can but do service where it owes an obligation! In
the disguise of a serving-man, all his greatness and pomp
laid aside, this good earl proffered his services to the king,
who, not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but
pleased with a certain plainness, or rather bluntness, in his
answers which the earl put on (so different from that smooth,
oily flattery which he had so much reason to be sick of,
having found the effects not answerable in his daughter), a
bargain was quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into his ser-
vice by the name of Caius, as he called himself, never sus-
pecting him to be his once great favourite, the high and
mighty Earl of Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity and
love to his royal master; for Goneril’s steward that same
day behaving in a disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving
him saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was secretly
encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius, not enduring to hear
-sO open an affront put upon majesty, made no more ado
but presently tripped up his heels, and laid the unmannerly
134 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 which
he had plenty; this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart,
even in the presence of Goneril herself, in many a bitter
taunt and jest which cut to the quick: such as comparing
the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the young of the
cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then has its head bit
off for its pains; and saying that an ass may know when
the cart draws the horse (meaning that ‘Lear’s daughters,
that ought to go behind, now ranked before their father) ;
and that Lear was no longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear:
for which free speeches he was once or twice threatened to
be whipped.

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had
begun to perceive, were not all which this foolish, fond
father was to suffer from his unworthy daughter. She now
plainly told him that his staying in her palace was inconve-
- mient so long as he insisted upon keeping up an establish-
ment of a hundred knights; that this establishment was use-
less and expensive, and only served to fill her court with
riot and feasting; and she prayed him that he would lessen




fle cursed his eldest daughter Gonerit.

KING LEAR. | 137

their number, and keep none but old men about him, such
as himself, and fitting his age.

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that
it was his daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not
believe that she who had received a crown from him could
seek to cut off his train, and grudge him the respect due to
his old age. But she persisting in her undutiful demand, the
old man’s rage was so excited, that he called her a detested
kite, and said that she spoke an untruth; and so indeed she
did, for the hundred knights were all men of choice
behaviour and sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars
of duty, and not given to rioting and feasting, as she said.
And he bid his horses to be prepared, for he would go to
his other daughter, Regan, he and his hundred knights ; and
he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted
devil, and showed more hideous in a child than the sea-
monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so as
was terrible to hear; praying that she might never have a
child, or, if she had, that it might live to return that scorn
and contempt upon her which she had shown to him; that
she might feel how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it was to
have a thankless child. And Goneril’s husband, the Duke
of Albany, beginning to excuse himself for any share which
Lear might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear would
not hear him out, but in a rage ordered his horses to be
saddled, and set out with his followers for the abode of
Regan, his other daughter. And Lear thought to himself
how small the fault of Cordelia (if it was a fault) now ap-
peared, in comparison with her sister’s, and he wept; and
then he was ashamed that such a creature as Goneril should
have so much power over his manhood as to make him
weep.

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in
great pomp and state at their palace; and Lear dispatched
his servant Caius with letters to his daughter, that she might
be prepared for his reception, while he and his train followed
after. But it seems that Goneril had been beforehand with
him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing her father of
waywardness and ill humours, and advising her not to re-

18
138 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

celve so great a train as he was bringing with him. This
messenger arrived at the same time with Caius, and Caius
and he met; and who should it be but Caius’s old enemy
the steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by the heels
for his saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the fellow’s
look, and suspecting what he came for, began to revile him,
and challenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing,
Caius, in a fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as such
a mischief-maker and carrier of wicked messages deserved ;
which coming to the ears of Regan and her husband, they
ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though he was a
messenger from the king her father, and in that character
demanded the highest respect: so that the first thing the
king saw, when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant
Caius sitting in that disgraceful situation.

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was
to expect; but a worse followed, when, upon inquiry for his
daughter and her husband, he was told they were weary
with travelling all night, and could not see him; and when,
lastly, upon insisting in a positive and angry manner to see
them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in their
company but the hated Goneril, who had come to tell her
own story, and set her sister against the king her father!

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to
see Regan take her by the hand; and he asked Goneril if
she was not ashamed to look upon his old white beard.
And Regan advised him to go home again with Goneril,
and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his atten-
dants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old and wanted |
discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that had
more discretion than himself. And Lear showed how pre-
posterous that would sound, ifhe were to go down on his knees
and beg of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he
argued against such an unnatural dependence, declaring his
resolution never to return with her, but to stay where he
was with Regan, he and his hundred knights; for he said
that she had not forgot the half of the kingdom which he
had endowed her with, and that her eyes were not fierce,
like Goneril’s, but mild and kind. And ‘he said that rather
KING LEAR, fe



Lixposed to the fury of the storm. (P. 140.)

than return to Goneril, with half his train cut off, he would
go over to France, and beg ‘a wretched pension of the king
there, who had married his youngest daughter without a
portion. :

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of
Regan than he had experienced from her sister Goneril.
As if willing to outdo. her. sister in unfilial behaviour, she
declared that she thought fifty knights too many to wait upon
him; that five-and-twenty were enough. Then Lear, nigh
broken-hearted, turned to Goneril, and said that he would
go back with her, for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and
so her love was twice as much. as Regan’s. But Goneril
excused herself, and said, “What need of so many as five-
and-twenty? or even ten? or five? when he might be waited
upon by her servants, or her sister’s servants.” So these two
wicked daughters, as if they strove to exceed each other in
cruelty to their old father who had been so good to them,
by little and little would have abated him of all his train,
all respect (little enough for him that once commanded a
kingdom) which was left him to show that he had once
been a king! Not that a splendid train is essential to happi-
ness; but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, from
commanding millions to be without one attendant; and it
140 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

was the ingratitude in his daughters denying it, more than
what he would suffer by the want of it, which pierced this
poor king to the heart; insomuch that, with this double ill-
usage, 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 vengeance 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 ut-
most fury of the storm abroad, than stay under the same
roof with these ungrateful daughters; and they, saying that
the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves are their
just punishment, suffered him to go in that condition, and
shut their doors upon him.

The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased,
when the old man sallied forth to combat with the elements,
less sharp than his daughters’ unkindness. For many miles
about there was scarcely a bush, and there upon a heath,
exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark night, did King
Lear wander out, and defy the winds and the thunder; and
he bid the winds to blow the earth into the sea, or swell
the waves of the sea till they drowned the earth, that no
token might remain of any such ungrateful animal as man.
The old king was now left with no other companion than
the poor fool, who still abided with him, with his merry
conceits striving to outjest misfortune, saying it was but a
naughty night to swim in, and truly the king had better go
in and ask his daughters’ blessing:

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
KING LEAR. 141

found by his ever-faithful servant the good Earl of Kent,
now transformed to Caius, who ever followed close at hie
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 children.

But the good Caius, still persisting in his entreaties that
the king would not stay out in the open air, at last per-
suaded him to enter a little wretched hovel which stood
upon the heath, where the fool first entering, suddenly ran
back terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit. But upon
examination this spirit proved to be nothing more than a
poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted hovel
for shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted the fool ;
one of those poor lunatics who are either mad or feign to
be so, the better to extort charity from the compassionate
country people, who go about the country, calling themselves
Poor Tom and Poor Turlygood, saying, ‘Who gives anything
to Poor Tom?” sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rose-
mary into their arms to make them bleed; and with such
horrible actions, partly by prayers, and partly with lunatic
curses, they move or terrify the ignorant country folks into
giving them alms. This poor fellow was such a one, and
the king seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing
but a blanket about his loins to cover his nakedness, could
not be persuaded but that the fellow was some father who
had given all away to his daughters, and brought himself to
that pass; for nothing he thought could bring a man to such
wretchedness but the having unkind daughters.

And from this and many such wild speeches which he
142 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 assist-
ance of some of the king’s attendants who remained loyal,
he had the person of his royal master removed at daybreak
to the castle of Dover, where his own friends and influence,
as Earl of Kent, chiefly lay; and himself embarking for
France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and did there in
such moving terms represent the pitiful condition of her royal
father, and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of
her sisters, that this good and loving child with many tears
besought the king her husband that he would give her leave
to embark for England with a sufficient power to subdue
these cruel daughters and their husbands, and restore the
old king her father to his throne; which being granted, she
set forth, and with a royal army landed at Dover.

Lear, having by some chance escaped from the guardians
which the good Earl of Kent had put over him to take care
of him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia’s train
wandering about the fields near Dover, in a pitiable condi-
tion, 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
KING LEAR. 143
scarce remembered where he was, or who it was that so
kindly kissed him and spoke to him; and then he would
beg the standers-by not to laugh at him if he were mistaken
in thinking this lady to be his daughter Cordelia. And then
to see him fall on his knees to beg pardon of his child; and
she, good lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of
him, and telling him that it did not become him to kneel,
but it was her duty, for she was his child, his true and very
child 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 for-
give, for he was old and foolish,















Cordelia . . . ended her life in prison. W&. 145.)
144. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 re-
turn to say a word or two about those cruel daughters.

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to
their old father, could not be expected to prove more faithful
to their own husbands. They soon grew tired of paying
even the appearance of duty and affection, and in an open
way showed they had fixed their loves upon another. It
happened that the object of their guilty loves was the same.
It was Edmund, a natural son of the late Earl of Gloucester,
who by his treacheries had succeeded in disinheriting his.
brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from his earldom, and by his
wicked practices was now earl himself: a wicked man, and
a fit object for the love of such wicked creatures as Goneril
and Regan. It falling out about this time that the Duke of
Cornwall, Regan’s husband, died, Regan immediately de-
clared her intention of wedding this Earl of Gloucester, which
rousing the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to
Regan this wicked earl had at sundry times professed love,
Goneril found means to make away with her sister by poison;
but being detected in her practices, and imprisoned by her
husband the Duke of Albany for this deed, and for her
guilty passion for the earl, which had come to his ears, she
in a 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, ad-
miring the justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the same
eyes were suddenly taken off from this sight to admire at the
mysterious ways of the same Power in the melancholy fate
of the young and virtuous daughter, the Lady Cordelia, whose
good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate conclusion ;
but it is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are not.
KING LEAR, 145

always successful in this world. The forces which Goneril
and Regan had sent out under the command of the bad
Karl of Gloucester were victorious, and Cordelia, by the
practices of this wicked earl, who did not like that any
should stand between him and the throne, ended her life in
prison. Thus Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in
her young years, after showing her to the world an illustrious
example of filial duty. Lear did not long survive her.

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 need-
less to trouble him with explanations at such a time, and
Lear soon after expiring, this faithful servant to the king,
between age and grief for his old master’s vexations, quickly
followed him to the grave.

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad Earl of
Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, and himself
slain in single combat with his brother, the lawful earl; and
how Goneril’s husband, the Duke of Albany, who was in-
nocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never encouraged
his lady in her wicked proceedings against her father, as-
cended the throne of Britain after the death of Lear, it is
needless here to narrate; Lear and his three daughters being
dead, whose adventures alone concern our story.

19
MACBETH.

Vy HEN Duncan the Meek reig-
ned 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, Mac-
beth and Banquo, returning victorious
Lady Macbeth. 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 with 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
pretensions; and again the third bid him “All hail! king
that shalt 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 the throne. Then turning.


MACBETH. 147

to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms,
to be lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, bul
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 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 any reply to the messengers; 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,’ an-
swered the general, “might enkindle you to aim at the
throne; but oftentimes these ministers of darkness tell us
truths in little things to betray us into deeds of greatest
consequence.”

