Citation
Tales from Shakespeare

Material Information

Title:
Tales from Shakespeare
Creator:
Lamb, Charles, 1775-1834
Lamb, Mary, 1764-1847
Price, Norman M ( Illustrator )
T.C. and E.C. Jack ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London ;
Edinburgh
Publisher:
Jack
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
324 p. : front. pls. ;

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Juvenile literature -- 1900
Bldn -- 1900
Genre:
Juvenile literature
fiction ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

Statement of Responsibility:
illustrated by Norman M. Price.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
025303042 ( ALEPH )
08535936 ( OCLC )
AHW0576 ( NOTIS )

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Full Text
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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE



TANIA SLEEPS

Midsummer-Night’s Dream—Act II. Scene 2)








PREFACE

Tue following Tales are meant to be submitted to the
young reader as an introduction to the study of Shak-
speare, 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.

In those tales which have been taken from the
Tragedies, the young readers will perceive, when they
come to see the source from which these stories are de-
rived, that Shakspeare’s own words, with little alteration,
recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the
dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the
writers found themselves scarcely ever able to turn his -
words into the narrative form : therefore it is feared that,
in them, dialogue has been made use of too frequently for ,
young people not accustomed to the dramatic form of

writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has been caused
v



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

by an earnest wish to give as much of Shakspeare’s own
words as possible: and if the ‘He sad’ and ‘She said,’
the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedi-
ous to their young ears, they must pardon it, because it
was the only way in which could be given to them a few
hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure which
awaits them in their elder years, when they come to the
rich treasures from which these small and valueless coins
are extracted ; pretending to no other merit than as faint
and imperfect stamps of Shakspeare’s matchless image.
Faint and imperfect images they must be called, because
the beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed by
the necessity of changing many of his excellent words
into words far less expressive of his true sense, to make it
read something like prose; and even in some 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.

It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading
for very young children. To the utmost of their ability
the writers have constantly kept this in 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 apprehension of a very
young mind. For young ladies too, it has been the in-
tention chiefly to write; because boys being generally

vi



PREFACE
permitted the use of their fathers’ libraries at a much
earlier age than girls are, they frequently have the best
scenes of Shakspeare by heart before their sisters are
permitted to look into this manly book; and, therefore,
instead of recommending these Tales to the perusal of
young gentlemen who can read them so much better in
the originals, their kind assistance is rather requested in
explaining to their sisters such parts as are hardest for
them to understand: and when they have helped them
to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they will read
to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young
sister’s ear) some passage which has pleased them in one
of these stories, in the very words of the scene from which
it is taken ; and it is hoped 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 abridgments ;
which if they be fortunately so done as to prove
delightful to any of the young readers, it is hoped
that no worse effect will result than to make them
wish themselves a little older, that they 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 their hands,
they will discover in such of them as are here abridged
(not to mention almost as many more, which are left un-

‘touched) many surprising events and turns of fortune,
vii



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE
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 it
was feared would be lost if it were attempted to reduce
the length of them.

What these Tales shall have been to the young
readers, that and much more it is the writers’ wish that the
true Plays of Shakspeare may prove to them in older
years—enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a
withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a
lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions,
to teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity: for
of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages are full,



CONTENTS

PAGE
THE TEMPEST . 5 ; . ° : : set
A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM . «wt esd“
THE WINTER'S TALE... : F ; 5 ol) 28
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING : m 3S ‘ ae 42
AS YOU LIKE IT : : ‘ ; 2 " by
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 3 5 76
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE : A ‘ Sano?
CYMBELINE . < : is : . 108
KING LEAR} : g : 3 : : fuels
- MACBETH s : : : s ‘ A eae
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. : : : - «185
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. ; : on 170
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS . : | ; 3 2 188
MEASURE FOR MEASURE, ; ‘ S 4 « 200
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL : : . 218
TIMON OF ATHENS. : . 2 5 : » «284
ROMEO AND JULIET . : : ‘ s . Bt 250
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK . : : : ey
OTHELLO . : : ° ° : : 290
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE ° : - 306

ix







LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

TITANIA SLEEPS oe 6 e ° ° Frontispiece
(A Midsummer Night's Dream)

THE FEAST VANISHED AWAY e ’ . to face page 10
(The Tempest)

BEATRICE AND BENEDICK ., e ° e a 42
(Much Ado About Nothing)

ROSALIND AND CELIA IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN ” 56
(As You Like It)

VALENTINE, ‘I dare thee but to breathe upon my love’ ee 76
(The Two Gentlemen of Verona)

IMOGEN’S BED-CHAMBER , . , ° ” 108
(Cymbeline)

LEAR, ‘Cordelia, Cordelia !” ° ° . ° ” 124
(King Lear)

THE WEIRD SISTERS . ° e e . ” 142
(Macbeth)

KING, ‘Why, then, young Bertram, take her: she’s thy wife’ 9 154
(AR’s Well That Ends Weill)

THE GENTLE KATHERINE , : : ‘ 170
(The Taming of the Shrew)
DROMEO OF EPHESUS, ‘Let my master in!’ e ” 182

(The Comedy of Errors)



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

ISABEL’S PLEADING . .
(Measure for Measure)

OLIVIA, ‘ But we will draw the curtain and show you the picture’
(The Twelfth Night)

93

ROMEO AND JULIET . . « .

KING, ‘Give me some light! away!” ° .
(Hamlet, Prince of Denmark)

oF

OTHELLO, ‘She loved me for the dangers J had passed ’

93

° ® e to face page 200

218

250

270



THE TEMPEST

THERE 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 Pros-
pero called his study; there he kept his books, which
chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time much
affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of this
art he found very useful to him; for being thrown by a
strange chance upon this island, which had been enchanted
by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a short time
before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released
many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the
bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute
her wicked 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 a grudge because he was the son of his
old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in
the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in
: form than an ape: he took him home to his cell, and
A I



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 any-
thing good or useful: therefore he was employed like a
slave, to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices;
and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these
services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel
(who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero’s) would come
slily and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him down in
the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would
make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape,
in the likeness of a 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,
Prospero could by their means command the winds, and
the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised a violent
storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with the wild
sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it. up,
he showed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told
her was full of living beings like themselves. ‘O my
dear father,’ said she, ‘if by your art you have raised this
dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See! the
vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all
perish. 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
person in the ship shall receive any hurt. What I have

2



THE TEMPEST

done has been in care of you, my dear child. You are
ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you
know no more of me, but that I am your father, and live
in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before you
came to this cell? I think you cannot, for you were not
then three years of age.’

‘Certainly I can, sir,’ replied Miranda.

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

Miranda said, ‘It seems to me like the recollection 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 manage-
ment 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 opportunity I gave him of making
himself popular among my subjects awakened in his bad
nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my dukedom:
this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples, a
powerful prince, who was my enemy.’

‘Wherefore,’ said Miranda, ‘did they not that hour
destroy us?’

‘My child,’ answered her father, ‘they durst not, so

3



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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!’

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

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

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

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter
with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the
spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master,
to give an account of the tempest, and how he had dis-
posed 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, Ferdi-

4



THE TEMPEST

nand, 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 gar-
ments, 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 ?’

‘I left them,’ answered Ariel, ‘searching for Ferdi-
nand, whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking
they saw him perish. Of the ship’s crew not one is
missing; though each one thinks himself the only one
saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in
the harbour.’

‘ Ariel,’ said Prospero, ‘thy charge is faithfully per-
formed: but there is more work yet.’

‘Is 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.

‘O, 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

5



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 Ferdi-
nand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the same
melancholy posture.

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

‘ Full fathom five thy father lies:

Of his bones are coral made;

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

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Hark ! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.’

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the
prince from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He
followed in amazement the sound of Ariel’s voice, till it
led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were sitting under
the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen
a man before, except her own father.

‘Miranda,’ said Prospero, ‘tell me what you are look-
ing 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,

6



THE TEMPEST

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 appear-
ance 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 place, and as such he
began to address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a
simple maid, and was going to give him an account of
herself, when Prospero interrupted her. He was well
pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly
perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first
sight: but to try Ferdinand’s constancy, he resolved to
throw some difficulties in their way: therefore advancing
forward, he addressed the prince with a stern air, telling
him, he came to the island as a spy, to take it from him
who was the lord of it. ‘Follow me,’ said he, ‘I will tie
you neck and feet together. You shall drink sea-water ;
shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns shall be
your food.’ ‘No,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I will resist such
entertainment, till I see a more powerful enemy,’ and
drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his magic wand,
fixed him to the spot where he stood, so that he had no
power to move.

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

>

one.
7



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘Silence,’ said the 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.’

‘I have not indeed,’ answered Ferdinand; and not
knowing 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 I 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 yourself.’

‘O my dear lady,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I dare not. I
must finish my task before I take my rest.’

8



THE TEMPEST

‘If you will sit down,’ said Miranda, ‘TI 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.

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, saying
it was against her father’s express command she did so.

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

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.

9



{

TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘ Ah! sir,’ said she, ‘I am a fool to weep at what I am
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 trials of your love, and you have nobly stood the test.
Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily pur-
chased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast
she is above all praise.’ He then, telling them that he
had business which required his presence, desired they
would sit down and talk together till he returned; 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, reminding them of their
cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and leav-
ing 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,

10



THE FEAST VANISHED AWAY

(The Tempest—Act III. Scene 3)





THE TEMPEST

repented 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
Gonzalo 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 that he was
the injured Prospero.

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

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

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

II



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 Providence 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
forgiveness.’

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

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

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in
the harbour, and the sailors all on board her, and that he
and his daughter would accompany them home the next

12



THE TEMPEST

morning. ‘In the meantime,’ says he, ‘partake of such
refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your
evening’s entertainment I will relate the history of my
life from my first landing in this desert island.’ He then
called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the
cave in order; and the company were astonished at the
uncouth form and savage appearance of this ugly monster,
who (Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to
wait 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 uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling
flowers. ‘My quaint Ariel,’ said Prospero to the little
sprite when he made him free, ‘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 sung
this pretty song :

‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip’s bell I lie:
There I crouch 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

13



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happi-
ness, but to revisit his native land, to take possession of
his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his
daughter 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,

-



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

THERE was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its
citizens the power of compelling their daughters to marry
whomsoever 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 com-
manded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble
Athenian family, refused to obey him, because she loved
another young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus
demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel
law might be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that
Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear friend
Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ;
but 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

15



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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. |

16



A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM

Between this little king and queen of sprites there
happened, at this time, a sad disagreement; they never
met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant
wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their fairy elves
would creep into acorn-cups and hide 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.

‘Ill 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: ‘before the morning dawns I will torment you
for this injury.’

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and
privy counsellor.

Puck (or as he was sometimes called, Robin Good-
fellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to
play comical pranks in the neighbouring villages; some-
times 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

B 17



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 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 theysee. 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 I
know of, I will make her give me that boy to be my
page.’

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly
diverted with this intended frolic of his master, and ran
to seek the flower; and while Oberon was waiting the
return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena enter
the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena
for following him, and after many unkind words on his

18



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

part, and gentle expostulations 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 returned with the
little purple flower, Oberon said to his favourite, ‘'Take
a part of this flower; there has been a sweet Athenian
lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if you
find him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes,
but contrive to do it when she is near him, that the first
thing he sees when he awakes may be this despised lady.
You will know the man by the Athenian garments which
he wears.’ Puck promised to manage this matter very
dexterously: and then Oberon went, unperceived by
Titania, to her bower, where she was preparing to go
to rest. Her fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild
thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a canopy of
wood-bine, 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 :—

rg



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘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 our 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 true-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 conduct her to his aunt’s house; but
before they had passed half through the wood, Hermia
was so much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very
careful of this dear lady, who had proved her affection
for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded
her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying
down himself on the ground at some little distance, they
soon fell fast asleep. Here they were found by Puck,
who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, and perceiv-
ing 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 natur-
ally enough conjectured that, as they were alone together,

20



A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM

she must be the first thing he would see when he awoke:
so, without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the
juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so
fell out, that Helena came that way, and, instead of
Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when he
opened his eyes; and strange to relate, so powerful was
the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away,
and Lysander fell in love with Helena.

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder
Puck committed would have been of no consequence,
for he could not love that faithful lady too well; but for
poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm to
forget his own true Hermia, and to run after another
lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at
midnight, was a sad chance indeed.

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been
before related, endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius
when he ran away so rudely from her; 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 admira-
tion; telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beauty |
as a dove does a raven, and that he would run through
fire for her sweet sake; and many more such lover-like
speeches. Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend
Hermia’s lover, and that he was solemnly engaged to
marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard her-

a1



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

self addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well
she might) that Lysander was making a jest of her.
‘Oh!’ said she, ‘why was I born to be mocked and
scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it not
enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet look
or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must
pretend in this disdainful manner to court me? I
thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true gentle-
ness.’ Saying these words in great anger, she ran away ;
and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own
Hermia, who was still asleep.

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at find-
ing 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 fruitless search, was observed by
Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt by some ques-
tions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied the
love-charm to the wrong person’s eyes; and now having
found the person first intended, he touched the eyelids
of the sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, and he
instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being Helena,
he, as Lysander had done before, began to address love-
speeches to her; and just at that moment Lysander,
followed by Hermia (for through Puck’s unlucky mis-
take it was now become Hermia’s turn to run after her
lover), made his appearance; 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.

22



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew
not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved
her, were now become the lovers of Helena; and to
Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest
of friends, now fell to high words together.

‘Unkind Hermia,’ said Helena, ‘it is you have set
Lysander on to vex me with mock praises; and your
other lover Demetrius, who used almost to spurn me
with his foot, have you not bid him call me 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 in you, it is not maidenly to join with men
in scorning your poor friend.’

‘I am amazed at your passionate words,’ said Hermia:
‘I scorn you not; it seems you scorn me.’ ‘Ay, do,’
returned 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.

23



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 jang-
ling makes excellent sport.’ ‘You heard, said Oberon,
‘that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a con-
venient place to fight in. I command you to overhang
the night with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome
lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not be able
to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices to
the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to follow
you, while they think it is their rival’s tongue they hear.
See you do this, till they are so weary they can go no
farther; and when you find they are asleep, drop the
juice of this other flower into Lysander’s eyes, and when
he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and
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 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, ‘shall 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. Though Oberon fixed the ass’s
head on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up,
unconscious of what Oberon had done to him, he went
towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.

‘Ah! what angel is that I see?’ said Titania, open-

24



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

ing 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 gentle-
man; hop in his walks, and gambol in his sight; feed
him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the
honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me,’ said she
to the clown, ‘and let me play with your amiable hairy
cheeks, my beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears,
my gentle joy!’

‘Where is Pease-blossom?’ said the ass-headed clown,
not much regarding the fairy queen’s courtship, but very
proud of his new attendants.

‘Here, sir,’ said little Pease-blossom.

‘Scratch my head,’ said the clown. ‘Where is Cob-
web 2?’

‘Here, sir,’ said Cobweb.

‘Good Mr. Cobweb,’ said the foolish clown, ‘kill me
the red humble bee on the top of that thistle yonder;
and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do
not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb,
and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be
sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where
is Mustard-seed ?’

‘Here, sir,’ said Mustard-seed: ‘what is your will?’

25



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘Nothing,’ said the clown, ‘good Mr. Mustard-seed,
but to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch; I must go to
a barber’s, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvel-
lous 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.’

‘I 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, 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 disgrace-
ful situation into which, by his merry contrivance, he had
brought his Titania, and threw some of the juice of the
other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen im-
mediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late
dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the
strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass’s head from off the

26



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

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 fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer
rivals, became once more true friends; all the unkind
words which had passed were forgiven, and they calmly
consulted together what was best to be done in their
present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius
had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should en-

27



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

deavour 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.

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 beloved and now faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spec-
tators of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy
ending of the lovers’ history, brought about through the
good offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure, that
these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the 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 unreasonable as to be offended with a
pretty harmless Midsummer Night’s Dream.



THE WINTER'S TALE

THE WINTER’S TALE

LeonTEs, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and
virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony
together. So happy was Leontes in the love of this
excellent lady, that he had no wish ungratified, except
that he sometimes desired to see again, and to present to
his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,
king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought
up together from their infancy, but being, by the death
of their fathers, called to reign over their respective
kingdoms, they had not met for many years, though they
frequently 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 particular attention, and seemed in the
presence of his dear friend and old companion to have his
felicity quite completed. They talked over old times;
their school-days and their youthful pranks were remem-
bered, and recounted to Hermione, who always took a
cneerful part in these conversations.

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to
depart, Hermione, at the desire of her husband, joined
her entreaties to his that Polixenes would prolong his
visit.

29



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

And now began this good queen’s sorrow; for
Polixenes refusing to stay at the request of Leontes, was
won over by Hermione’s gentle and persuasive words to
put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon this,
although Leontes had so long known the integrity and
honourable principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as
the excellent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was
seized with an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention
Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her husband’s
particular desire, and merely to please him, increased the
unfortunate king’s jealousy ; and from being a loving and
a true friend, and the best and fondest of husbands,
Leontes became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster.
Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, and
telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded
him to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that
the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest foundation
in truth, instead of poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him
with the king his master’s orders, and agreed to escape
with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and Polixenes,
with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own
kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that
time in the king’s court, and became the chief friend and
favourite of Polixenes.

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes
still more ; he went to the queen’s apartment, where the
good lady was sitting with her little son Mamillius, who
was just beginning to tell one of his best stories to amuse
his mother, when the king entered, and taking the child
away, sent Hermione to prison.

Mamillius, 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,

30



THE WINTER'S TALE

he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away
by slow degrees, 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-
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
was brought to bed of a daughter; and the poor lady
received much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby,
and she said to it, ‘My poor little prisoner, I am as
innocent as you are.’

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited
Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord ;
and when the lady Paulina heard her royal mistress was
brought to bed, she went to the prison where Hermione
was confined ; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended
upon Hermione, ‘I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen,
if her majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will
carry it to the king, its father; we do not know how he
may soften at the sight of his innocent child.’ ‘ Most
worthy madam,’ replied Emilia, ‘I will acquaint the
queen with your noble offer; she was wishing to-day
that she had any friend who would venture to present the
child to the king.’ ‘And tell her,’ said Paulina, ‘that I
will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence.’ ‘May you
be for ever blessed,’ said Emilia, ‘for your kindness to
our gracious queen!’ Emilia then went to Hermione,
who joyfully gave up her baby to the 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

31



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 inno-
cence.

The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was
she gone than the merciless father ordered Antigonus,
Paulina’s husband, to take the child, and carry it out to
sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed
the orders of Leontes; for he immediately carried the
child on ship-board, and put out to sea, intending to
leave it on the first desert coast he could find.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt 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 lying-in, and from her grief 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 be-
fore 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 :—

32



THE WINTER'S TALE

‘ Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true
subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the king shall live
without an heir if that which is lost be not found.’ The
king would give no credit to the words of the oracle: he
said it was a falsehood invented by the queen’s friends,
and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the
queen; but while Leontes was speaking, a man entered
and told him that the prince Mamillius, hearing his
mother was to be tried for her life, struck with grief and
shame, had suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear
affectionate child, who had lost his life in sorrowing for
her misfortune, fainted ; and Leontes, pierced to the heart
by the news, began to feel pity for his 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 told the king that
Hermione was dead.

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he
repented of his cruelty to her; and now that he thought
his ill-usage had broken Hermione’s heart, he believed
her innocent; and now he thought the words of the
oracle were true, as he knew ‘if that which was lost was
not found,’ which he concluded was his young daughter,
he should be without an heir, the young prince Mamillius
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 prin-
cess out to sea was driven by a storm upon the coast of
Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good king Polixenes.
Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little baby.

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes

. 33



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

where he had left his daughter, for as he was going back
to the ship, a bear came out of the woods, and tore him
to pieces; a just punishment on him for obeying the
wicked order of Leontes.

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels ; for
Hermione had made it very fine when she sent it to
Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a paper to its mantle,
and the name of Perdita written thereon, and words
obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate.

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd.
He was a humane man, and so he carried the little
Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it tenderly; but
poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize
he had found; therefore he left that part of the country,
that no one might know where he got his riches, and
with part of Perdita’s jewels he bought herds of sheep,
and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up Per-
dita 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 shep-
herd’s daughter, yet so did the natural graces she
inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her un-
tutored 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 Filorizel. As this young prince was
hunting near the shepherd’s dwelling, he saw the old
man’s supposed daughter; and the beauty, modesty, and
queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to
fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of
Doricles, and in the disguise of a private gentleman,
became a constant visitor at the old shepherd’s house.

34



THE WINTER'S TALE

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.

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 wel-
come, 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 Polixenes: 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 queen of curds
and cream.’

35



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘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 truth, there is
not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. If young
Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little
dreams of’; meaning the remainder of Perdita’s jewels ;
which, after he had bought herds of sheep with part of
them, he had carefully hoarded up for her marriage
portion.

Polixenes then addressed his son. ‘How now, young
man!’ said he: ‘your heart seems full of something that
takes off your mind from feasting. When I was young,
I used to load my love with presents; but you have let
the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy.’