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 on how to compass the throne of Scotland.

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the
strange prediction of the weird sisters and its partial accom-
plishment. She was a bad, ambitious woman, and so as her
husband and herself could arrive at greatness she cared not
much by what means. She spurred on the reluctant purpose
of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the thoughts of blood,
and did not cease to represent the murder of the king asa
step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering
prophecy.

It happened at this time that the king, who out of his
royal condescension would oftentimes visit his principal no-
bility upon gracious terms, came to Macbeth’s house, attended
148 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

by his two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous
train of thanes and attendants, 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 martlets, or swallows, had built under all
the jutting friezes and buttresses of the building, wherever
they found a place of advantage; 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 innocent flower, while
she was. indeed the serpent under it.

The king, being tired with his journey, went early to bed,
and in his state-room 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 to Lady Macbeth, greeting her by the name of his
most kind hostess. : 5

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 ambitious,
but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet prepared for that
height of crime which commonly in the end accompanies in-
ordinate 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 supply the grooms of his chamber
so with wine that they slept intoxicated and careless of their
charge. There lay Duncan in a sound sleep after the fatigues
MACBETH. 149

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 kinsman to the king; and he had been
his host and entertainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of
hospitality, 1t was to shut the door against his murderers, not
bear the knife himself Then he considered 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. Besides,
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 resolving to pro-
ceed no further. But she being a woman not easily shaken
in 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 sovereign sway and
royalty! Then she threw contempt 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 if 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 went, he

)
150 . TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 op-
pressed brain and the business he had in hand.

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king’s room, whom
he despatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had
done the murder, one ofthe 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 innocent sleep, that
nourishes life.” Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the
house: “Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor
shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more.”

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to his
listening wife, who began to think he had failed of his pur-
pose and that the deed was somehow frustrated. 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 murder,
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 produced against them and their
faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently strong, yet the
entire suspicion fell 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; the younger, Donalbain, made his escape to Ireland.
MACBETH. . 151



fle despatched the king. (P. 130.)

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 lite-
rally accomplished.

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not
forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Mac-
beth 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 determined
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 in-
vited. The way by which Banquo was to pass to the palace
152 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

at night was beset by murderers appointed by Macbeth, who
stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleance escaped. From
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 Scotland were united.

At supper, the queen, whose manners were in the highest
degree affable and royal, played the hostess with a graceful-
ness and attention which conciliated everyone 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 in the air when he was about to kill Duncan. But
Macbeth 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 dimissed the guests, ex-
cusing the infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often
troubled with.

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was a subject. His
queen and he had their sleep afflicted with terrible dreams,
and the blood of Banquo troubled them not more than the
escape of Fleance, whom they now looked upon as father of
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.


3 SVT

Beware of the Thane of Fife. (P. 133.) :

MACBETH. 155

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they,
who knew by foresight of his coming, were engaged in pre-
paring their dreadful charms, by which they conjured up in-
fernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. Their horrid ingre-
dients 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 their questions.

It was demanded of Macbeth whether he would have his
doubts solved 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 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 Fear 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 his hand. He called Macbeth
by name, and comforted him against conspiracies, saying that
he should never be vanquished until the Wood of Birnam to
150 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Dunsinane Hill should come against him. “Sweet bode-
ments! 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 vio-
lent 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 sank 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, smiled upon Macbeth and pointed to them, by
which Macbeth knew that these were 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 Mal-
colm, the eldest son of the late king, with intent to displace
Macbeth and set Malcolm, 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 suchlike 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 success 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, but all 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
MACBETH. 157

the sole partner in his wickedness,
in whose bosom he could some-
times seek a momentary repose
from those terrible dreams which
afflicted them both 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

2 false confidence, and he remem-

Macduff. bered the sayings of the spirits,

that none of 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 resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of
the spirits. He was not to fear till Birnam Wood should


158 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

come to Dunsinane, and now a wood did move. “How-
ever,’ 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 he sallied forth upon the be-
siegers, who had now come up to the castle.

The strange appearance which had given the messenger
an idea of a wood moving is easily solved. When the be-
sieging army marched through the Wood of Birnam, Mal-
colm, 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 frightened 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 them-
selves 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 remembering the caution of the spirit
who had counselled 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 again 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 confi-
dently, he said to Macduff, “Thou losest thy labour, Mac-
duff. 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.”
MACBE TT. 159

“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 ordinary 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 equivo-
cation 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 mean-
ing. 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 Dunsinane, and
thou opposed to me, who was 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.
EEE SV ee ei NaN Sa aie

BERTRAM, Count of Roussillon,
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 his 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 protection.
Bertram was living with his
mother, the widowed countess, when
Lafeu, an old lord of the French
court, came to conduct Bertram to
ie the king. The King of France was
flelena. an absolute monarch, and the invi-
tation to court was in the form ot
a royal mandate, 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 him a 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 sudden absence; and he said, in a
courtier’s flattering manner, 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


ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELT. 161

good king would befriend the fortunes of Bertram. Lafeu
told the countess that the king had fallen into a sad malady,
which was pronounced by his physicians to be incurable.
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 in-
herited 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 countess
parted with her 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 happiness; and he
concluded his short farewell to her with saying, ‘Be com-
fortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.”

Helena had long loved Bertram, and 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 forgotten the very form and
features of her dead father, her imagination presenting no
image to her mind but Bertram’s.

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remem-
bered that he was the Count of Roussillon, descended from
the most ancient family in France. She of humble birth;
her parents of no note at all, his ancestors all noble. And
therefore she looked up to the high-born Bertram as to her
master and to her dear lord, and dared not form any wish

21
162 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 particular 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 experience in medicine he had col-
lected as sovereign and almost infallible remedies. Among
the rest, there was one set down as an approved medicine
for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at that time
languished ; and when Helena heard of the king’s complaint,
she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed
an ambitious project in her mind 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 un-
learned 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 Roussillon’s wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was
informed by her steward that he had overheard Helena talk-
ing to herself, and that he understood from some words she
uttered that 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
ALLS WELE THAT ENDS WELL. 162

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 daughter,” said the countess again:
“1 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
Roussillon 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 looks upon his wor-
shipper, 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,
164. LALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

and the king, had from the..conversation of my thoughts
been absent then.” The countess heard the whole of this
confession without saying a word either of approval or blame,
but she strictly questioned Helena as to the probability 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 death-bed;
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 exe-
cution 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 she gave to Helena to pursue her own
way, and generously 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, she obtained an audience of the
king. She had still many difficulties to encounter, 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 treasure 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 con-
sented to try it, and in two days’ time Helena was to lose
her life if the king did not recover, 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
demanded if she cured the king of his disease.

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived
of the efficacy of her father’s medicine. Before two days




my lord, 1 take you.”

5

say

Lf dare not

ALPS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 107

were at an end the king was restored to perfect health, and
he assembled all the young noblemen of his court together,
in order to confer the promised reward of a husband upon
his fair physician, and he desired Helena to look round on
this youthful parcel. of noble bachelors, and choose her hus-
band. Helena was not slow to make her choice, for among
these young lords she saw the Count Roussillon, and turn-
ing 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 dependent 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, I am
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 to ob-
tain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her hus-
band’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 pre-
pared 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
command, she replied, “Sir, I can nothing say to this but
that I am your most obedient servant, and shall ever with
true observance seek to eke out that desert, wherein my
1608 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 even the common civility of a kind farewell.

Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had
accomplished the purport of her journey, she. had preserved
the life of the king, and she had wedded her heart’s dear
lord, the Count Roussillon ; 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 welcome,
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 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
Bertram’s letter: When you can get the ring from my finger
which never shall come off, then call me husband, but in such
a Then I write a Never. “This is a dreadful 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
matchless 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, I 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 ac-
quaint 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 con-
ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 169

cluded 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 distinguished himself by
many brave actions, Bertram received letters from his mother,
containing the acceptable tidings that Helena would no more
disturb him, and he was preparing to return home 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 that 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, there-
fore, 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 Roussillon, who has
done worthy service in the duke’s wars.’ Helena wanted
no second invitation 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 handsome man?”
said the widow. “I 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 an-
other tale, every word of which sank deep into the mind
of Helena; for the story she now told was of Bertram’s love
for her daughter.

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him

22
170 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

by the king, it seems 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 persuaded
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 daughter, which she
said were entirely owing to the excellent education and good
advice she had given her; and she further said that Bertram
had been particularly importunate with Diana to admit him
to the visit he so much desired that night because he was
going to leave Florence early the next morning,

Though 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;
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 possession 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, giving 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
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. r7i

she was dead, hoping 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
toreceive him. The flatter-
ing compliments and. love
discourse he addressed to
Helena were precious sounds
to her, though she knew
they were meant for Diana;
and Bertram was so well
pleased with her that he
made her a solemn promise
to be her husband and to Flelena and Bertram.
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 con-
versation had so delighted him.

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was,
else perhaps he would not have been so regardless 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 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 upon her leaving a


172 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 off 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 for
her to possess, she gave him another ring, which was one
the king had made her 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 accompany
her to Paris, their further assistance being necessary to the
full accomplishment of the plan she had formed. When they
arrived there they found the king had gone upon a visit to
the Countess of Roussillon, and Helena followed the king
with all the speed she could make.

The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude
to her who had been the means of his recovery was so lively
in his mind, that the moment he saw the Countess of Roussillon
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
forgotten all.” But the good-natured old Lafeu, who. 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 expressing deep sorrow
for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his
dead father's and his admirable 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
ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 173

he perceived that Bertram wore the very ring upon his
finger which he had given to Helena; and he well remem-
bered 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 throw-
ing 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 J fear 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 a solemn pro-
mise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king’s anger, denied
he had made any such promise; and then Diana produced
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 con-
firmed, and he said if they did not confess how they came
by this ring 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
Beers

Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife,
174, TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 I 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: When from my finger
you can get this ring. “This is done,—it was to me you
gave the ring. Will you be mine, now that you are doubly
won ?”

Bertram replied, “If you 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 hus-
band ; Helena’s history giving him a hint that it was a suit-
able reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they
perform notable services.

Thus Helena at last found that her father’s legacy was.
indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was
now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-
law of her noble mistress, and herself the Countess of
Roussillon.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

ATHARINE 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
namethan Katharine the Shrew.
It seemed very unlikely, in-
deed impossible, that any gentle-
The Music-master. man would ever bé 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, no-
thing discouraged by these reports of Katharine’s temper,
and hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved upon
marrying this famous termagant, 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 Katharine’s, and he was a witty and most happy-tempered
humorist, and withal so wise, and of such a true judgment,
that he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious


176 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

deportment, when his spirits were so calm that himself could
have laughed merrily at his own angry feigning, for his
natural temper was careless and easy; the boisterous airs
he assumed when he became the husband of Katharine being
but in sport, or more properly speaking affected by his ex-
cellent discernment, as the only means to overcome in her
own way the passionate ways of the furious Katharine.

A-courting then Petruchio went to Katharine the Shrew,.
and first of all he applied to Baptista, her father, for leave
to woo his gentle daughter Katharine, 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 Katharine would ill answer this character, it being
soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was com-
posed, for her music-master rushed into the room to com-
plain that the gentle Katharine, his pupil, had broken his
head with her lute for presuming to find fault with her per-
formance; 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 fora
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 somewhat blunt for a lover; but being glad to get
Katharine 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 apprise his shrewish daughter of her
lover's addresses, and sent her in to Petruchio to listen to
his suit.