The young prince, who little thought he was talking
to the king his father, replied, ‘ Old sir, she prizes not
such trifles; the gifts which Perdita expects from me are
locked up in my heart.’ Then turning to Perdita, he said
to her, ‘O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient gentle-
man, 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, dis-
covering himself. Polixenes then reproached his son for
daring to contract himself to this low-born maiden, calling
Perdita ‘shepherd’s-brat, sheep-hook,’ and other dis-
respectful 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.

36



THE WINTER'S TALE

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 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

37



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 friendship of your brave
father, whom I now desire more than my life once again
to look upon.’

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the
king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a
daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to com-
_ paring the time when he found the little Perdita, with
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
circumstance of Antigonus’ death, he having seen the
bear seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle in
which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the
child; and he produced a jewel which she remembered
Hermione had tied about Perdita’s neck, and he gave up
the paper which 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 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

38



THE WINTER'S TALE

that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made
him that he could say nothing for a long time, but, ‘O
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 be almost ready to think it was Hermione
herself. hither 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.

‘I like your silence, my liege,’ said Paulina, ‘it the
more shows your wonder. Is not this statue very like
your queen ?’

At length the king said, ‘O, thus she stood, even
with such majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet,
Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks,’
Paulina replied, ‘So much the more the carver’s excel-
lence, 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 liege,’ said Paulina. ‘You
are so transported, you will persuade yourself the statue
lives.” ‘O, sweet Paulina,’ said Leontes, ‘make me
think so twenty years together! Still methinks there is
an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever yet

a 39



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her.’
‘Good my lord, forbear!’ said Paulina. ‘The ruddiness
upon her lip is wet; you will stain your own with oily
painting. Shall I draw the curtain?’ ‘No, not these
twenty years,’ said Leontes.

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

‘Kither forbear this transport,’ said Paulina to
Leontes, ‘and let me draw the curtain ; or prepare your-
self for more amazement. I can make the statue move
indeed; ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and take
you by the hand. But then you will think, which I
protest I am not, that I am assisted by some wicked
powers.’

‘What you can make her do,’ said the astonished king,
‘I am content to look upon. What you can make her
speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make her
speak as move.’

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music,
which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up; and
to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue came
down from off the pedestal, and threw its arms around
Leontes’ neck. The statue then began to speak, praying
for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly-
found Perdita.

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes’ neck,
and blessed her husband and her child. No wonder; for
the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real, the
living queen.

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of
Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve her
royal mistress’ life; and with the good Paulina, Hermione

40



THE WINTER'S TALE

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 prince Florizel for loving their lowly-seeming
daughter; and now they blessed the good old shepherd
for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and
Paulina rejoice that they had lived to see so good an end
of all their faithful services.

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this
strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now
entered the palace.

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo,
knowing that Camillo had long wished to return to Sicily,
he conjectured he should find the fugitives here; and
following them with all speed, he happened to just arrive
at this, the happiest 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,

4l



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

TueEreE 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
passing through Messina on their return from a war that
was just ended, in which they had distinguished them-
selves 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 talking, signior Benedick: nobody marks

42





BEATRICE AND BENEDICK

(Much Ado About Nothing—Act IV. Scene 1)



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

you.” Benedick was just such another rattlebrain as
Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at this free salutation ; he
thought it did not become a well-bred lady to be so flip-
pant 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 displeased 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 ob-
served 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 killed there: and observing the
prince take delight in Benedick’s conversation, she called
him ‘the prince’s jester.’ This sarcasm sunk deeper into
the mind of Benedick than all Beatrice had said before.
The hint she gave him that he was a coward, by saying
she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, know-
ing himself to be a brave man; but there is nothing that
great wits so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery,
because the charge comes sometimes a little too near the
truth : therefore Benedick perfectly hated Beatrice when
she called him ‘the prince’s jester.’

The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble
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

43



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

(for she was an admirable 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, 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, thoughlits 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 con-
fession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the prince,
that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato
to accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to
this proposal, and the prince found no great difficulty in
persuading the gentle Hero herself to listen to the suit of
the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare endowments,
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

44



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

be married to his fair lady; yet he complained of the
interval being tedious, as indeed most young men are im-
patient 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 gentle-
men should make Benedick believe that Beatrice was
in love with him, and that Hero should make Beatrice
believe that Benedick was in love with her.

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their opera-
tions first: and watching upon 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? I did never think that
lady would have loved any man.’ ‘No, nor I neither, my
lord,’ answered Leonato. ‘It is most wonderful that she
should 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 certainly die of
grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which
Leonato and Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he
having always been such a railer against all fair ladies,
and in particular against Beatrice.

45



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 excel-
lent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in everything but in
loving Benedick.’ Then the prince motioned to his com-
panions that they should walk on, and leave Benedick to
meditate upon what he had overheard.

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to
this conversation; and he said to himself when he heard
Beatrice loved him, ‘Is it possible? Sits the wind in
that corner?’ And when they were gone, he began to
reason in this manner with himself: ‘This can be no
trick! they were very serious, and they have the truth
from Hero, and seem to pity the lady. LLoveme! Why,
it must be requited! I did never think to marry. But
when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous
and fair. She isso. And wise in everything but 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 ap-
proached him, and said with her usual tartness, ‘ Against
my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.’
Benedick, 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 ob-
served a concealed 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.’

46



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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 Benedick, and when I name him, let it be
your part to praise him more than ever man did merit.
My talk to you must be how Benedick is in love with
Beatrice. Now begin; for look where Beatrice like a
lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear our con-
ference.’ They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer
to something which Ursula had said, ‘ No, truly, Ursula.
She is too disdainful; her spirits are as coy as wild birds
of the rock.’ ‘But are you sure,’ said Ursula, ‘that
Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?’ Hero replied,
‘So says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they
entreated me to acquaint her with it; but I persuaded
them, if they loved Benedick, never to let Beatrice
know of it.’ ‘Certainly,’ replied Ursula, ‘it were
not good she knew his love, lest she made sport of it.’

47



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘Why, to say truth,’ said Hero, ‘I never yet saw
a man, how wise soever, or noble, young, or rarely
featured, but she would dispraise him.’ ‘Sure, sure,
such carping is not commendable,’ said Ursula. ‘No,’
replied Hero, ‘but who dare tell her so? If I should
speak, she would mock me into air.’ ‘O! you wrong
your cousin,’ said Ursula; ‘she cannot be so much with-
out true judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentleman as
signior Benedick.’ ‘He hath an excellent good name,’
said Hero: ‘indeed, he is the first man in Italy, always
excepting my dear Claudio.’ And now, Hero giving her
attendant a hint that it was time to change the dis-
course, 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
breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went
away, exclaimed, ‘ What fire is in mine ears? Can this
be true? Farewell, contempt and scorn, and maiden
pride, adieu ! Benedick, 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 reverse 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,

48



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving of
villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated
Claudio, because he was the prince’s friend, and deter-
mined 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 promise to
talk with him from her lady’s chamber window that
night, after Hero was asleep, and also to dress herself in
Hero’s clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into the
belief that it was Hero; for that was the end he meant to
compass by this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and
told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and that
she talked with men from her chamber window at mid-
night. 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 I 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

D a 49



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it was the
lady Hero herself.

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

The next day, 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
proceeding to pronounce the marriage ceremony, Claudio,
in the most passionate language, proclaimed the guilt of
the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange words
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 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 mid-
night 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 sunk down in a fainting fit, to all
appearance 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.

50



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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
observation 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 the prince did speak against her
maiden truth, and he said to the sorrowing father, ‘ Call
me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my observation ;
trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling, if this
sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some biting error.’

When Hero had recovered from the swoon into
which she had fallen, the friar said to her, ‘ Lady, what
man is he you are accused of?’ Hero replied, ‘ They know
that do accuse me; I know of none’: then turning to
Leonato, she said, ‘O my father, if you can prove that
any man has ever conversed with me at hours unmeet,
or that I yesternight changed words with any creature,
refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.’

‘There is,’ said the friar, ‘some strange misunder-
standing in the prince and Claudio’; and then he coun-
selled 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,

51



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

and erect a monument for her, and do all rites that apper-
tain 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 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 that he had not 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
remained alone; and this was the meeting from which
their friends, who contrived the merry plot against them,
expected so much diversion ; those friends who were now
overwhelmed with affliction, and from whose minds all
thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, ‘ Lady
Beatrice, have you wept all this while?’ ‘Yea, and I
will weep a while longer,’ said Beatrice. ‘Surely,’ said
Benedick, ‘I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.’ ‘Ah!’
said Beatrice, ‘how much might that man deserve of me
who would right her!’ Benedick then said, ‘Is there any
way to show such friendship? I do love nothing in the
world so well as you: is not that strange?’ ‘It were
as possible,’ said Beatrice, ‘for me to say I loved nothing
in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and
yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I

52



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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 Bene-
dick 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 slandered; she is undone.
O that I were a man for Claudio’s sake! or that I had
any friend, who would be a man for my sake! but valour
is melted into courtesies and compliments. I cannot be
aman 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 Bene-
dick. ‘Yea,’ answered Beatrice; ‘as sure as I have a
thought, or a soul.’ ‘Enough,’ said Benedick; ‘I am
engaged ; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand,
and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me
a dear account! As you hear from me, so think of me.
Go, comfort your cousin.’

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with
Benedick, and working his gallant temper by the spirit of
her angry words, to engage in the cause of Hero, and fight
even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato was challenging
the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords the
injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had
died for grief. But they respected his age and his sorrow,

53



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

and they said, ‘Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old
man.’ And now came Benedick, and he also challenged
Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done
to Hero; and Claudio and the prince said to each other,
‘Beatrice has set him on to do this.’ Claudio never-
theless must have accepted this challenge 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 of the
challenge of Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as
a prisoner before the prince. Borachio had been over-
heard 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 removed by the flight of Don
John, who, finding his villanies were detected, fled from
Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother.

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he
found he had falsely accused Hero, who, he thought, died
upon hearing his cruel words; and the memory of his
beloved Hero’s image came over him, in the rare semblance
that he loved it first; and the prince asking him if what
he heard did not run like iron through his soul, he
answered, that he felt as if he had taken poison while
Borachio was speaking.

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of
the old man Leonato for the injury he had done his child;
and promised, that whatever penance Leonato would lay

54



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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, regard-
ing 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,
‘Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?’ lLeonato
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 pro-
ceeding to marry them, when he was interrupted by
Benedick, who desired to be married at the same time to
Beatrice. Beatrice making some demur to this match,
and Benedick challenging her with her love for him, which

35



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 powerful to be shaken by a serious
explanation ; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he
was resolved to think nothing to the purpose that the
world could say against it; and he merrily kept up the
jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took her but for pity,
and because he heard she was dying of love for him; and
Beatrice protested, that she yielded but upon great
persuasion, and partly to save his life, for she heard he
was in a consumption. So these two mad wits were
reconciled, and made a match of it, after Claudio and
Hero were married; and to 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 in the p:’ace in Messina,

56



ROSALIND AND CELIA IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN

(As You Like It—Act II. Scene 4}





AS YOU LIKE IT

AS YOU LIKE IT

Durine 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 lawful duke.

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions,
retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of
Arden; and here the good duke lived with his loving
friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile
for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the
false usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless
ease they led here more sweet to them than the pomp and
uneasy splendour of a courtier’s life. Here they lived like
the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest many
noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet
the time carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden
age. In the summer they lay along under the fine shade
of the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of the
wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor dappled
fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the
forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to
supply themselves with venison for their food. When
the cold winds of winter made the duke feel the change
of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and
say, ‘These chilling winds which blow upon my body are
true counsellors; they do not flatter, but represent truly
to me my condition ; and though they bite sharply, their

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

tooth is nothing like so keen as that of unkindness and
ingratitude. I find that howsoever men speak against
adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from
it ; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken
from the head of the venomous and despised toad.’ In
this manner did the patient duke draw a useful moral
from everything that he saw; and by the help of this
moralising 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 every-
thing.

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

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AS YOU LIKE IT

To this wrestling match, therefore, Celia and Rosalind
went. They found that it was likely to prove a very
tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had
been long practised in the art of wrestling, and had slain
many men in contests of this kind, was just going to
wrestle with a very young man, who, from his extreme
youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders all
thought would certainly be killed.

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

The ladies were well pleased to perform this 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 considera-
tion for the danger he was about to undergo, that instead
of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his
purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself
by his courage in this lovely lady’s eyes. He refused the
request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful and modest
words, that they felt still more concern for him; he
concluded his refusal with saying, ‘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
I 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 I only fill up a place in the world which
may be better supplied when I have made it empty.’

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished

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

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

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

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

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been
dead some years; but when he was living, he had been
a true subject and dear friend of the banished duke:
therefore, when Frederick heard Orlando was the son of
his banished brother’s friend, all his liking for this brave
young man was changed into 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.’

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AS YOU LIKE IT

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

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind’s talk being
still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had
fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler, and she
said to Rosalind, ‘Is it possible you should fall in love
so suddenly?’ Rosalind replied, ‘The duke, my father,
loved his father dearly.’ ‘But,’ said Celia, ‘does it there-
fore 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 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 instantly to leave the palace,
and follow her father into banishment; telling Celia, who
in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind
to stay upon her account. ‘I did not then,’ said Celia,
‘entreat you to let her stay, for I was too young at that
time to value her; but now that I know her worth, and
that we so long have slept together, rose at the same
instant, learned, played, and eat together, I cannot live

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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. Rosalind said it would be a still greater protec-
tion 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 Ganymede,
and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

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

The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be
called) with her manly garb seemed to have put on a
manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown
in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, made
the new brother, in recompense for this true love, exert

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AS YOU LIKE IT

a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, 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 accommo-
dations they had met with on the road; and being in
want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrily
cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and happy
remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena that he was so
weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace his man’s
apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena declared she
could go no farther; and then again Ganymede tried to
recoilect that it was a man’s duty to comfort and console
a@ woman, as the weaker vessel; and to seem courageous
+o 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 perished for want of food; but provi-
dentially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman
chanced to pass that way, and Ganymede once more tried
to speak with a manly boldness, saying, ‘Shepherd, if
love or gold can in this desert place procure us entertain-
ment, 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
shepherd, and that his master’s house was just going to
be sold, and therefore they would find but poor entertain-
ment; but that if they would go with him, they should

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be welcome to what there was. They followed the man,
the near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength;
and bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and
took the man who conducted them to the shepherd’s
house to wait on them; and being by this means so
fortunately provided with a neat cottage, and well sup-
plied with provisions, they agreed to stay here till they
could learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt.
When they were rested after the fatigue of their
journey, they began to like their new way of life, and
almost fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess
they feigned to be ; yet sometimes Ganymede 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
Ganymede thought that Orlando was many miles distant,
even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it
soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of
Arden: and in this manner this strange event came to
ass.
: 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 educa-
tion, 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 neglected. But in his nature and in the
noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled
his excellent father, that without any advantages of
education he seemed like a youth who had been bred with
the utmost care; and Oliver so envied the fine person
and dignified manners of his untutored brother, that at,
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last he wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set
on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous
wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so
many men. Now, it was this cruel brother’s neglect of
him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being so
friendless.

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed,
his brother proved victorious, his envy and malice knew
no bounds, and he swore he would burn the chamber
where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this
vow by one that had been an old and faithful servant to
their father, and that loved Orlando because he resembled
Sir Rowland. This old man went out to meet him when
he returned from the duke’s palace, and when he saw
Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made
him break out into these passionate exclamations: ‘O
my gentle master, my sweet master, O you memory of
old Sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why are you
gentle, strong, and valiant? and why would you be so
fond to overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise is
come too swiftly home before you.’ Orlando, wondering
what all this meant, asked him what was the matter.
And then the old man told him how his wicked brother,
envying the love all people bore him, and now hearing
the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke’s
palace, 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 know-
ing 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

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 Ganymede.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 dear master, I die
for want of food, I can go no farther!’ He then laid
himself down, thinking to make that place his grave, and
bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, seeing him in this
weak state, took his old servant up in his arms, and
carried him under the shelter of some pleasant trees; and
he said to him, ‘Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary
limbs here 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.

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his
sword, intending to take their meat by force, and said,
‘Forbear and eat no more; I must have your food!’
The duke asked him, if distress had made him so bold, or
if he were a rude despiser of good manners? On this

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AS YOU LIKE IT

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, 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
Orlando, ‘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.
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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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
Ganymede and Aliena came there, and (as has been
before related) bought the shepherd’s cottage.

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

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom
he spoke, and asked Ganymede to give him the good
counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganymede proposed,

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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 Ganymede, ‘I will feign
myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in
the same manner as you would do if I was Rosalind, and
then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies
to their 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 Ganymede’s cottage, and feign a playful
courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganymede and
Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his
Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine words and
flattering compliments which young men delight to use
when they court their mistresses. It does not appear,
however, that Ganymede made any progress in curing
Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive
play (not dreaming that Ganymede was his very Rosa-
lind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all the
fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost
as well as it did Ganymede’s, who enjoyed the secret jest
in 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 Ganymede happy, let him have his own way,
and was diverted at the mock-courtship, and did not
care to remind Ganymede 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.
Ganymede met the duke one day, and had some talk
with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came.
Ganymede answered that he came of as good parentage

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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, Ganymede
was content to put off all further explanation for a few
days longer.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Gany-
mede, 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 crouching, with her head on the ground, with
a cat-like watch, waiting until 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 from 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 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.

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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 Ganymede, and
therefore he desired his brother to go and tell Ganymede,
‘whom,’ said Orlando, ‘I in sport do call my Rosalind,’
the accident which had befallen him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and
Aliena how Orlando had saved his life: and when he had
finished the story of Orlando’s bravery, and his own pro-
vidential 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 Ganymede,
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 Gany-
mede said to Oliver, ‘Tell your brother Orlando how
well I counterfeited a swoon.’ But Oliver saw by the
paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and
much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he
said, ‘ Well, if you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and
counterfeit to be aman.’ ‘So I do,’ replied Ganymede,
truly, ‘but I should have been a woman by right.’

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at

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

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

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

Ganymede, 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 Ganymede
was the lady Rosalind, he could 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.

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The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubt-
ing what he heard, asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober
meaning. ‘By my life I do,’ said Ganymede; ‘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
marriage, and as yet only one of the brides appearing,
there was much of wondering and conjecture, but they
mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of
Orlando.

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

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and
Ganymede 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 Ganymede very like his

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daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he also had
observed the resemblance.

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

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to
the marriage; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and
Celia, were married at the same time. And though their
wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest with
any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions,
yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: and while
they were eating their venison under the cool shade of
the 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 advanced towards the forest, intend-
ing 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

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AS YOU LIKE IT

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 remainder of his days in a religious house. The first
act of his newly-conceived penitence was to send a
messenger to his brother (as has been related) to offer
to restore to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so
long, and with it the lands and revenues of his friends,
the faithful followers of his adversity.

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

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those
true friends who had stayed with him in his banishment;
and these worthy followers, though they had patiently
shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to
return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their
lawful duke.

75



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

Tuer: lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen,
whose names were Valentine and Proteus, between whom
a firm and uninterrupted friendship had long subsisted.
They pursued their studies together, and their hours of
leisure were always passed in each other’s company,
except when Proteus visited a lady he was in love with;
and these visits to his mistress, and this passion of
Proteus for the fair Julia, were the only topics on which
these two friends disagreed; for Valentine, not being
himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing
his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would
laugh at Proteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the
passion of love, and declare that no 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 Proteus.

One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him
that they must for a time be separated, for that he was
going to Milan. Proteus, 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 Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear
out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping
youths have ever homely wits. If your affection were
not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia,
I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders

76



VALENTINE, “I dare thee but to breathe upon my love”

(TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA—Act V. Scene 4)





THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

of the world abroad; but since you are a lover, Ore on
still, and may your love be prosperous Ue

They parted with mutual expressions of nualierette
friendship. ‘Sweet Valentine, adieu!’ said Proteus;
‘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, Proteus sat
down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her
maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Proteus 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; there-
fore 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 Proteus, 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 Lu-
cetta 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 retiring, she stopped
to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia,
who meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended
anger, ‘Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you
would be fingering them to anger me.’

Julia then began to piece together as well as she

77



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

could the torn fragments. She first made out these
words, ‘Love-wounded Proteus’; and lamenting over
these and such like loving words, which she made out
though they were all torn asunder, or, she said wounded
(the expression ‘ Love-wounded Proteus’ giving her that
idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them she
would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their
wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several
piece, to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a 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 Proteus than
she had ever done before.

Proteus 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 Proteus, ‘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 Proteus, 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 Proteus.

78



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

Now it had happened that Proteus’ 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 Valen-
tine, 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 dis-
advantage to him in his riper age not to have travelled
in his youth.’

Proteus’ father thought the advice of his friend was
very good, and upon Proteus 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 Proteus any reason for this sudden resolution, it
being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said, ‘My
_ will is the same as Valentine’s wish’; and seeing his son
look astonished, he added, ‘ Look not amazed, that I so
suddenly 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.’