In the meantime 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 night-
ingale; and if she frowns, I will say she looks as clear as
roses newly washed with dew. If she will not speak a word,
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Leys

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 Katharine entered, and
Petruchio first addressed her with “Good morrow, Kate, for
that is your name, I hear.” Katharine, not liking this plain
salutation, said disdainfully, “They call me Katharine 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 Christen-
dom, 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 showing 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 (in-
tending to make as quick a wooing as possible), “Sweet
Katharine, 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 Katharine denied, say-
ing she would rather see him hanged on Sunday, and re-
proached her father tor wishing to wed her to such a mad-
cap ruffian as Petruchio, Petruchio desired her father not
to regard 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 Katharine may
be fine; and kiss me, Kate, for we will be married on Sun-
day.”

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled,
but they waited long before Petruchio came, and Katharine
wept for vexation to think that Petruchio had only been
making a jest of her. At last, however, he appeared, but
he brought none of the bridal finery he had promised Katha-

23
178 LALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

rine, 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, Katharine was to be married to Aim, 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 Katharine 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 together. And all the
while they were being married he stamped and swore so, that
the high-spirited Katharine 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
Katharine, declared his intention of carrying his wife home
instantly ; and no remonstrance of his father-in-law, or angry
words of the enraged Katharine, could make him change his
purpose: he claimed a husband’s right to dispose of his wife
as he pleased, and away he hurried Katharine off; he seem-
ing 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 purpose, and him-
self and his servant no better mounted; they journeyed on
through rough and miry ways, and ever when this horse of
Katharine’s stumbled, he would storm and swear at the poor
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 179

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 Katha-
rine had heard nothing but
the wild ravings of Petruchio
at the servant and the horses,
they arrived 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, pre-
tending 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
Katharine, that she might
not eat meat that was not
well dressed. And when Katharine, 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 awakened 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 Katharine; 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 Katharine, the haughty Katharine, was fain to
beg the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of food;
but they being instructed by Petruchio, replied, they dared



Katharine the Shrew.
180 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 J, 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 a small portion of meat, and he said to her, “How fares
my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent I am:
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 pur-
pose.” He then ordered the servant to take the dish away.
Extreme hunger, which had abated the pride of Katharine,
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 shail mine before you touch the meat.”
On this Katharine 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 presented
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. Katharine said, “I will have this:
all gentlewomen wear such caps as these.” ‘When you are
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 181

gentle,’ replied Petruchio, “you shall have one too, and not
ull then.” The meat Katharine had eaten had a little revived
her fallen spirits, and she said, “Why, sir, 1 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 dis-
covered 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 Katharine,
“TI like the cap, and I will have this cap or none.” “You
say you wish to see the gown?” said Petruchio, still affect-
ing to misunderstand her. The tailor then came forward,
and showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petru-
chio, whose intent was that she should have neither cap
nor gown, found much fault with that. “O mercy, Heaven!”
said he, “what masking 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 Katharine said
she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was enough for
Petruchio, and privately desiring these people might be paid
for their goods, and 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 haber-
dasher out of the room; and then, turning to Katharine, 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 Baptista’s house by dinner-time, for that it was but
seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very
middle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore Katharine
ventured to say, though modestly—being almost overcome
by the vehemence of his manner—“I dare assure you, sir,
it is two o'clock, and will be supper-time before we get
there.” But Petruchio meant that she should beso completely
subdued that she should assent to everything he said before
he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he were
182 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Jord 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, “whatever 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 Katharine was
forced to practise 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 con-
tradiction, 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 my-
self, 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 Katharine, no longer Katharine’
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 ita
rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall be so for me.” This
he was resolved to prove, therefore he said again, “I say it
is the moon.” “IT know it is the moon,” replied Katharine.
“You lie, it is the blessed sun,’ said Petruchio. “Then it
is the blessed sun,” replied Katharine; “but sun it is not,
when you say it is not. What you will have it named,
even so it is, and so it ever shall be for Katharine.” 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
woman, saying to him, “Good morrow, gentle mistress ;”
and asked Katharine if she had ever beheld a fairer gentle-
woman, 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
Katharine quickly. adopted her husband’s opinion, and made
‘her speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying to him,


Katharine: “I hope you will pardon me for my

sad nistake.” (P. 183.)
LHE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 153

“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 Katharine said, “Pardon me,
old gentleman : the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that every-
thing 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 company, if you are going our way.” ‘The old gentle-
man replied, “Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, your
strange encounter has much amazed me. My name is Vin-
centio, and I am going to visit a son of mine who lives at
Padua.” Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman to be the
father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be mar-
ried 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 large company assembled to celebrate the wedding of
Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly consented to
the marriage of Bianca when he had got Katharine off his
hands.

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the
marriage 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 at his
less fortunate choice. Petruchio took little notice of their
jokes till the ladies were retired after dinner, and then he
perceived Baptista joined in the laugh against him; for when
Petruchio affirmed that his wife would prove more obedient
than theirs, the father of Katharine said, “Now, in good sad-
ness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew of
184 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

all.” “Well,” said Petruchio, “I say no, and therefore for
assurance that I speak the truth, let us each 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 willingly consented, for they were
quite confident that their gentle wives would prove more
obedient than the headstrong Katharine ; and they proposed
a wager of twenty crowns; but Petruchio merrily said, he
would lay as much as that upon his hawk or hound, but
twenty times as much upon his wife. Lucentio and Hor-
tensio raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lucentio
first sent his servant to desire Bianca would 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 Katharine did not send 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.” Oho ! entreat her!” said Petruchio; “nay,
then she needs must come.” “I am afraid, sir,” said Hor-
tensio, “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 holidame, here comes Katharine!” and she
entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, “ What is your will, sir,
that you send for me?” “Where is your sister and Hor-
tensio’s wife?” said he. Katharine replied, “They sit con-
ferring by the parlour fire.’ “Go, fetch them hither!” said
Petruchio. Away went Katharine without reply to perform
her husband’s command. “ Here is a wonder,” said Lucentio,
“af you talk of a wonder.” “And so it is,” said Hortensio ;
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 185

“TI 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.”
Katharine’s father, overjoyed to see 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,
“1 will win the wager better yet, and show more signs of
her new-built virtue and obedience.’ Katharine now enter-
ing with the two ladies, he continued, ‘See where she comes,
and brings your froward wives as prisoners to her womanly
persuasion. Katharine, that cap of yours does not become
you; off with that bauble, and throw it underfoot.” Katha-
rine 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, ‘Iie, 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.’ “ Katharine,’ said Petruchio, “I
charge you tell these headstrong women what duty they owe
their lords and husbands.” And to the wonder of all present,
the reformed shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise
of the wife-like duty of obedience, as she had practised it
implicitly in a ready submission to Petruchio’s will. And
Katharine once more became famous in Padua, not as here-
tofore, as Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine the most
obedient and duteous wife in Padua.

24
(aso NS DN OL eee NINO NS:

| ee states of Syracuse and

Ephesus being at variance, -
there was a cruel law made at
Ephesus, ordaining 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.

/égeon, an old merchant of
Syracuse, was discovered in the
| streets of Ephesus, and brought
before the duke, either to pay
this heavy fine or to receive sen-
tence of death.

fegeon, had no money to

Antipholus. 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.

“figeon 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:

“T was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the pro-
fession of a merchant. I married a lady with whom I lived »


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 187

very happily ; but being obliged to go to Epidamnum, 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 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 exceedingly 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
Epidamnum before a dreadful storm arose, which continued
with such violence, that the sailors, seeing no chance of say-
ing the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own lives,
leaving us alone in the ship, which we every moment ex-
pected would be destroyed by the fury of the storm.

“The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous
complaints of the pretty babes, who, not knowing what to
fear, wept for fashion, because they saw their mother weep,
filed me with terror for them, though I did not myself fear
death; and all my thoughts were bent to contrive means for
their safety. 1 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 bound ourselves separately to these masts with the chil-
dren; 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
188 _ TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 importuned 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 un-
willing 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.”

Here the hapless A2geon ended the account of his mis-
fortunes; 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, instead of dooming him 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 Ageon;
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 hope-
less of any relief, he retired from the presence of the duke
in the custody of a gaoler.
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 189

“ \ty mistress sent me to



bid you come to dinner.’ (P. 191.) ™.
J

A&geon 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.

/Egeon’s sons, besides being exactly alike in face and
person, were both named alike, being both called Antipholus,
and the two twin slaves were also both named Dromio.
/Egeon’s youngest son, Antipholus 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
4Egeon 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 Epidamnum; this Antipholus agreed to
190 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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

The eldest son of Aigeon (who must be called Antipholus
of Ephesus, to distinguish him from his brother Antipholus
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 Antipholus 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 Antipholus 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.

Antipholus 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 liking to young Antipholus,
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.

Antipholus of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend,
who advised him to say he came from Epidamnum, gave
his slave Dromio some money to carry to the inn where he
intended to dine, and in the meantime he said he would
walk about and view the city, and observe the manners of
the people.

Dromio was a pleasant fellow ; and when Antipholus 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 Antipholus of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he
stood awhile thinking over his solitary wanderings in search
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. IOI

of his mother and his brother, of whom in no place where he
landed could he hear the least tidings; and he said sorrow-
fully to himself, “I am like a drop of water in the ocean,
which seeking 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 travels, which
had hitherto been so useless, Dromio (as he thought) re-
turned. Antipholus, 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 Anti-
pholus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The two Dromios and
the two Antipholuses were still as much alike as A2geon had
said they were in their infancy; therefore no wonder Anti-
pholus 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 Antipholus: “where did you leave the money?” Dromio
still answering that his mistress had sent him to fetch Anti-
pholus to dinner: “What mistress?” said Antipholus. “Why,
your worship’s wife, sir,” replied Dromio. Antipholus having
no wife, he was very angry with Dromio, and said, “Because
I 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 strangers 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, supposing Antipholus was jesting, replied
merrily, “1 pray you, sir, jest as you sit at dinner: I had no
charge but to fetch you home, to dine with my mistress and
her sister.’ Now Antipholus 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 Antipholus of Ephesus, was very angry
when she heard that her husband said he had no wife, for
she was of a jealous temper, and she said her husband meant
192 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

that he loved another lady better than herself; and she began
to fret, and say unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her
husband; and her sister Luciana, who lived with her, tried
in vain to persuade her out of her groundless suspicions.

Antipholus 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 they were married, and that now he loved some
other lady instead of her. ‘“ How comes it now, my husband,”
said she, “oh! how comes it that I have lost your love?”
“Plead you to me, fair dame?” said the astonished Anti-
pholus. 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 Antipholus 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 Dromio, who followed them, was no less surprised,
for the cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also claimed
him for her husband.

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

When Antipholus of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he


TSR,

192.)