Proteus 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.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus
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. Proteus and Julia

79



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for.
ever in remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a
sorrowful leave, Proteus set out on his journey to Milan,
the abode of his friend Valentine.

Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to
his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan; and
another event had happened to him, of which Proteus
did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the
freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was
become as passionate a lover as Proteus.

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valen-
tine 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 kind-
ness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his
palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young
courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this
Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent
qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valente 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 Valen-
tine the welcome news of his friend Proteus’ arrival.
Valentine said, ‘If I had wished a thing, it would have
been to have seen him here!’ And then he highly
praised Proteus 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 com-
plete in person and in mind, 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

80



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and Valen
tine introduced him to Silvia, saying, ‘Sweet lady, enter-
tain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.’

When Valentine and Proteus 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?’ Proteus replied, ‘My
tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in
a love discourse.’

‘Ay, Proteus,’ returned Valentine, ‘but that life is
altered now. I have done penance for condemning love.
For in revenge of my contempt of love, love has chased
sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Proteus, Love
is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I con-
fess 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 Proteus. But ‘friend’ Proteus must be
called no 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 Proteus; and he, who had till
this time been a pattern of true love and perfect friend-
ship, 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

F 81



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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, despair-
ing 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
Proteus 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 Proteus 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 friend-
ship 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 Proteus quite a miracle of in-
tegrity, in that he preferred telling his friend’s intention
rather than he would conceal an unjust action, highly
commended him, and promised him not to let Valentine
know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but
by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret
himself. For this purpose the duke awaited the coming
of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurrying
towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was

82



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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE
TANIA SLEEPS

Midsummer-Night’s Dream—Act II. Scene 2)


PREFACE

Tue following Tales are meant to be submitted to the
young reader as an introduction to the study of Shak-
speare, 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.

In those tales which have been taken from the
Tragedies, the young readers will perceive, when they
come to see the source from which these stories are de-
rived, that Shakspeare’s own words, with little alteration,
recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the
dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the
writers found themselves scarcely ever able to turn his -
words into the narrative form : therefore it is feared that,
in them, dialogue has been made use of too frequently for ,
young people not accustomed to the dramatic form of

writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has been caused
v
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

by an earnest wish to give as much of Shakspeare’s own
words as possible: and if the ‘He sad’ and ‘She said,’
the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedi-
ous to their young ears, they must pardon it, because it
was the only way in which could be given to them a few
hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure which
awaits them in their elder years, when they come to the
rich treasures from which these small and valueless coins
are extracted ; pretending to no other merit than as faint
and imperfect stamps of Shakspeare’s matchless image.
Faint and imperfect images they must be called, because
the beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed by
the necessity of changing many of his excellent words
into words far less expressive of his true sense, to make it
read something like prose; and even in some 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.

It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading
for very young children. To the utmost of their ability
the writers have constantly kept this in 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 apprehension of a very
young mind. For young ladies too, it has been the in-
tention chiefly to write; because boys being generally

vi
PREFACE
permitted the use of their fathers’ libraries at a much
earlier age than girls are, they frequently have the best
scenes of Shakspeare by heart before their sisters are
permitted to look into this manly book; and, therefore,
instead of recommending these Tales to the perusal of
young gentlemen who can read them so much better in
the originals, their kind assistance is rather requested in
explaining to their sisters such parts as are hardest for
them to understand: and when they have helped them
to get over the difficulties, then perhaps they will read
to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young
sister’s ear) some passage which has pleased them in one
of these stories, in the very words of the scene from which
it is taken ; and it is hoped 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 abridgments ;
which if they be fortunately so done as to prove
delightful to any of the young readers, it is hoped
that no worse effect will result than to make them
wish themselves a little older, that they 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 their hands,
they will discover in such of them as are here abridged
(not to mention almost as many more, which are left un-

‘touched) many surprising events and turns of fortune,
vii
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE
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 it
was feared would be lost if it were attempted to reduce
the length of them.

What these Tales shall have been to the young
readers, that and much more it is the writers’ wish that the
true Plays of Shakspeare may prove to them in older
years—enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a
withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a
lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions,
to teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity: for
of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages are full,
CONTENTS

PAGE
THE TEMPEST . 5 ; . ° : : set
A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM . «wt esd“
THE WINTER'S TALE... : F ; 5 ol) 28
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING : m 3S ‘ ae 42
AS YOU LIKE IT : : ‘ ; 2 " by
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 3 5 76
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE : A ‘ Sano?
CYMBELINE . < : is : . 108
KING LEAR} : g : 3 : : fuels
- MACBETH s : : : s ‘ A eae
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. : : : - «185
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. ; : on 170
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS . : | ; 3 2 188
MEASURE FOR MEASURE, ; ‘ S 4 « 200
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL : : . 218
TIMON OF ATHENS. : . 2 5 : » «284
ROMEO AND JULIET . : : ‘ s . Bt 250
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK . : : : ey
OTHELLO . : : ° ° : : 290
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE ° : - 306

ix

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

TITANIA SLEEPS oe 6 e ° ° Frontispiece
(A Midsummer Night's Dream)

THE FEAST VANISHED AWAY e ’ . to face page 10
(The Tempest)

BEATRICE AND BENEDICK ., e ° e a 42
(Much Ado About Nothing)

ROSALIND AND CELIA IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN ” 56
(As You Like It)

VALENTINE, ‘I dare thee but to breathe upon my love’ ee 76
(The Two Gentlemen of Verona)

IMOGEN’S BED-CHAMBER , . , ° ” 108
(Cymbeline)

LEAR, ‘Cordelia, Cordelia !” ° ° . ° ” 124
(King Lear)

THE WEIRD SISTERS . ° e e . ” 142
(Macbeth)

KING, ‘Why, then, young Bertram, take her: she’s thy wife’ 9 154
(AR’s Well That Ends Weill)

THE GENTLE KATHERINE , : : ‘ 170
(The Taming of the Shrew)
DROMEO OF EPHESUS, ‘Let my master in!’ e ” 182

(The Comedy of Errors)
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

ISABEL’S PLEADING . .
(Measure for Measure)

OLIVIA, ‘ But we will draw the curtain and show you the picture’
(The Twelfth Night)

93

ROMEO AND JULIET . . « .

KING, ‘Give me some light! away!” ° .
(Hamlet, Prince of Denmark)

oF

OTHELLO, ‘She loved me for the dangers J had passed ’

93

° ® e to face page 200

218

250

270
THE TEMPEST

THERE 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 Pros-
pero called his study; there he kept his books, which
chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time much
affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of this
art he found very useful to him; for being thrown by a
strange chance upon this island, which had been enchanted
by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a short time
before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released
many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the
bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute
her wicked 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 a grudge because he was the son of his
old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in
the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in
: form than an ape: he took him home to his cell, and
A I
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 any-
thing good or useful: therefore he was employed like a
slave, to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices;
and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these
services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel
(who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero’s) would come
slily and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him down in
the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would
make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape,
in the likeness of a 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,
Prospero could by their means command the winds, and
the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised a violent
storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with the wild
sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it. up,
he showed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told
her was full of living beings like themselves. ‘O my
dear father,’ said she, ‘if by your art you have raised this
dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See! the
vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all
perish. 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
person in the ship shall receive any hurt. What I have

2
THE TEMPEST

done has been in care of you, my dear child. You are
ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you
know no more of me, but that I am your father, and live
in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before you
came to this cell? I think you cannot, for you were not
then three years of age.’

‘Certainly I can, sir,’ replied Miranda.

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

Miranda said, ‘It seems to me like the recollection 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 manage-
ment 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 opportunity I gave him of making
himself popular among my subjects awakened in his bad
nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my dukedom:
this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples, a
powerful prince, who was my enemy.’

‘Wherefore,’ said Miranda, ‘did they not that hour
destroy us?’

‘My child,’ answered her father, ‘they durst not, so

3
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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!’

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

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

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

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter
with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the
spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master,
to give an account of the tempest, and how he had dis-
posed 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, Ferdi-

4
THE TEMPEST

nand, 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 gar-
ments, 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 ?’

‘I left them,’ answered Ariel, ‘searching for Ferdi-
nand, whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking
they saw him perish. Of the ship’s crew not one is
missing; though each one thinks himself the only one
saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in
the harbour.’

‘ Ariel,’ said Prospero, ‘thy charge is faithfully per-
formed: but there is more work yet.’

‘Is 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.

‘O, 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

5
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 Ferdi-
nand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the same
melancholy posture.

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

‘ Full fathom five thy father lies:

Of his bones are coral made;

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

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Hark ! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.’

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the
prince from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He
followed in amazement the sound of Ariel’s voice, till it
led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were sitting under
the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen
a man before, except her own father.

‘Miranda,’ said Prospero, ‘tell me what you are look-
ing 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,

6
THE TEMPEST

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 appear-
ance 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 place, and as such he
began to address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a
simple maid, and was going to give him an account of
herself, when Prospero interrupted her. He was well
pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly
perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first
sight: but to try Ferdinand’s constancy, he resolved to
throw some difficulties in their way: therefore advancing
forward, he addressed the prince with a stern air, telling
him, he came to the island as a spy, to take it from him
who was the lord of it. ‘Follow me,’ said he, ‘I will tie
you neck and feet together. You shall drink sea-water ;
shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns shall be
your food.’ ‘No,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I will resist such
entertainment, till I see a more powerful enemy,’ and
drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his magic wand,
fixed him to the spot where he stood, so that he had no
power to move.

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

>

one.
7
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘Silence,’ said the 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.’

‘I have not indeed,’ answered Ferdinand; and not
knowing 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 I 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 yourself.’

‘O my dear lady,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I dare not. I
must finish my task before I take my rest.’

8
THE TEMPEST

‘If you will sit down,’ said Miranda, ‘TI 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.

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, saying
it was against her father’s express command she did so.

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

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.

9
{

TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘ Ah! sir,’ said she, ‘I am a fool to weep at what I am
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 trials of your love, and you have nobly stood the test.
Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily pur-
chased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast
she is above all praise.’ He then, telling them that he
had business which required his presence, desired they
would sit down and talk together till he returned; 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, reminding them of their
cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and leav-
ing 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,

10
THE FEAST VANISHED AWAY

(The Tempest—Act III. Scene 3)


THE TEMPEST

repented 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
Gonzalo 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 that he was
the injured Prospero.

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

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

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

II
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 Providence 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
forgiveness.’