(P.

dame ?”

ar

fa

“ Plead you to me,

25
eS
te
is tah enn


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 1O5

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 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 Antipholus of Syracuse had left the house,
he was met by a goldsmith, who, mistaking him as Adriana
had done for Antipholus of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain,
calling him by his name; and when Antipholus would have
refused the chain, saying it did not belong to him, the gold-
smith replied he made it by his own orders, and went away,
leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholus, who ordered
his man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not choos-
ing 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
Antipholus, was arrested immediately after for a sum of money
he owed; and Antipholus, the married 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 Antipholus, 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. Antipholus 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 this matter
a long time, both thinking they were right, for Antipholus
knew the goldsmith never gave him the chain, and, so like
were the two brothers,.the goldsmith was as certain 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
Antipholus for the price of the chain; so that at the con-
clusion of their dispute, Antipholus and the merchant were
both taken away to prison together.
196 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

As Antipholus 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, wonder-
ing 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 Antipholus was in no humour to be jested with. There-
fore he went away, grumbling within himself that he must
return to Adriana’s house, “where,” said he, “Dowsabel claims
me for a husband; but I must go, for servants must obey
their masters’ commands.”

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning
he met Antipholus 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.

Antipholus began to think he was among a nation of sor-
cerers and witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his
master from his bewildered thoughts, by asking how he got
free 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 Antipholus, and he said, “This fellow
Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wander here in illu-
sions ;” 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 Antipholus, and told him he had
dined with her that day, and asked him for a gold chain
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 1Q7

which she said he had
promised to give her.
Antipholus 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 even seen her
face before that moment.
The lady persisted in
affirming he had dined
with her, and had pro-
mised her a chain, which
Antipholus still denying,
she further said that she
had given him a valuable
Antipholus ring, and if he would not
ran away, give her the gold chain,

she insisted upon having
her own ring again. On this Antipholus became quite frantic,
and again calling her sorceress and witch, and denying all
knowledge of her or 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 had fallen into the same mistake the others had done,
for she had taken him for his brother: the married Anti-
pholus had done all the things she taxed this Antipholus
with.

When the married Antipholus 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, Antipholus promised to


198 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 Antipholus 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 passion, 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 gaoler (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 delivered
to the other Antipholus.

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her
husband's madness must be true, when he reproached her for
shutting him out of his own house, and remembering how
he had- protested all dinner-time that he was not her hus-
band, and had never been in Ephesus till that day, she had
no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the gaoler 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, Antipholus 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 confine-
ment, a servant came to tell her that Antipholus and Dromio
must have broken loose from their keepers, 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 secure her husband again, and her sister went
along with her. When they came to the gates of a con-
vent in their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholus and
Dromio, as they thought, being again deceived by the like-
ness of the twin brothers.
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Lg

Antipholus of Syracuse was still beset with the per-
plexities 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 Antipholus was
protesting that the goldsmith 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 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 Antipholus and Dromio, but they ran into the
convent, and Antipholus begged the abbess to give him
shelter in her house. ;

And now came out the lady abbess herself to inquire
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 man 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 affec-
tions on some other lady than you his wife, and that has
driven him to this state.” Adriana said she had long thought
the Jove 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 often
obliged Antipholus to leave his home, and (the abbess sus-
pecting 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 perhaps not enough.” Adriana, willing to
convince the abbess that she had said enough to Antipholus
on this subject, replied, “It was the constant subject of our
conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep for speak-
ing of it; at table I would not let him eat for speaking of
200 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

it; when I was alone with him I talked of nothing else;
and in company I gave him frequent hints 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 hindered by your railing, no wonder
that his head is light; and his meat was sauced with your
upbraidings : unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has
thrown him into this fever. You say his sports were dis-
turbed by your brawls: being debarred from the enjoyment
of society and recreation, what could ensue but dull melan-
choly and comfortless despair? The consequence. is, then,
that your jealous fits have made your husband mad.”

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying she al-
ways reprehended her husband mildly, and she said to her
sister, “Why do you hear these rebukes without answering
them ? 3” But the abbess had made her so plainly perceive
her fault that she could only answer, “She has betrayed me
to my own reproof.”

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still in-
sisted on having her husband delivered up to her; but 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, determining 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
many errors had happened from the likeness the twin brothers
bore to each other, old Aigeon’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
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 201

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.

ffigeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who
had left him 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
Antipholus in words of fatherly affection, with joyful hope
that he should now be released. But to the utter .astonish-
ment of Aigeon, his son denied all knowledge of him, as
well he might, for this Antipholus had never seen his father
since they were separated in the storm in his infancy; but
while the poor AZgeon was in vain endeavouring to make
his son acknowledge him, thinking surely that either his
griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had 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 Antipholus and Dromio came out, and the wonder-
ing Adriana saw two husbands and two Dromios standing
before her!

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

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the
history of AXgeon, and the tale he had in the morning told
in sorrow and under sentence of death, before the setting
sun went down was brought to a happy conclusion, for the
venerable lady abbess made herself known to be the long-

26
02 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

XN

lost wife of AXgeon, and the fond mother of the two Anti-
pholuses.

When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholus and
Dromio away from her, she entered a nunnery, and by her
wise and virtuous conduct she was at length made lady ab-
bess of this convent, and in discharging the rites of hospi-
tality to an unhappy stranger, she had unknowingly protected
her own son. f

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between
these long-separated parents and their children made them
for a while forget that A®geon was yet under sentence of
death ; but when they were become a little calm, Antipholus
of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom money for his father’s
life; but the duke freely pardoned AXgeon, and would not
take the money. And the duke went with the abbess and
her newly-found husband and children into the convent, to
hear this happy family discourse at leisure of the blessed
ending of their adverse fortunes. And the two Dromios’
humble joy must not be forgotten: they had their congratu-
lations and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly com-
plimented his brother on his good looks, being well pleased
to see his own person (as ina 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.

Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the
sister of his brother's wife; and the good old Aigeon, 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 Antipholus, and the one Dromio, be
mistaken for the other, making altogether a pleasant and
diverting Comedy of Errors.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE,

‘

je) 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 im-
punity ; and there was in par-
, ticular one law, the existence
jg of which was almost forgotten,
jm 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
Lord Angelo. 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 he 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 determined to absent himself awhile
from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise
of his power, that the law against these dishonourable lovers
204, TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 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
counsellor, 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 into 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 returned 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 this 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 lord deputy, Claudio
was taken up and committed to prison, and by virtue of the
old law which had been so long neglected, Angelo sentenced
Claudio to be beheaded. Great interest was made for the
pardon of young Claudio, and the good Lord Escalus him-
self 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 transgression.” But
Angelo replied, “We must not make a scarecrow of the law,
setting it up to frighten 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 her that she may make friends
with the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo. I 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 -
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 205

entered upon her novitiate 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 religious 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 further privileges?” said
Isabel. “Are not these large enough?” replied the nun.
“Yes, truly,” said Isabel: “I speak not as desiring more,
but rather wishing a more strict restraint upon the sister-
hood, the votarists of St. Clare.” Again they heard the voice
of Lucio, and the nun said, “He calls again. I pray you
answer 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.”
“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 was 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-
day friendship; and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved Clau-
dio, 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 re-
plied that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but that’ the
lord deputy had sentenced him to die for his offence, “un-
less,” said he, ‘you have the grace by your fair prayer to
soften Angelo; and that is my business between you and
206 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

your poor brother.” “Alas!” said Isabel, “what poor ability
is there in me to do him good? I doubt I have no power
to move Angelo.” “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.” “TI 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. Com-
mend 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 woeful suitor to your
honour, if it will please your honour to hear me.” “Well,
what is your suit?” said Angelo. She then made her peti-
tion 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.” “Oh, just but severe law!”
said Isabel; “I had a brother, then—Heaven keep your
honour!” and she was about to depart. But Lucio, who
had accompanied 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 I 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-
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 207

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
7 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 that is like my
brother’s fault; if it confess a
natural guiltiness such as his is,
let it not sound a thought
“Go to Lord Angelo!” against my brother's life.’ Her
(P. 206.) 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; andthe conflict in his mind
made him to 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 tem-
poral.” “Well, come to me to-morrow,” said Angelo. And
for this short respite of her brother's life, and for this per-


208 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

mission 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? What is it I 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 me quite.
Ever till now, when men were fond I 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 friar’s habit taught the young man the way to heaven,
preaching to him the words of peniténce 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 in-
tentional.. 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 amazement 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
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 209

do as much for my poor brother as for
myself; that is, were I 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 I had been
sick for, ere 1 would yield myself up to
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 ex-
press such dishonourable purposes, said,
“Ha! little honour to be much believed,
and most pernicious purpose! I will
proclaim 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?” The Duke.
said Angelo: “my unsoiled name, the

austereness of my life, my word vouched against yours, will
outweigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding
to 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 confined. 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,
confessed that she was more to blame than Claudio, in that
she willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations.

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined,
she said, “Peace be here, grace and good company.” “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,

27


210 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

and desired the provost who had the charge of the prisoners
to place him where he might overhear their conversation.

“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. ‘Yes, 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. “Oh, 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 you I can fetch
a resolution from flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will
encounter 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. Oh, were it but my life, I 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 now
overcame the constancy of Claudio’s temper, and terrors,
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 dispenses with the deed so
far that it becomes a virtue.” “Oh, faithless coward! oh,
_ dishonest wretch!” said Isabel; “would you preserve your
life by your sister’s shame? Oh! 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 the agonized
Claudio.

But what he would have said in defence of his weakness


SSSR

Claudio: “ Death is a fearful thing” W. 20.)

‘S°

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 2H

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 to 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 re-
pented 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 her
virtuous resolution, saying, ‘The hand that made you fair
has made you good.” “Oh,” 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 threa-
tened. The duke replied, “That shall not be much amiss;
yet as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel your accu-
sation; therefore lend an attentive ear to my advisings. I
believe that you may most righteously do a poor wronged
lady a merited benefit, redeem 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 duke; and then
he asked her if she had ever heard of Mariana, the sister
of Frederick, the great soldier who was drowned at sea. “I
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, beside the loss of a
most noble and renowned brother, who in his love towards
her was ever most kind and natural, in the wreck of her for-
tune she lost the affections of her husband, the well-seeming
214 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 impediment in the
current, made it more unruly, and Mariana loves her cruel
husband with the full 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 them thus together is no sin.”
Isabel, being pleased with this project, departed to do as he
directed her; and he went to apprise Mariana of their inten-
tion. 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 directed by him in this
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 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
MEASURE FOR MEASURE, 215

Mariana must observe?” said the duke. ‘No, none,” said
Isabel, “only to go when it is 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 |
come about my brother.’ The duke commended her dis-
creet management, and she, turning to Mariana, said, “Little
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 brother'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 re-
paired 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 be-
headed, 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 com-
manded 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.

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and the
duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret reasons
216 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 pro-
ceed in preferring 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, he 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 need-
less to tell your Grace how I prayed and kneeled, how he
repelled me, and how I 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 dis-
honourable love release my brother; and after much debate
within 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 disbelieve her story, and
Angelo said that grief for her brother’s death, who had suf-
fered 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
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 217

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 innocence 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 per-
ceive 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, lend
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 chastisement. I for a while will
leave you, but stir not you, Lord Angelo, till you have well
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 pre-
sented 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 torture for speak-

28
218 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

ing 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, and 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.” “QO give me pardon,” said Isabel, “that I,
your vassal, have employed and troubled your unknown sove-
reignty.’ He answered 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, mean-
ing first to make a further 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 in-
state and widow you withal, to buy you a better husband.”
“OQ my dear lord,’ said 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 importune 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. O
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

vo

9

Isabel, will you not lend a knee?” The duke then said,
“He dies for 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, Isabel; 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 remem-
bered, 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 became
Duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the virtuous
Isabel worked such a complete reformation 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.
EW Te a Tal NG ete ine
Wate“ AV@)IUe NAIHENS,

EBASTIAN and his sister
Viola, a young gentle-
man 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 shipwrecked
Olivia. 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 ina 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 himself to a strong mast, on which, as long
as he could see anything of him for the distance, he per-
ceived him borne up above the waves. Viola was much
consoled by the hope this account gave her, and now con-
sidered 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,” replied the


TWELFTH NIGHT. 221

captain, “for I- was born not three hours’ travel*‘from this
place.” “Who governs here?” said Viola. The captain
told her Illyria was goveyned by Orsino, a duke noble in
nature as well as dignity. Viola said she had heard her
father speak of this Orsino, and that he was unmarried then.
“And he is so now,” replied 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 count 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 will-
ingly 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
unprotected state of Viola, who was young and of uncommon
beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse.
She having observed a fair 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 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
happened by means of their being mistaken for each other,
for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was also saved.
Viola’s good friend, the captain, when he had transformed
this pretty lady into a gentleman, having some interest at
court, got her presented to Orsino under the feigned name
222 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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
Orsino.

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the
confidantes of handsome young dukes, which Viola too soon
found to her sorrow, for all that Orsino told her he endured
for Olivia she presently perceived she suffered for the love
of him, and much it moved her wonder that Olivia could be |
so regardless of this her peerless lord and master, whom she
thought no one should behold without the deepest admira-
tion, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino that it was a
pity he should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy
qualities, and she said, “Ifa 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
TWELEPTH NIGHT. 223

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
who loved a man as I, perhaps, were I 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 green
and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument,
smiling at grief.” The duke inquired if this lady died of her
love; but to this question Viola returned an evasive answer,
as probably she had feigned the story, to speak words ex-
pressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for
Orsino.

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 hand-
maid she returned you this answer: ‘Until seven years hence,
the element itself shall not behold her face; but, like a
cloisteress, she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with
her tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother.’”
On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, “Oh! she that has a
heart of this fine frame, to pay this debt of love to a 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 her 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. “Oh, 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 under-
224. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

take 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 her door who insisted upon being ad-
mitted to her presence. “I told him,’ said the servant,
“that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and there-
fore 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 em-
bassy, not doubting but that he came from the duke, by his
importunity. 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;” mean-
ing 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 conceived a passion for the sup-
posed 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, forgetting her determination to
go veiled for seven long years, she drew aside her veil,


how

S

“7 will draw the curtain and

Zvta :

OF:

(P. 225.)

the picture.”
LWELETH NIGHT. 225

saying, “But I will draw the
curtain and show the picture.
Is it not well done?” Viola
_Teplied, “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, item, two lips,
indifferent red ; zfem, two grey
eyes, with lids to them; one
neck; one chin, and so forth.
Were you sent here to praise
Orsino. me?” Viola replied, “I see

what you are; you are too

proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves you.
Oh, 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 love 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.” “If I 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 Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, ery
out, Ohvia! Oh, 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

29


226 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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
farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was gone,
Olivia repeated the words, Above my fortunes, yet my state ts
well. I am a 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 character, 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 as a 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 io recollect that Olivia’s looks and
manner were expressive of admiration, and she presently
guessed her master’s mistress had fallen in love with her.
“Alas!” said she, “the poor lady might as well love a dream.
Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe
as fruitless sighs for me as I do for Orsino.”
Viola returned to Orsino’s palace, and related to her 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 persuade her to show some pity, and
therefore he bade him he should go to her again the next
day. In the meantime, to pass away the tedious interval,
he commanded 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,
TWELFTH NIGHT. 227,

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 cyprus let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath!
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, oh, 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, oh, where
Sad true lover never finds my grave, to weep there.

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song,
which in such true simplicity described the pangs of unre-
quited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance of
feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were ob-
served by Orsino, who said to her, “ 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 him-
self and of 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 dis-
cover 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 desired you never to speak of him
wo

28 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

again; but if you would undertake another suit, I had rather
hear you solicit than music from the spheres.” This was
pretty plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself still
more plainly, and openly confessed her love; and when she
saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola’s face,
she said, “Oh, what 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
to 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 the reply she made to Ollivia’s
fond solicitations was a declaration of a resolution Mever 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 inter-
ference, her new friend met with an enemy where his bravery
was of no use to him; for the officers of justice coming up
at 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 myself.


ex

“T have neither wit noir reason to conceal my passion,” (P. 228.)

You stand amazed, but be of comfort.” His words did in-
deed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him not, nor
had ever received a purse from him; but for the kindness
he had just shown her, she offered him a small sum of money,
being nearly the whole she possessed. And now the stranger
spoke severe things, charging her with ingratitude and un-
kindness. 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,
230 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Sebastian for disown-
ing 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 mis-
taken 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 An-
tonio, was a sea captain. He had taken Sebastian up into
his ship when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was float-
ing on the mast to which he had fastened himself in the
storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for Sebastian
that he resolved to accompany him whithersoever he went;
and when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino’s
court, Antonio, 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 prisoner.

Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few
hours before Antonio 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 went to view the town; but Sebastian not
returning at the time appointed, Antonio had ventured out
to look for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in
face so exactly resembling her brother, Antonio drew his
sword (as he thought) in defence of the youth he had saved,
and when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and
denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of
ingratitude.

Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invita-
tion to fight, slunk home as fast asshe could. She had not
been 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 Sebastian a blow.
TWELITH NIGHT. eM

Sebastian was no coward; he returned the blow with in-
terest, 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, expressing much sorrow
at the rude attack he had met with. Though Sebastian was
as much surprised at the courtesy of the lady as 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 con-
tempt and anger to be seen in his face, which she had com-
plained of when she told her love to Cesario.

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 dis-
creetly, and that in all but her so sudden love for him she
appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well ap-
proved 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 Antonio
the good fortune that he had met with. In the meantime
Orsino came to visit Olivia, and at the moment he arrived
before Olivia's house the officers of justice brought their
prisoner Antonio before the duke. Viola was with Orsino,
her master; and when Antonio 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 Antonio’s story,
2 LALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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
Antonio to"be taken aside. But Orsino’s heavenly: countess
soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of in-
gratitude as Antonio 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 rage
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 dissemdbler, her
husband, as he called Viola, warning her never to come in
his sight again, when (as it seemed to them) a miracle ap-
peared, 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 could scarce be persuaded that her brother
was living, and Sebastian 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 disguise.

_ When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme
TWELFTH NIGHT. 233

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 exchange 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
seemed 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 handsome he had always thought
Cesario was, and he concluded 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 boy), “Boy, you
have said to me a 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 breeding,
and since you have called me master so long, you 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 shipwreck
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.

30
TIMON OF ATHENS.

IMON, 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 them-
selves among his depen-

Timon. : dants and followers. His
table was resorted to by all
the luxurious 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 tendered their ser-
vices 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 unbending cynic, who affecting a con-
tempt of men’s 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 entertainments, 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 recom-
mendatory 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 from the patron, and daily


TIMON OF ATHENS, 235

access to his house and table. If a 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. Ifa
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 these
means his house was thronged with superfluous purchases,
of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp; and
his person was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd
of these idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking trades-
men, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and expectants, who con-
tinually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in
whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation 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 extravagance) had
been put in prison by creditors, and redeemed thence by
Lord Timon; these young prodigals thenceforward fastened
upon his lordship, as if by common sympathy he were neces-
sarily 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 of 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 visitors,
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 fur-
niture which was theirs. The thing so praised, whatever it
was, was sure to be sent the next morning with the compli-
ments of the giver for Lord Timon’s acceptance, and apolo-
236 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

gies 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 pretended 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, which yet
the credulous Timon was too blind 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 praiseworthy 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
TIMON OF ATHENS. 237

freely bestowed 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 hus-
band. 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 feast-
ing in the midst of all these flatterers and mock friends, when
they were eating him up, and draining his fortunes dry with
large draughts of richest wines drunk to his health and pros-
perity, 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 kindness, 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 oc-
casion 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 remonstrance as riches turned to
poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its situation, nothing
so incredulous to its own true state, and hard to give credit
to a reverse. Often had this good steward, this honest crea-
ture, when all the rooms of Timon’s great house have been
238 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

choked up with riotous feeders at his 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 bought 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 disappear.

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 endeavoured at several times before to make
him listen to, that most of his land was already sold or for-
feited, 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 ex-
tended 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 villainous bounty fea 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 while he had so many noble friends;
and this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had 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 severally dispatched messengers to Lord Lucius, to
Lords Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon whom he had
lavished his gifts in past times without measure or modera-
tion; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately released out of
prison by paying his debts, and who by the death of his father
LIMON OF ATHENS. 239

was now come into
possession of an ample
fortune, and well enabled
to requite Timon’s cour-
tesy ; to request of Ven-
tidius the return of those
five talents which he |
had paid for him, and |
of each of those noble
lords the loan of fifty
talents; nothing doubt-
ing that their gratitude
would supply his wants
(if he needed it) to the
amount of five hundred We
times fifty talents. “The world is but a world, and

Lucullus was the has bounds.” (P. 238.)
first applied to. This
mean lord had been dreaming overnight of a silver basin 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 supper, 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 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,


240 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.
when he found the wind changed, and the fountain of so
much bounty suddenly stopped, 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
unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made a
great purchase the day before, which had quite disfurnished
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. In the re-
collection of everybody 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’ pride had made necessary to him; yet, oh!
the monster which man makes himself when he proves un-
grateful! 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 these mercenary lords to
whom Timon applied in their turn returned the same evasive
answer or direct denial; even Ventidius, 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, ex-
tolling him as bountiful, liberal, and open-handed, 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 man-
sion 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
LIMON OF ATHENS, 24.1

cheer: now, instead of being thronged with feasting and
tumultuous guests, it was beset with impatient and clamor-
ous creditors, usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in
their demands, pleading bonds, interest, mortgages,—iron-
hearted men that would take no denial nor putting off, that
Timon’s house was now his gaol, 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.

In this desperate and irremediable state (as it seemed) of
his affairs, the eyes of all men were suddenly surprised at
a new and incredible lustre which this setting sun put forth.
Once more Lord Timon proclaimed a feast, to which he in-
vited his accustomed guests,—lords, ladies, all that was great
or fashionable in Athens. Lords Lucius and Lucullus came,
Ventidius, 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 pretence, 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 lord-
ship?. Yet who more glad to find the fountain of that noble
bounty, which they had thought dried up, still fresh and
running? They came dissembling, protesting, expressing
deepest sorrow and shame that when his lordship sent-to
them they should have been so unfortunate as to want the
present 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 re-
turning 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

gl
1)

42 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 trust-’
ing their own eyes; at a signal given the dishes were un-
covered, 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 so liberally pre-
sented, 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 lukewarm 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 and 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 out 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 escape out
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 the houses fall upon their
owners ; wishing all plagues which infest humanity, war, out-
rage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon its inhabitants;
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 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
TIMON OF ATHENS.

re)
ams
O98



Timon bestowed
upon their captain the gold
to pay his soldiers. (. 244.)

roots and drinking water, flying from the face of his kind,
and choosing rather to herd with wild beasts as more harm-
less and friendly than man.