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

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

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in
the harbour, and the sailors all on board her, and that he
and his daughter would accompany them home the next

12
THE TEMPEST

morning. ‘In the meantime,’ says he, ‘partake of such
refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your
evening’s entertainment I will relate the history of my
life from my first landing in this desert island.’ He then
called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the
cave in order; and the company were astonished at the
uncouth form and savage appearance of this ugly monster,
who (Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to
wait 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 uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling
flowers. ‘My quaint Ariel,’ said Prospero to the little
sprite when he made him free, ‘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 sung
this pretty song :

‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip’s bell I lie:
There I crouch 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

13
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happi-
ness, but to revisit his native land, to take possession of
his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his
daughter 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,

-
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

THERE was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its
citizens the power of compelling their daughters to marry
whomsoever 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 com-
manded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble
Athenian family, refused to obey him, because she loved
another young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus
demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel
law might be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that
Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear friend
Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ;
but 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

15
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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. |

16
A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM

Between this little king and queen of sprites there
happened, at this time, a sad disagreement; they never
met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant
wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their fairy elves
would creep into acorn-cups and hide 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.

‘Ill 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: ‘before the morning dawns I will torment you
for this injury.’

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and
privy counsellor.

Puck (or as he was sometimes called, Robin Good-
fellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to
play comical pranks in the neighbouring villages; some-
times 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

B 17
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 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 theysee. 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 I
know of, I will make her give me that boy to be my
page.’

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly
diverted with this intended frolic of his master, and ran
to seek the flower; and while Oberon was waiting the
return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena enter
the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena
for following him, and after many unkind words on his

18
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

part, and gentle expostulations 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 returned with the
little purple flower, Oberon said to his favourite, ‘'Take
a part of this flower; there has been a sweet Athenian
lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if you
find him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes,
but contrive to do it when she is near him, that the first
thing he sees when he awakes may be this despised lady.
You will know the man by the Athenian garments which
he wears.’ Puck promised to manage this matter very
dexterously: and then Oberon went, unperceived by
Titania, to her bower, where she was preparing to go
to rest. Her fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild
thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a canopy of
wood-bine, 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 :—

rg
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘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 our 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 true-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 conduct her to his aunt’s house; but
before they had passed half through the wood, Hermia
was so much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very
careful of this dear lady, who had proved her affection
for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded
her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying
down himself on the ground at some little distance, they
soon fell fast asleep. Here they were found by Puck,
who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, and perceiv-
ing 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 natur-
ally enough conjectured that, as they were alone together,

20
A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM

she must be the first thing he would see when he awoke:
so, without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the
juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so
fell out, that Helena came that way, and, instead of
Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when he
opened his eyes; and strange to relate, so powerful was
the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away,
and Lysander fell in love with Helena.

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder
Puck committed would have been of no consequence,
for he could not love that faithful lady too well; but for
poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm to
forget his own true Hermia, and to run after another
lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at
midnight, was a sad chance indeed.

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been
before related, endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius
when he ran away so rudely from her; 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 admira-
tion; telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beauty |
as a dove does a raven, and that he would run through
fire for her sweet sake; and many more such lover-like
speeches. Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend
Hermia’s lover, and that he was solemnly engaged to
marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard her-

a1
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

self addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well
she might) that Lysander was making a jest of her.
‘Oh!’ said she, ‘why was I born to be mocked and
scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it not
enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet look
or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must
pretend in this disdainful manner to court me? I
thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true gentle-
ness.’ Saying these words in great anger, she ran away ;
and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own
Hermia, who was still asleep.

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at find-
ing 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 fruitless search, was observed by
Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt by some ques-
tions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied the
love-charm to the wrong person’s eyes; and now having
found the person first intended, he touched the eyelids
of the sleeping Demetrius with the love-juice, and he
instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw being Helena,
he, as Lysander had done before, began to address love-
speeches to her; and just at that moment Lysander,
followed by Hermia (for through Puck’s unlucky mis-
take it was now become Hermia’s turn to run after her
lover), made his appearance; 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.

22
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew
not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved
her, were now become the lovers of Helena; and to
Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest
of friends, now fell to high words together.

‘Unkind Hermia,’ said Helena, ‘it is you have set
Lysander on to vex me with mock praises; and your
other lover Demetrius, who used almost to spurn me
with his foot, have you not bid him call me 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 in you, it is not maidenly to join with men
in scorning your poor friend.’

‘I am amazed at your passionate words,’ said Hermia:
‘I scorn you not; it seems you scorn me.’ ‘Ay, do,’
returned 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.

23
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 jang-
ling makes excellent sport.’ ‘You heard, said Oberon,
‘that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a con-
venient place to fight in. I command you to overhang
the night with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome
lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not be able
to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices to
the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to follow
you, while they think it is their rival’s tongue they hear.
See you do this, till they are so weary they can go no
farther; and when you find they are asleep, drop the
juice of this other flower into Lysander’s eyes, and when
he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and
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 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, ‘shall 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. Though Oberon fixed the ass’s
head on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up,
unconscious of what Oberon had done to him, he went
towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.

‘Ah! what angel is that I see?’ said Titania, open-

24
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

ing 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 gentle-
man; hop in his walks, and gambol in his sight; feed
him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the
honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me,’ said she
to the clown, ‘and let me play with your amiable hairy
cheeks, my beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears,
my gentle joy!’

‘Where is Pease-blossom?’ said the ass-headed clown,
not much regarding the fairy queen’s courtship, but very
proud of his new attendants.

‘Here, sir,’ said little Pease-blossom.

‘Scratch my head,’ said the clown. ‘Where is Cob-
web 2?’

‘Here, sir,’ said Cobweb.

‘Good Mr. Cobweb,’ said the foolish clown, ‘kill me
the red humble bee on the top of that thistle yonder;
and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do
not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb,
and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be
sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where
is Mustard-seed ?’

‘Here, sir,’ said Mustard-seed: ‘what is your will?’

25
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘Nothing,’ said the clown, ‘good Mr. Mustard-seed,
but to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch; I must go to
a barber’s, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvel-
lous 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.’

‘I 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, 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 disgrace-
ful situation into which, by his merry contrivance, he had
brought his Titania, and threw some of the juice of the
other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen im-
mediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late
dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the
strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass’s head from off the

26
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

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 fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer
rivals, became once more true friends; all the unkind
words which had passed were forgiven, and they calmly
consulted together what was best to be done in their
present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius
had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should en-

27
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

deavour 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.

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 beloved and now faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spec-
tators of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy
ending of the lovers’ history, brought about through the
good offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure, that
these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the 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 unreasonable as to be offended with a
pretty harmless Midsummer Night’s Dream.
THE WINTER'S TALE

THE WINTER’S TALE

LeonTEs, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and
virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony
together. So happy was Leontes in the love of this
excellent lady, that he had no wish ungratified, except
that he sometimes desired to see again, and to present to
his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,
king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought
up together from their infancy, but being, by the death
of their fathers, called to reign over their respective
kingdoms, they had not met for many years, though they
frequently 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 particular attention, and seemed in the
presence of his dear friend and old companion to have his
felicity quite completed. They talked over old times;
their school-days and their youthful pranks were remem-
bered, and recounted to Hermione, who always took a
cneerful part in these conversations.

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to
depart, Hermione, at the desire of her husband, joined
her entreaties to his that Polixenes would prolong his
visit.

29
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

And now began this good queen’s sorrow; for
Polixenes refusing to stay at the request of Leontes, was
won over by Hermione’s gentle and persuasive words to
put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon this,
although Leontes had so long known the integrity and
honourable principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as
the excellent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was
seized with an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention
Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her husband’s
particular desire, and merely to please him, increased the
unfortunate king’s jealousy ; and from being a loving and
a true friend, and the best and fondest of husbands,
Leontes became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster.
Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, and
telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded
him to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that
the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest foundation
in truth, instead of poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him
with the king his master’s orders, and agreed to escape
with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and Polixenes,
with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own
kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that
time in the king’s court, and became the chief friend and
favourite of Polixenes.

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes
still more ; he went to the queen’s apartment, where the
good lady was sitting with her little son Mamillius, who
was just beginning to tell one of his best stories to amuse
his mother, when the king entered, and taking the child
away, sent Hermione to prison.

Mamillius, 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,

30
THE WINTER'S TALE

he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away
by slow degrees, 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-
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
was brought to bed of a daughter; and the poor lady
received much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby,
and she said to it, ‘My poor little prisoner, I am as
innocent as you are.’

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited
Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord ;
and when the lady Paulina heard her royal mistress was
brought to bed, she went to the prison where Hermione
was confined ; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended
upon Hermione, ‘I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen,
if her majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will
carry it to the king, its father; we do not know how he
may soften at the sight of his innocent child.’ ‘ Most
worthy madam,’ replied Emilia, ‘I will acquaint the
queen with your noble offer; she was wishing to-day
that she had any friend who would venture to present the
child to the king.’ ‘And tell her,’ said Paulina, ‘that I
will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence.’ ‘May you
be for ever blessed,’ said Emilia, ‘for your kindness to
our gracious queen!’ Emilia then went to Hermione,
who joyfully gave up her baby to the 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

31
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 inno-
cence.

The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was
she gone than the merciless father ordered Antigonus,
Paulina’s husband, to take the child, and carry it out to
sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed
the orders of Leontes; for he immediately carried the
child on ship-board, and put out to sea, intending to
leave it on the first desert coast he could find.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt 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 lying-in, and from her grief 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 be-
fore 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 :—

32
THE WINTER'S TALE

‘ Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true
subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the king shall live
without an heir if that which is lost be not found.’ The
king would give no credit to the words of the oracle: he
said it was a falsehood invented by the queen’s friends,
and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the
queen; but while Leontes was speaking, a man entered
and told him that the prince Mamillius, hearing his
mother was to be tried for her life, struck with grief and
shame, had suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear
affectionate child, who had lost his life in sorrowing for
her misfortune, fainted ; and Leontes, pierced to the heart
by the news, began to feel pity for his 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 told the king that
Hermione was dead.

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he
repented of his cruelty to her; and now that he thought
his ill-usage had broken Hermione’s heart, he believed
her innocent; and now he thought the words of the
oracle were true, as he knew ‘if that which was lost was
not found,’ which he concluded was his young daughter,
he should be without an heir, the young prince Mamillius
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 prin-
cess out to sea was driven by a storm upon the coast of
Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good king Polixenes.
Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little baby.

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes

. 33
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

where he had left his daughter, for as he was going back
to the ship, a bear came out of the woods, and tore him
to pieces; a just punishment on him for obeying the
wicked order of Leontes.

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels ; for
Hermione had made it very fine when she sent it to
Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a paper to its mantle,
and the name of Perdita written thereon, and words
obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate.