What a change from Lord Timon the nce 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 bois-
terous 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
244. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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, his poor
sustenance, his spade struck against something heavy, which
proved to be gold, a great heap which some miser had pro-
bably 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 conceal-
ment; 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 earth, but that, thinking of the infinite
calamities which by means of gold happen to mankind, how
the lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice, briberies,
violence, and murder among men, 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
Athenian captain Alcibiades, who, upon some disgust taken
against the senators of 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 inno-
TIMON OF ATHENS. QA5

cent 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 con-
quest ; and when he had con-
quered, he prayed that the
gods would confound him also,
the conqueror, so thoroughly
did Timon hate Athens,
Athenians, and all mankind.
While he. lived in this
forlorn state, leading a life
more brutal than human, he
was suddenly surprised one
day with the appearance ofa
, man standing in an admiring
posture at the door of his tt was Flavius, the honest ,
cave. It was Flavius, the steward.
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 ser-
vant that he stood speechless, wrapped up in horror, and
confounded. And when he found utterance at last to his
words, they were so choked with 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


246 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.
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 was 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 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 features.

But greater visitants than a poor steward were about to
interrupt the savage quiet of Timon’s solitude. For now the
day was come when the ungrateful 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 con-
duct came fresh into their forgetful minds, for Timon had
been their general in past times, and was a valiant and ex-
pert 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 came in their extremity,
to whom, when he was in extremity, they had shown but
small regard; as if they presumed upon his gratitude whom
they had disobliged, and had derived a claim to his courtesy
from their own most discourteous and unpiteous treatment.
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, dig-
nities, satisfaction for past injuries, and public honours and
the public love; their persons, lives, and fortunes, to be at
his disposal, 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 coun-
LIMON OF ATHENS. 247

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

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping dis-
appointed 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 sena-
tors, who hoped that his kindness for their city was returning.
Then Timon told them 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; meaning, 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 a
poor soldier passing by the sea-beach, 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,
purporting 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!”

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 clear, yet all men admired
the fitness of his epitaph, and the consistency of his end,—
dying, as he had lived, a hater of mankind. And some there
were who fancied a conceit in the very choice which he made of
the sea-beach for his place of burial, where the,vast sea might
weep for ever upon his grave, as in contempt of the transient
and shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitful mankind.
ROMEO AND Wie lis ie

HE two chief families in Verona
were the rich Capulets and

the Montagues. 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 ex-
tended to the remotest kindred,
to the followers and retainers of
both sides, insomuch that a servant
of the house of Montague could
not meet a servant of the house
of Capulet, nor a Capulet encoun-
_ter with a Montague by chance,
but fierce words and sometimes
bloodshed ensued; and frequent
were the brawls from such acci-
dental. meetings which disturbed
the happy quiet of Verona’s streets.
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
Montague. At this feast of the Capulets, Rosaline, beloved
of Romeo, son to the old Lord Montague, was present; and
though it was dangerous for a Montague to be seen in this
assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the
young lord to go to this assembly in the disguise of a mask



Count Paris.
ROMEO AND ¥ULIET. 240

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; nevertheless, 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 disdained him and
never requited his love with the least show of courtesy or
affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of this love
by showing him diversity of ladies and company. To this
feast of the 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 un-
plagued 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 who 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 too rich for use,
too dear for earth; like a snowy dove 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 not endure that a
Montague should come under cover of a mask to fleer and
scorn, as he said, at their solemnities; and he stormed and
raged exceedingly, 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, thus forced to be patient
against his will, restrained himself, but swore that this vile
Montague should at another time dearly pay for his intru-
sion.

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where

32
250 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.
the lady stood, and under favour of his masking habit, which
might seem to excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in the
gentlest manner to take her by her hand, calling it a shrine,
which if he profaned by touching it, he was a blushing pil-
grim and would kiss it for atonement. “Good pilgrim,”
answered the lady, “your devotion shows by far too man-
nerly 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.” “Oh, then, my dear saint,’ said Romeo,
“hear my prayer, and grant it lest I despair!” In suchlike
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, daugh-
ter and heir to the Lord Capulet, the great enemy of the
Montagues, 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 the
gentleman that she had been talking with: was Romeo
and a Montague, for she had been suddenly smit with the
same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Romeo which he
had conceived for her; and a 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 induce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed ;
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 been 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 passionately wished himself a glove upon
that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this while
ROMEO AND FULIET. 251

thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed,
ce Atnamenl!

Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly
and unheard by her, “Oh, speak again, bright angel, for
such you appear, being over my head like a winged mes-
senger from heaven, whom mortals fall back to gaze upon!”
She, unconscious of being overheard, and full of the 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 thou Romeo? Deny thy
father and refuse thy name for my sake; or if thou wilt not,
be but my sworn love, 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 continued
her passionate discourse with herself, as she thought, still
chiding Romeo for being Romeo and a Montague, and wish-
ing him some other name, or that he would put away that
hated name, and for that name, which was no part of him-
self, 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 walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find
him there, it would be death to him, being a Montague.
“Alack!” said Romeo, “there is more peril in 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
o} TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

came you into this place,” said Juliet, ‘and by whose direc-
tion?” “Love directed me,’ answered Romeo. “I am no
pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me as that vast shore
which is washed with the farthest sea, I should adventure for
such merchandise.” A crimson blush came over Juliet’s face,
yet unseen by Romeo by reason of the night, when she re-
flected upon the discovery she had made, yet not meaning
to make it, of her love to Romeo. She would fain have re-
called her words, but that was impossible. Fain 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 or 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 pro-
tracted courtship. Romeo had heard from her own tongue,
when she did not dream that he was near her, a confession
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
Montague (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 the fault of it, ifit were a fault,
upon the accident of the night, which had so strangely dis-
covered her thoughts; and she added, that though her be-
haviour to him might not be sufficiently 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 witness that
nothing was farther from his thoughts than to impute a
shadow of dishonour to such an honoured Jady, when she
stopped him, begging 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 him that
ROMEO AND $ULIET. 253

night, she said that she already had given him hers before
he requested it, meaning when he overheard her confession,
but she would retract what she then bestowed, 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-morrow, 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 Romeo 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 loth 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 uf his mistress and that blessed
meeting to allow him to sleep, instead 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 Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many complaints
of her disdain, and he said that young men’s love lay not
254 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo replying
that he himself had often chidden him for doting on Rosa-
line, 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 Montagues, which no one more lamented
than this good friar, who was a friend to both the families,
and had often interposed his mediation 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 despatched
according to promise, did not fail to be 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 Montague and
young Capulet to bury the old strife and long dissensions of
their families.

Thé ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where
she stayed 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, Benvolio
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, accused him bluntly of associating with
Romeo, a Montague. 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 AND ¥ULIET. 255

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; and besides, this young Montague 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 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 Montague,
had some secret pleasure in uttering that name; but Tybalt,.
who hated all Montagues 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 pro-
voked Tybalt to the prosecution of his first quarrel with
him, and Tybalt and Mercutio fought till Mercutio fell,
receiving his death’s wound while Romeo and Benvolio
were vainly endeavouring 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 Montague, 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 disturbed by these brawls of Mon-
tagues and Capulets, came determined to put the law in
strictest force against those who should be found to be
offenders. Benvolio, who had been eye-witness 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.
256 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for the loss of her
kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her revenge,
exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his murderer,
and to pay no attention to Benvolio’s representation, who,
being Romeo’s friend and a Montague, 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 Montague 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 passion-
ate exclamations of these women, on a careful examination
of the facts, pronounced his sentence, and by that sentence
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 denoted 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
husband lived whom Tybalt would have slain. Then came
fresh tears, and they were altogether of grief for Romeo’s
banishment. That word was more terrible to her than the
- death of many Tybalts.

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in Friar Law-
rence’s cell, where he was first made acquainted with the
prince’s sentence, which seemed to him far 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


CELT EL




ROMEO AND FULIET. 257

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 straightway 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
would be moved to pardon him, and he would 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 daybreak 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, gaining
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 parting, and the fatal adventures of the past

33
258 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.
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
sang, and a discordant and unpleasing 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 a tomb. 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.

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 hera 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.

Inthis extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always
ROMEO AND YULIET. 259



Romeo took his leave of his dear wife. @. 238.)

her counsellor in distress, and he asking her if she had re-
solution 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, ac-
cording to her father’s desire; and on the next night, which
was the night before the marriage, to drink off the contents
of 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 on a 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
260 TALES FROM. SHAKESPEARE.

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 the 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
nuptials. No cost was spared to prepare such festival re-
joicings 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
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 place where their bodies
were bestowed. But then her love for Romeo, and her
aversion for Paris, returned, 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 lifeless corse. What
death to his hopes! What confusion 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
ROMEG AND $ULIET. 201

point of seeing her advanced (as they thought) by a pro-
mising 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, in-
stead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed to bury
her; and she was borne to church indeed, not to augment



Fulict drank off the potion. (P. 260.)

the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell the dreary
numbers of the dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, 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. 5

Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful and
light-hearted. He had dreamed in the night that he was
dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead man leave to
262 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

think), and that his lady came and found him dead, and
breathed such life with kisses on 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 hertomb. 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 appear-
ance 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 misgivings that his own dis-
astrous life might haply meet with a conclusion so desperate),
“Tf 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 pretended
scruples, Romeo offering him gold which his poverty could
not resist, sold him a 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 lantern, and a spade, and a
wrenching-iron, and was just proceeding to break open the
monument, when he was interrupted by a voice, which, by
the name of vile Montague, bade him desist from his unlawful
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
ROMEO AND $ULIET. 263

had in the dead, but knowing him to be a Montague, and
(as he supposed) a sworn foe to all the Capulets, he judged
that he was come by night to do some villainous shame to
the dead bodies, therefore in an angry tone he bade him
desist ; and, as a criminal, condemned 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 scorn 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
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 cousin, 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 he here 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
264. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

his letters, which he had sent to Mantua, by some unlucky
detention of the messenger, had never reached Romeo, came
himself, provided with a pickaxe and lantern, to deliver the
lady from her confinement; but he was surprised to find a
light already burning in the Capulets’ monument, and to see
swords 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 occasion 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 Lord Montague and Lord Capulet out
of their beds, with the prince, to inquire into the causes of
the disturbance. The friar had been apprehended by some
of the watch, coming from the churchyard, trembling, sigh-
ing, and weeping in a suspicious manner. A great multitude
being assembled at the Capulets’ monument, the friar was
demanded by the prince to deliver what he knew of these
strange and disastrous accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old Lords Montague
and Capulet, he faithfully related the story of their children’s
ROMEO AND $ULIET. 265

fatal love, the part he took in promoting 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 miscarriage 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 delivered 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, acknow-
ledging the buying of the poison of the poor apothecary,
and his intent in coming to the monument, to die, and lie
with Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to clear
the friar from any hand he could be supposed to have had
in these complicated slaughters, further than as the unin-
tended consequences of his own well-meant yet too artificial
and subtle contrivances.

And the prince, turning to these old lords, Montague
and Capulet, rebuked them for their brutal and irrational
enmities, and showed them what a scourge Heaven 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 re-
quested Lord Montague 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

34
266 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

and Montague, and saying that Lord Montague's hand (in
token of reconcilement) was all that he demanded for his
daughter's jointure; but Lord Montague 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 over-
throw of their children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels and
dissensions!) could remove the rooted hates and jealousies
of the noble families.
BUI IEIC, IEIRIENICISD Ol! IDB INIMIDAURIK,



Ophelia.