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd.
He was a humane man, and so he carried the little
Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it tenderly; but
poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize
he had found; therefore he left that part of the country,
that no one might know where he got his riches, and
with part of Perdita’s jewels he bought herds of sheep,
and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up Per-
dita 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 shep-
herd’s daughter, yet so did the natural graces she
inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her un-
tutored 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 Filorizel. As this young prince was
hunting near the shepherd’s dwelling, he saw the old
man’s supposed daughter; and the beauty, modesty, and
queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to
fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of
Doricles, and in the disguise of a private gentleman,
became a constant visitor at the old shepherd’s house.

34
THE WINTER'S TALE

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.

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 wel-
come, 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 Polixenes: 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 queen of curds
and cream.’

35
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘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 truth, there is
not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. If young
Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little
dreams of’; meaning the remainder of Perdita’s jewels ;
which, after he had bought herds of sheep with part of
them, he had carefully hoarded up for her marriage
portion.

Polixenes then addressed his son. ‘How now, young
man!’ said he: ‘your heart seems full of something that
takes off your mind from feasting. When I was young,
I used to load my love with presents; but you have let
the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy.’

The young prince, who little thought he was talking
to the king his father, replied, ‘ Old sir, she prizes not
such trifles; the gifts which Perdita expects from me are
locked up in my heart.’ Then turning to Perdita, he said
to her, ‘O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient gentle-
man, 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, dis-
covering himself. Polixenes then reproached his son for
daring to contract himself to this low-born maiden, calling
Perdita ‘shepherd’s-brat, sheep-hook,’ and other dis-
respectful 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.

36
THE WINTER'S TALE

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 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

37
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 friendship of your brave
father, whom I now desire more than my life once again
to look upon.’

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the
king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a
daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to com-
_ paring the time when he found the little Perdita, with
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
circumstance of Antigonus’ death, he having seen the
bear seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle in
which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the
child; and he produced a jewel which she remembered
Hermione had tied about Perdita’s neck, and he gave up
the paper which 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 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

38
THE WINTER'S TALE

that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made
him that he could say nothing for a long time, but, ‘O
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 be almost ready to think it was Hermione
herself. hither 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.

‘I like your silence, my liege,’ said Paulina, ‘it the
more shows your wonder. Is not this statue very like
your queen ?’

At length the king said, ‘O, thus she stood, even
with such majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet,
Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks,’
Paulina replied, ‘So much the more the carver’s excel-
lence, 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 liege,’ said Paulina. ‘You
are so transported, you will persuade yourself the statue
lives.” ‘O, sweet Paulina,’ said Leontes, ‘make me
think so twenty years together! Still methinks there is
an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever yet

a 39
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her.’
‘Good my lord, forbear!’ said Paulina. ‘The ruddiness
upon her lip is wet; you will stain your own with oily
painting. Shall I draw the curtain?’ ‘No, not these
twenty years,’ said Leontes.

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

‘Kither forbear this transport,’ said Paulina to
Leontes, ‘and let me draw the curtain ; or prepare your-
self for more amazement. I can make the statue move
indeed; ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and take
you by the hand. But then you will think, which I
protest I am not, that I am assisted by some wicked
powers.’

‘What you can make her do,’ said the astonished king,
‘I am content to look upon. What you can make her
speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make her
speak as move.’

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music,
which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up; and
to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue came
down from off the pedestal, and threw its arms around
Leontes’ neck. The statue then began to speak, praying
for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly-
found Perdita.

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes’ neck,
and blessed her husband and her child. No wonder; for
the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real, the
living queen.

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of
Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve her
royal mistress’ life; and with the good Paulina, Hermione

40
THE WINTER'S TALE

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 prince Florizel for loving their lowly-seeming
daughter; and now they blessed the good old shepherd
for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and
Paulina rejoice that they had lived to see so good an end
of all their faithful services.

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this
strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now
entered the palace.

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo,
knowing that Camillo had long wished to return to Sicily,
he conjectured he should find the fugitives here; and
following them with all speed, he happened to just arrive
at this, the happiest 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,

4l
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

TueEreE 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
passing through Messina on their return from a war that
was just ended, in which they had distinguished them-
selves 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 talking, signior Benedick: nobody marks

42


BEATRICE AND BENEDICK

(Much Ado About Nothing—Act IV. Scene 1)
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

you.” Benedick was just such another rattlebrain as
Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at this free salutation ; he
thought it did not become a well-bred lady to be so flip-
pant 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 displeased 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 ob-
served 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 killed there: and observing the
prince take delight in Benedick’s conversation, she called
him ‘the prince’s jester.’ This sarcasm sunk deeper into
the mind of Benedick than all Beatrice had said before.
The hint she gave him that he was a coward, by saying
she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, know-
ing himself to be a brave man; but there is nothing that
great wits so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery,
because the charge comes sometimes a little too near the
truth : therefore Benedick perfectly hated Beatrice when
she called him ‘the prince’s jester.’

The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble
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

43
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

(for she was an admirable 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, 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, thoughlits 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 con-
fession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the prince,
that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato
to accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to
this proposal, and the prince found no great difficulty in
persuading the gentle Hero herself to listen to the suit of
the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare endowments,
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

44
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

be married to his fair lady; yet he complained of the
interval being tedious, as indeed most young men are im-
patient 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 gentle-
men should make Benedick believe that Beatrice was
in love with him, and that Hero should make Beatrice
believe that Benedick was in love with her.

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their opera-
tions first: and watching upon 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? I did never think that
lady would have loved any man.’ ‘No, nor I neither, my
lord,’ answered Leonato. ‘It is most wonderful that she
should 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 certainly die of
grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which
Leonato and Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he
having always been such a railer against all fair ladies,
and in particular against Beatrice.

45
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 excel-
lent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in everything but in
loving Benedick.’ Then the prince motioned to his com-
panions that they should walk on, and leave Benedick to
meditate upon what he had overheard.

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to
this conversation; and he said to himself when he heard
Beatrice loved him, ‘Is it possible? Sits the wind in
that corner?’ And when they were gone, he began to
reason in this manner with himself: ‘This can be no
trick! they were very serious, and they have the truth
from Hero, and seem to pity the lady. LLoveme! Why,
it must be requited! I did never think to marry. But
when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous
and fair. She isso. And wise in everything but 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 ap-
proached him, and said with her usual tartness, ‘ Against
my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.’
Benedick, 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 ob-
served a concealed 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.’

46
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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 Benedick, and when I name him, let it be
your part to praise him more than ever man did merit.
My talk to you must be how Benedick is in love with
Beatrice. Now begin; for look where Beatrice like a
lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear our con-
ference.’ They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer
to something which Ursula had said, ‘ No, truly, Ursula.
She is too disdainful; her spirits are as coy as wild birds
of the rock.’ ‘But are you sure,’ said Ursula, ‘that
Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?’ Hero replied,
‘So says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they
entreated me to acquaint her with it; but I persuaded
them, if they loved Benedick, never to let Beatrice
know of it.’ ‘Certainly,’ replied Ursula, ‘it were
not good she knew his love, lest she made sport of it.’

47
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

‘Why, to say truth,’ said Hero, ‘I never yet saw
a man, how wise soever, or noble, young, or rarely
featured, but she would dispraise him.’ ‘Sure, sure,
such carping is not commendable,’ said Ursula. ‘No,’
replied Hero, ‘but who dare tell her so? If I should
speak, she would mock me into air.’ ‘O! you wrong
your cousin,’ said Ursula; ‘she cannot be so much with-
out true judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentleman as
signior Benedick.’ ‘He hath an excellent good name,’
said Hero: ‘indeed, he is the first man in Italy, always
excepting my dear Claudio.’ And now, Hero giving her
attendant a hint that it was time to change the dis-
course, 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
breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went
away, exclaimed, ‘ What fire is in mine ears? Can this
be true? Farewell, contempt and scorn, and maiden
pride, adieu ! Benedick, 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 reverse 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,

48
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving of
villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated
Claudio, because he was the prince’s friend, and deter-
mined 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 promise to
talk with him from her lady’s chamber window that
night, after Hero was asleep, and also to dress herself in
Hero’s clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into the
belief that it was Hero; for that was the end he meant to
compass by this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and
told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and that
she talked with men from her chamber window at mid-
night. 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 I 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

D a 49
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it was the
lady Hero herself.

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

The next day, 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
proceeding to pronounce the marriage ceremony, Claudio,
in the most passionate language, proclaimed the guilt of
the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange words
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 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 mid-
night 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 sunk down in a fainting fit, to all
appearance 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.

50
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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
observation 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 the prince did speak against her
maiden truth, and he said to the sorrowing father, ‘ Call
me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my observation ;
trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling, if this
sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some biting error.’

When Hero had recovered from the swoon into
which she had fallen, the friar said to her, ‘ Lady, what
man is he you are accused of?’ Hero replied, ‘ They know
that do accuse me; I know of none’: then turning to
Leonato, she said, ‘O my father, if you can prove that
any man has ever conversed with me at hours unmeet,
or that I yesternight changed words with any creature,
refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.’

‘There is,’ said the friar, ‘some strange misunder-
standing in the prince and Claudio’; and then he coun-
selled 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,

51
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

and erect a monument for her, and do all rites that apper-
tain 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 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 that he had not 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
remained alone; and this was the meeting from which
their friends, who contrived the merry plot against them,
expected so much diversion ; those friends who were now
overwhelmed with affliction, and from whose minds all
thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, ‘ Lady
Beatrice, have you wept all this while?’ ‘Yea, and I
will weep a while longer,’ said Beatrice. ‘Surely,’ said
Benedick, ‘I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.’ ‘Ah!’
said Beatrice, ‘how much might that man deserve of me
who would right her!’ Benedick then said, ‘Is there any
way to show such friendship? I do love nothing in the
world so well as you: is not that strange?’ ‘It were
as possible,’ said Beatrice, ‘for me to say I loved nothing
in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and
yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I

52
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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 Bene-
dick 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 slandered; she is undone.
O that I were a man for Claudio’s sake! or that I had
any friend, who would be a man for my sake! but valour
is melted into courtesies and compliments. I cannot be
aman 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 Bene-
dick. ‘Yea,’ answered Beatrice; ‘as sure as I have a
thought, or a soul.’ ‘Enough,’ said Benedick; ‘I am
engaged ; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand,
and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me
a dear account! As you hear from me, so think of me.
Go, comfort your cousin.’

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with
Benedick, and working his gallant temper by the spirit of
her angry words, to engage in the cause of Hero, and fight
even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato was challenging
the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords the
injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had
died for grief. But they respected his age and his sorrow,

53
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

and they said, ‘Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old
man.’ And now came Benedick, and he also challenged
Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done
to Hero; and Claudio and the prince said to each other,
‘Beatrice has set him on to do this.’ Claudio never-
theless must have accepted this challenge 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 of the
challenge of Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as
a prisoner before the prince. Borachio had been over-
heard 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 removed by the flight of Don
John, who, finding his villanies were detected, fled from
Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother.