ERTRUDE, Queen of Den-
mark, 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 unfeeling-
ness, or worse; for this Claudius
did no ways {resemble- her -late
husband in the qualities of his
person or his mind, but was as
contemptible in outward appear-
ance 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 ex-
clusion 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 s 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 unworthy conduct of his mother Gertrude, inso-
much that, between grief for his father’s death and shame for
268 TALES FROM SITAKESPEARE.

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 pleasure 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 law-
ful 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 so gentle a husband! And
then she always appeared as loving and obedient a 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
relationship, but made much more so by the indecent haste
with which it was concluded, and the unkingly character 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 in 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 fes-
tivities or rejoicings of that, as appeared to him, disgrace-
ful 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 murdered him for his crown, and that
HAMLET.

269

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 know-
ledge, or without, it came to pass
——were the doubts which continu-
ally 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 plat-
form before the palace at midnight
for two or three nights successively.
The figure came constantly 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 time and
manner of its appearance: that it
came just as the clock struck
twelve; that it looked pale, with Marcellus.

a face more of sorrow than of
anger; that its beard was grisly, and the colour a sadle
silvered, as they had seen it in his lifetime; that it made
no answer when they spoke to it, yet once they thought
it lifted up its head and addressed itself to motion as if
it were about to speak, but in that moment the morning
cock crew, and it shrank in haste away and vanished out of
their sight.

The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation,
which was too consistent and agreeing with itself to disbe-
lieve, concluded that it was his father’s ghost which they had
seen, and determined to take his watch with the soldiers that


270 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

night that he might have a chance of seeing it, for he rea-
soned 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 the
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 announcing 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 bad, 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 be-
sought him that.he would let them know if there was any-
thing 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 dissuaded 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


The spirit broke silence. (. 273.)

HAMLET. 78

he felt as hardy asa lion, and bursting from them, who did
all they could to hold him, the 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 had 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 after-
noon—this treasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep,
and poured the juice of poisonous henbane into 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 adjured 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 had enjoined
him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the con-
versation which had passed to none but his dear friend
Horatio; and he enjoined both to him and Marcellus the
strictest secrecy 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 dispirited before,
almost unhinged his mind, and drove him beside his reason.

35
274. TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,
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
anything against him, or that Hamlet really knew more of
his father's death than he professed—took up a strange re-
solution 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 uncle should believe him incapable of
any serious project, and that his real perturbation 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 madman 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 concluded 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 counsellor in affairs
of state. He had sent her letters and rings, and made many
tenders of his affection to her, and importuned her with
love in honourable fashion, and she had given belief to his
vows and importunities. But the melancholy into which he
fell 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 rude-
ness; 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 excellent
understanding, impaired as they were with the deep melan-
choly that oppressed him, to sweet bells which in themselves
are capable of most exquisite music, but when jangled out
of tune or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and un-
pleasing sound.
HAMLET. 275

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand—
the revenging of his father’s death upon his murderer—did
not suit with the playful state of courtship, 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
unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full of wild starts
of passion, and in extravagant terms, 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 from 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 accom-
plished. 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 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 husband 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
276 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

of spirits he had so long been in, produced an irresoluteness
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 dssumed 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 tragical
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 formerly 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 destruc-
tion of his people and city by fire, and the mad grief of
the old queen, running barefoot up and 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 real 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 forgetfulness! And while he meditated on actors
and acting, and the powerful effects which a good play,
HAMLET. 27,

represented 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 re-
semblance 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 cer-
tainty 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 Gonzago, his wife
Baptista. The play showed how one Lucianus, a near relation
to the duke, poisoned him 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, who 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. The play began with a conver-
sation between Gonzago and 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 accursed if she ever 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 conscience 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 de-
parted, the play was given over. Now Hamlet had seen
278 TALES FROM SHAK. PSPEARE.

enough to be satisfied that the words of the ghost were true,
and no illusion; and, in a fit of gaigty, like that which
comes over a 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 his uncle
was 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 im-
port the king to know, Polonius, the old counsellor 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 Po-
lonius, who was a man grown old in crooked maxims and
policies of state, and delighted to get at the knowledge 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 behaviour, 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 Hamlet’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 replied,
“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
husband’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 set those to you that can
speak,” and was going to send the king or Polonius to him.
HIAMLET. 279

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 some mischief, cried out, and a voice was heard from



“A bloody deed, mother, but not so bad as yours.” — (P. 280.)

behind the hangings, “Help, help the queen!” which Hamlet
hearing, and verily thinking that 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 ran there, till the voice ceasing, he concluded the
person to be dead. But when he dragged forth the body,
280 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

it was not the king, but Polonius, the old officious coun-
sellor, that had planted himself as a spy behind the hang-
ings. “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
now in the humour 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 forgetful 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 had sworn to her first husband, was
enough to make all vows of women suspected, and all virtue
to be 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 such 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 one 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 upon some heaven-kissing hill! this man, he said,
had been 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 brother. 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
LIAMLET. 281

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 it stood, or
by any description, make his mother perceive it, who was
terribly frightened all this while to hear him 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 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 company
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 rashness 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 now a little quieter, he wept for
what he had done.

This unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a pre-
text 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 loved Hamlet; and the
queen, who, with all her faults, doted on 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’
death, caused him to be conveyed on board a ship bound
for England, under the care of two courtiers, by whom he

36
282 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

despatched 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 on English ground.
Hamlet, suspecting some treacbery, 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 commenced,
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 recompense 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, ac-
quainting him with the strange chance which had brought
him back to his own country, and saying that on the next
day he should present himself 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 saying
that they were for her father’s burial, singing songs about
love and about death, and sometimes such as had no méaning
at all, as if she had no memory 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
HAMLET. 283

me day when she was unwatched, with garlands she had
een making, mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and
veeds together, and clambering up to hang her garland upon
he boughs of the willow, a bough broke and precipitated
his fair young maid, garland, and all that she had gathered,
ito the water, where her clothes bore her up for a while,
uring which she chanted scraps of old tunes, like one in-
ensible to her own distress, or as if she were a creature
atural to that element; but long it was not before her
arments, heavy with the wet, pulled her in from her me-
ddious singing to a muddy and miserable death. It was the
ineral of this fair maid which her brother Laertes was
elebrating, the king and queen and whole court being pre-
ent, when Hamlet arrived.

He knew not what all this show imported, but stood
n one side, not inclining to interrupt the ceremony. He saw
he flowers strewed upon her grave, as the custom was in
aaiden burials, which the queen herself threw in; and as
he threw them, she said, “Sweets to the sweet! I thought
2 have decked thy bridal bed, sweet maid, not to have
trewed thy grave. Thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's
fe.” And he heard her brother wish that violets might
pring from her grave; and he saw him leap into the grave
ll frantic with grief, and bid the attendants pile mountains
f earth upon him, that he might be buried with her. And
Tamlet’s Jove for this fair maid came back to him, and he
ould not bear that a brother should show so much transport
f grief, for he thought that he loved Ophelia better than
orty thousand brothers. Then discovering himself, he leaped
ito the grave where Laertes was, all as frantic or more frantic
han he, and Laertes knowing him to be Hamlet who had
een the cause of his father’s and his sister’s death, grappled _
im by the throat as an enemy till the attendants parted
hem. And Hamlet, after the funeral, excused his hasty act
1 throwing himself into the grave as if to brave Laertes;
ut he said he could not bear that any one should seem to
utgo him in grief for the death of the fair Ophelia. And
yr the time these two noble youths seemed reconciled.

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death ot
284 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

his father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet’s wicked uncle, con-
trived destruction for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under
cover of peace and reconciliation, 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,.
prepared 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 examine 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 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
incensed, 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 drank 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
treacherous 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
LTAMLET. 28

or

Hamiet, he died, with his last words accusing the king of
being the contriver 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 promise which he
had made to his father's spirit, whose injunction was now
accomplished, and his foul murder revenged upon the mur-
derer. Then Hamlet, 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 commended the spirit of their sweet prince to the
guardianship of angels; for Hamlet was a loving and a gentle
prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and prince-
like qualities, and if he had lived would no doubt have proved
a most royal and complete king to Denmark.


The Assassin.

OEE 1 @:

RABANTIO, the rich senator of
Venice, had a fair 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 singula-
rity 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 unsui-

’ tableness of the person whom she

selected for her lover. Bating that
Othello was black, the noble Moor
wanted nothing which might recom-
mend 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 Turks 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 though from his earliest recollection:
OTHELLO. 287

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 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 cannibals 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 attention of
Desdemona that if she were called off at any time by house-
hold affairs, she would despatch 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, ac-
companied with a certain bewitching prettiness, and blushes,
which Othello could not but understand, he spoke more
openly of his love, and in this golden 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 for a 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
288 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 insurmountable objection, was by her
esteemed above all 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 witch-
craft, 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
turned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed ade-
quate to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks;
so that Othello, now summoned before the senate, stood in
their presence at once as a candidate for a great state em-
ployment, and as a culprit charged with offences, which by
the laws of Venice were made capital.

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio com-
manded 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
OTHELLO. 289

daughter too; and the spells and conjurations which Othello
had used in his courtship 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 appeared 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 her 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 him his daughter, whom, if
he had been free to withhold her (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, pre-
ferring 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 eloquent, and exactly such a person as

37
290 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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, fearing that himself had not those
soft parts of conversation which please ladies, and finding
these qualities in his friend, would often depute Cassio
to go (as he phrased it) a-courting for him, such innocent
simplicity being rather an honour than a blemish to the
character of the valiant Moor; so that no wonder if, next
to Othello himself (but at far distance, as beseems 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 lieutenant, 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 lago’s wife Emilia.
From these imaginary provocations the plotting mind of
Iago conceived a horrid scheme of revenge, which should
involve both Cassio, the Moor, and Desdemona in one
common ruin.

Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply,
and he knew that, of all the torments which afflict the mind
-OTHELLO, 291

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 of 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. Everybody 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. 3

Cassio had the direc-
tion 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 Iago
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 Desde-
mona, whom he again and again toasted, affirming that she
was a most exquisite lady, until at last the enemy which he
put into his mouth stole away his brains; and, upon some
provocation given him by a fellow whom Iago had set on,



Afichael Cassio.
vo

g2 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

swords were drawn, and Montano, a worthy officer, who
interfered to appease the dispute, was wounded in the
scuffle. The riot now began to be general, and Iago, who
had set on foot the mischief, was foremost in spreading the
alarm, causing the castle bell to be rung (as if some dan-
gerous mutiny, instead of a mere slight drunken quarrel,
had arisen). The alarm-bell ringing, awakened Othello, who,
dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action,
questioned 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 lago, pretending 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 re-
mained now to make the best of a bad bargain. The gene-
ral’s wife was now the general, and could do anything with
Othello; that he were best to apply to the Lady Desdemona
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 Iago, if
OTHELLO. 293

it had not been given for wicked purposes, which will after
appear.

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application 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 immediately 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 furthest.
Then she showed how penitent and humbled poor Cassio
was, and that his offence did not deserve so sharp a check.
And when 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 often-
times 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 to 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 departing at the opposite
door; and Iago, who was full of art, said in a low voice as
if to himself, “I like 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 re-
membered it afterwards; for when Desdemona was gone,
Iago, as if for mere satisfaction of his thought, questioned
Othello whether Michael Cassio, when Othello was courting
his lady, knew of his love. To this the general answered in
the affirmative, and adding that he had gone between them
very often during the courtship. lago knitted his brow, as
if he had got fresh light of some terrible matter, and cried,
“Indeed!” This brought into Othello’s mind the words
which Iago had let fall upon entering the room and seeing
204, TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.
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 utter-
ance ; and Othello prayed Iago to speak what he knew, and
to give his worst thoughts words. E

“And what,” said Iago, “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, Jago, as if in earnest care
for Othello’s peace of mind, besought him to beware of
jealousy : with such art did this villain raise suspicions in the
unguarded Othello, by the very caution which he pretended
to give him against suspicion. “I 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 countrywomen, 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 marrying
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 in-
OTHELLO, 205

ward grief at lago’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 returned, how probable it was
she would fall upon comparing Othello with the fine forms
and clear white complexions of the young Italians her
countrymen. He concluded with advising Othello to put off
his reconcilement with Cassio a little longer, and in the mean-
while to note with what earnestness Desdemona 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 Othello to
account his wife innocent until he had more decisive proof,
and Othello promised to. be patient ; but from that moment
the deceived Othello never tasted content of mind. Poppy,
nor the juice of mandragora, 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 sick-
ened upon him. He no longer took delight in arms. His
heart, that used to be roused at the sight of troops, and ban-
ners, 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 military ardour and all his old joys forsook him.
Sometimes he thought his wife honest, and at times he thought
her not so; sometimes he thought Iago just, and at times he
thought 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 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
296 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

his having belied her. Jago, feigning indignation that his
honesty should be taken for a vice, asked Othello if he had
not sometimes seen a handkerchief 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.” “Ifit be as you say,’ said Othello, “I will not rest
till a wide revenge swallow them up: and first, for a token of
your fidelity, 1 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 villainy, had
made his wife (a good but a weak woman) steal this hand-
kerchief from Desdemona, under the pretence of getting the
work copied, but in reality to drop it in Cassio’s way, where
he might find it, and give a handle to lago’s suggestion that
it was Desdemona’s present.
_ Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he
had a headache—as he might indeed with truth—and de-
sired her to lend him her handkerchief to hold to his
temples. She did so. ‘Not this,” said Othello, “but that
handkerchief I gave you.” Desdemona 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


Othello resolved she should die. (P. yo.)

OTHELLO, 209

her. She, dying, gave it me, and bade me if 1 ever married
to give it to my wife. I did so. Take heed of it; make it
a darling as precious as your eye.” ‘Is it possible?” said
the affrighted 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 furnished the silk were hallowed, and
it was dyed in mummy of maidens’ hearts conserved.” Des-
demona, 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 demanded 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 foretold, till Othello in perfect dis-
traction burst out of the room, and then 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 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 obser-
vance 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 Des-
demona 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 smelt 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 stupefied with wonder
300 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 truth 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 husband
would follow her, soon fell into a slumber, the effect 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; andas the guiltless 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 dis-
covery, 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 em-
ployed Iago to murder him.
OTHELLO, 301

This discovery was as a thunder-stroke 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 amaze-
ment in the bystanders, for Othello had borne a fair reputa-
tion, 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 too well; and his manly eyes, when he learned
his mistake, though not used to weep on every small occasion,
dropped tears as fast as 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.
Hieele Na Cash yee ee NSB eam Osea Veins

ERICLES, Prince of Tyre,
became a voluntary evile
from his dominions to avert the
dreadful calamities which Antio-
chus, the wicked Emperor of
Greece, threatened to bring upon
his subjects and the city of Tyre,
in revenge for a discovery which
the prince had made of a shock-
ing deed which the emperor had
done in secret: as commonly it
proves dangerous to pry into the
hidden crimes of great ones,
Leaving the government of his
people in the hands of his able
and honest minister Hellicanus,
Pericles set sail from Tyre, think-
ing 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



Pericles.
PERICLES. 203

faithful minister, warning him that it was not safe for him
to stay at Tharsus, for Antiochus knew of his abode, and
by secret emissaries despatched for that purpose sought his
life. Upon receipt of these letters Pericles put out to sea
again, amidst the blessings 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 sea-waves 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 lam-
enting the loss of his good armour, which disabled him
from making one among these valiant knights, another fisher-
man 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 be-
queathed 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 I thank
it, for since I have my father’s gift again I think my shipwreck
no misfortune.”

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father’s armour,
repaired to the royal court of Symonides, where he performed
wonders at the tournament, vanquishing with ease all the
brave knights and valiant princes who contended with him
in arms for the honour of Thaisa’s love. When brave war-
304 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

tiors contended 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
vanquished, 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 pas-
sionate 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 accom-
plished 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 Helli-
canus upon his vacant throne. This news came from Helli-
canus himself, who, being a loyal subject to his royal master,
would not accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent
to 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; and Pericles
himself wished his wife to remain with her father; but the
poor lady so earnestly desired to go with her husband, that
at last they consented, hoping soon to reach Tyre.

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles,
for long before they reached Tyre another dreadful tempest
PERICLES. — 305

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 had 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 dreadful sufferings of Peri-
cles 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
your 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 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
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 seafarer, 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 un-
happy prince went to take a last view of his dear wife, and

39
306 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

as he looked on his Thaisa he said, “A terrible fate hast thou
had, my dear: no light, no fire, the unfriendly elements for-
got 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 humming waters
must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with 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 (wrapped
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 pray-
ing if haply anyone should find the chest which contained
the body of his wife, they would give her burial; and then
with his own hands he 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 morning, 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.
“T 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; and much
admiring at the strangeness of that accident, and more pity-
ing the husband who had lost this sweet lady, -he said, “If
you are living, Pericles, you have a heart that even cracks
PERICLES. 307

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 be-
fallen 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 looked on the paper and
said, “It is my lord’s writing. That I was shipped at sea I
well remember, but whether there my babe was born, 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 distant from
hence; there you may abide as a vestal. Moreover, if you
please, a niece of mine shall there attend you.” This pro-
posal 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 supposed
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
308 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

motherless daughter. When Cleon saw Prince Pericles, and
heard of the great loss which had befallen him, he said, “Oh,
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, Dionysia, he
said, “Good madam, make me blessed in your care in bring-
ing up my child”; and she answered, ‘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. 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. “Oh! no tears, Lycho-
rida,” said Pericles; “no tears! look to your little mistress,
on whose grace you may depend hereafter.”

Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once more
settled in the quiet possession of his throne, while his woeful
queen, whom he thought dead, remained 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 sang 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
PERICLES. 309




Dionysia :
“dre you resolved

to obey me?” (P. x10.)

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, who was of the same age and had been edu-
cated 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. ‘Yo compass this she employed
a man to murder Marina, and she well timed her wicked
design, when Lychorida, 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. Leonine, the man she employed
210 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

to do this bad deed, though he was a very wicked man, could
hardly be persuaded to undertake 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 mer-
ciless enemy: “here she comes weeping for the death of her
nurse Lychorida. Are you resolved to obey me?” Leonine,
fearing to disobey her, replied, “I am resolved.” 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 marigold should as a carpet hang upon her grave while
summer days did last. “Alas for me!” she said, “poor un-
happy 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 Dio-
nysia, “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 unpro-
fitable woe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea air will
spoil them, and walk with Leonine; the air is fine and will
enliven you. Come, Leonine, 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 Leonine was one of
Dionysia’s attendants. ‘Come, come,” said this artful woman,
who wished for a pretence to leave her alone with Leonine,
“1 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 re-
ported 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 Leonine, “Remember what I have said J” —
shocking words, for their meaning was that he should re-
member to kill Marina.

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said,
PERICLES. Na

“Ts the wind westerly that blows?” “South-west,” replied
Leonine. “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
Leonine. “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 whistle, and
the loud call of the master, “Which,” said she, “trebled the
confusion of the ship.” Lychorida had so often recounted
to Marina the story of her halpless birth, that these things
seemed ever present to her imagination. But here Leonine
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 Leonine; “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 Leonine. “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 turn 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, carried her
to Mitylene, and sold her for a slave, where, though in that
humble condition, Marina soon became known throughout
the whole city of Mitylene 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 needlework, and the money she got by her scholars she
gave to her master and mistress; and the fame of her learn-
Bae TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

ing and her great industry came to the knowledge of Lysima-
chus, a young nobleman who was the governor of Mitylene,
and Lysimachus went himself to the house where Marina
dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the city
praised so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus
beyond 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. Lysimachus
thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding, and
excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all outward
graces, that he wished to marry her, and notwithstanding 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, Leonine, 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, intending 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 dear Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and
hastily 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 everything around him.

Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in its course passed
by Mitylene, where Marina dwelt; the governor of which
place, Lysimachus, observing this royal vessel from the shore,
and desirous of knowing who was on board, went in a barge
PERICLES. rs

Oo
02

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 anyone 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 Lysimachus 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 said, “She is such a one, that were I well assured
she came of noble birth, 1 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-seeming 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 come near him.”

She, who at Mitylene 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

40
314 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

sorrows; but her reasons for doing so 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 dead queen. The
long-silent prince was once more heard to speak. “My
dearest wife,’ said the awakened Pericles, “was like 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 jewel-like. Where do
you live, young maid? 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. warrant 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 story, I
beseech you. Come, sit by me.”

How was Pericles surprised when she said her name was
Marina, for he knew it was no usual name, but had been
invented by himself for his own child to signify seaborn. “Oh,
I am mocked,” said he, “and you are sent hither by some
incensed god to make the world laugh at me.” “Patience,
good sir,” said Marina, “‘or I must cease here.” “Nay,” said
Pericles, “I will be patient; you little 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;
PERICLES.

won

31

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 me, and brought me
here to Mitylene. » But, good sir, why 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 liy-
ing.’ Then Pericles, terrified as it seemed at his own sudden

Pericles: “ Report

your parentage.” (P. 314.)



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.
Oh, come hither, thou that wast 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
316 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

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 Mitylene, 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 isthat?” 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 ;
and he now complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over
him, Lysimachus persuaded him to rest on a couch, and
placing a pillow under his head, he, quite overpowered with
excess of joy, sank 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 in-
junction 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 bidding of the
goddess.

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore
and refresh himself with such entertainment as he should
find at Mitylene, 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 Mitylene to greet the royal father of
PERICLES. 317

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 Marina showed her-
self 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.

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
restored 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 ap-
proached 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, frighted from my country, at Pentapolis wedded the
fair Thaisa: she died at sea, but left 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 Mitylene, 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.
318 TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE,

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 you have told Diana’s altar true, this is your wife.”
“Reverend gentleman, no,’ said Pericles; “I threw her over-
board with these very arms.” Cerimon then recounted how,
early one tempestuous morning, this lady was thrown upon
the Ephesian shore; how opening the coffin, he found there-
in rich jewels and a paper; how, 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 death?” He,
astonished, said, “The voice of dead Thaisa!” “That Thaisa
- am I,” she said, “supposed dead and drowned.” “O true
Diana!” exclaimed Pericles, in.a passion of devout astonish-
ment. “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 kind-
ness makes my past miseries sport. Oh, 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 child born 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 success-
ful, and triumphing over chance and change. In Hellicanus ©
PERICLES. 319

we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, of faith, and
loyalty, who, when he might have succeeded to a throne,
chose rather to recall the nghtful owner to his possession
than to become great by another's wrong. In the worthy
Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are- instructed how
goodness directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits upon.
mankind, approaches to 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. For 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 be-
~ fitting its enormity.




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