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he
found he had falsely accused Hero, who, he thought, died
upon hearing his cruel words; and the memory of his
beloved Hero’s image came over him, in the rare semblance
that he loved it first; and the prince asking him if what
he heard did not run like iron through his soul, he
answered, that he felt as if he had taken poison while
Borachio was speaking.

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of
the old man Leonato for the injury he had done his child;
and promised, that whatever penance Leonato would lay

54
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

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, regard-
ing 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,
‘Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?’ lLeonato
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 pro-
ceeding to marry them, when he was interrupted by
Benedick, who desired to be married at the same time to
Beatrice. Beatrice making some demur to this match,
and Benedick challenging her with her love for him, which

35
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 powerful to be shaken by a serious
explanation ; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he
was resolved to think nothing to the purpose that the
world could say against it; and he merrily kept up the
jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took her but for pity,
and because he heard she was dying of love for him; and
Beatrice protested, that she yielded but upon great
persuasion, and partly to save his life, for she heard he
was in a consumption. So these two mad wits were
reconciled, and made a match of it, after Claudio and
Hero were married; and to 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 in the p:’ace in Messina,

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ROSALIND AND CELIA IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN

(As You Like It—Act II. Scene 4}


AS YOU LIKE IT

AS YOU LIKE IT

Durine 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 lawful duke.

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions,
retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of
Arden; and here the good duke lived with his loving
friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile
for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the
false usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless
ease they led here more sweet to them than the pomp and
uneasy splendour of a courtier’s life. Here they lived like
the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest many
noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet
the time carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden
age. In the summer they lay along under the fine shade
of the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of the
wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor dappled
fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the
forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to
supply themselves with venison for their food. When
the cold winds of winter made the duke feel the change
of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and
say, ‘These chilling winds which blow upon my body are
true counsellors; they do not flatter, but represent truly
to me my condition ; and though they bite sharply, their

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

tooth is nothing like so keen as that of unkindness and
ingratitude. I find that howsoever men speak against
adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from
it ; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken
from the head of the venomous and despised toad.’ In
this manner did the patient duke draw a useful moral
from everything that he saw; and by the help of this
moralising 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 every-
thing.

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

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To this wrestling match, therefore, Celia and Rosalind
went. They found that it was likely to prove a very
tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had
been long practised in the art of wrestling, and had slain
many men in contests of this kind, was just going to
wrestle with a very young man, who, from his extreme
youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders all
thought would certainly be killed.

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

The ladies were well pleased to perform this 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 considera-
tion for the danger he was about to undergo, that instead
of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his
purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself
by his courage in this lovely lady’s eyes. He refused the
request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful and modest
words, that they felt still more concern for him; he
concluded his refusal with saying, ‘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
I 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 I only fill up a place in the world which
may be better supplied when I have made it empty.’

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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

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

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

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

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been
dead some years; but when he was living, he had been
a true subject and dear friend of the banished duke:
therefore, when Frederick heard Orlando was the son of
his banished brother’s friend, all his liking for this brave
young man was changed into 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.’

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

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind’s talk being
still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had
fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler, and she
said to Rosalind, ‘Is it possible you should fall in love
so suddenly?’ Rosalind replied, ‘The duke, my father,
loved his father dearly.’ ‘But,’ said Celia, ‘does it there-
fore 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 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 instantly to leave the palace,
and follow her father into banishment; telling Celia, who
in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind
to stay upon her account. ‘I did not then,’ said Celia,
‘entreat you to let her stay, for I was too young at that
time to value her; but now that I know her worth, and
that we so long have slept together, rose at the same
instant, learned, played, and eat together, I cannot live

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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. Rosalind said it would be a still greater protec-
tion 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 Ganymede,
and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

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

The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be
called) with her manly garb seemed to have put on a
manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown
in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, made
the new brother, in recompense for this true love, exert

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AS YOU LIKE IT

a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, 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 accommo-
dations they had met with on the road; and being in
want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrily
cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and happy
remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena that he was so
weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace his man’s
apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena declared she
could go no farther; and then again Ganymede tried to
recoilect that it was a man’s duty to comfort and console
a@ woman, as the weaker vessel; and to seem courageous
+o 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 perished for want of food; but provi-
dentially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman
chanced to pass that way, and Ganymede once more tried
to speak with a manly boldness, saying, ‘Shepherd, if
love or gold can in this desert place procure us entertain-
ment, 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
shepherd, and that his master’s house was just going to
be sold, and therefore they would find but poor entertain-
ment; but that if they would go with him, they should

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be welcome to what there was. They followed the man,
the near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength;
and bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and
took the man who conducted them to the shepherd’s
house to wait on them; and being by this means so
fortunately provided with a neat cottage, and well sup-
plied with provisions, they agreed to stay here till they
could learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt.
When they were rested after the fatigue of their
journey, they began to like their new way of life, and
almost fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess
they feigned to be ; yet sometimes Ganymede 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
Ganymede thought that Orlando was many miles distant,
even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it
soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of
Arden: and in this manner this strange event came to
ass.
: 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 educa-
tion, 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 neglected. But in his nature and in the
noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled
his excellent father, that without any advantages of
education he seemed like a youth who had been bred with
the utmost care; and Oliver so envied the fine person
and dignified manners of his untutored brother, that at,
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last he wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set
on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous
wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so
many men. Now, it was this cruel brother’s neglect of
him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being so
friendless.

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed,
his brother proved victorious, his envy and malice knew
no bounds, and he swore he would burn the chamber
where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this
vow by one that had been an old and faithful servant to
their father, and that loved Orlando because he resembled
Sir Rowland. This old man went out to meet him when
he returned from the duke’s palace, and when he saw
Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made
him break out into these passionate exclamations: ‘O
my gentle master, my sweet master, O you memory of
old Sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why are you
gentle, strong, and valiant? and why would you be so
fond to overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise is
come too swiftly home before you.’ Orlando, wondering
what all this meant, asked him what was the matter.
And then the old man told him how his wicked brother,
envying the love all people bore him, and now hearing
the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke’s
palace, 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 know-
ing 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

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 Ganymede.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 dear master, I die
for want of food, I can go no farther!’ He then laid
himself down, thinking to make that place his grave, and
bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, seeing him in this
weak state, took his old servant up in his arms, and
carried him under the shelter of some pleasant trees; and
he said to him, ‘Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary
limbs here 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.

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his
sword, intending to take their meat by force, and said,
‘Forbear and eat no more; I must have your food!’
The duke asked him, if distress had made him so bold, or
if he were a rude despiser of good manners? On this

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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, 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
Orlando, ‘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.
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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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
Ganymede and Aliena came there, and (as has been
before related) bought the shepherd’s cottage.

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

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom
he spoke, and asked Ganymede to give him the good
counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganymede proposed,

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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 Ganymede, ‘I will feign
myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in
the same manner as you would do if I was Rosalind, and
then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies
to their 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 Ganymede’s cottage, and feign a playful
courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganymede and
Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his
Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine words and
flattering compliments which young men delight to use
when they court their mistresses. It does not appear,
however, that Ganymede made any progress in curing
Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive
play (not dreaming that Ganymede was his very Rosa-
lind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all the
fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost
as well as it did Ganymede’s, who enjoyed the secret jest
in 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 Ganymede happy, let him have his own way,
and was diverted at the mock-courtship, and did not
care to remind Ganymede 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.
Ganymede met the duke one day, and had some talk
with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came.
Ganymede answered that he came of as good parentage

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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, Ganymede
was content to put off all further explanation for a few
days longer.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Gany-
mede, 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 crouching, with her head on the ground, with
a cat-like watch, waiting until 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 from 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 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.

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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 Ganymede, and
therefore he desired his brother to go and tell Ganymede,
‘whom,’ said Orlando, ‘I in sport do call my Rosalind,’
the accident which had befallen him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and
Aliena how Orlando had saved his life: and when he had
finished the story of Orlando’s bravery, and his own pro-
vidential 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 Ganymede,
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 Gany-
mede said to Oliver, ‘Tell your brother Orlando how
well I counterfeited a swoon.’ But Oliver saw by the
paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and
much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he
said, ‘ Well, if you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and
counterfeit to be aman.’ ‘So I do,’ replied Ganymede,
truly, ‘but I should have been a woman by right.’

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at

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

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

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

Ganymede, 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 Ganymede
was the lady Rosalind, he could 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.

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AS YOU LIKE IT

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubt-
ing what he heard, asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober
meaning. ‘By my life I do,’ said Ganymede; ‘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
marriage, and as yet only one of the brides appearing,
there was much of wondering and conjecture, but they
mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of
Orlando.

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

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and
Ganymede 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 Ganymede very like his

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he also had
observed the resemblance.

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

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to
the marriage; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and
Celia, were married at the same time. And though their
wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest with
any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions,
yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: and while
they were eating their venison under the cool shade of
the 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 advanced towards the forest, intend-
ing 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

74
AS YOU LIKE IT

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 remainder of his days in a religious house. The first
act of his newly-conceived penitence was to send a
messenger to his brother (as has been related) to offer
to restore to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so
long, and with it the lands and revenues of his friends,
the faithful followers of his adversity.

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

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those
true friends who had stayed with him in his banishment;
and these worthy followers, though they had patiently
shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to
return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their
lawful duke.

75
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

Tuer: lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen,
whose names were Valentine and Proteus, between whom
a firm and uninterrupted friendship had long subsisted.
They pursued their studies together, and their hours of
leisure were always passed in each other’s company,
except when Proteus visited a lady he was in love with;
and these visits to his mistress, and this passion of
Proteus for the fair Julia, were the only topics on which
these two friends disagreed; for Valentine, not being
himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing
his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would
laugh at Proteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the
passion of love, and declare that no 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 Proteus.

One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him
that they must for a time be separated, for that he was
going to Milan. Proteus, 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 Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear
out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping
youths have ever homely wits. If your affection were
not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia,
I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders

76
VALENTINE, “I dare thee but to breathe upon my love”

(TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA—Act V. Scene 4)


THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

of the world abroad; but since you are a lover, Ore on
still, and may your love be prosperous Ue

They parted with mutual expressions of nualierette
friendship. ‘Sweet Valentine, adieu!’ said Proteus;
‘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, Proteus sat
down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her
maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Proteus 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; there-
fore 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 Proteus, 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 Lu-
cetta 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 retiring, she stopped
to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia,
who meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended
anger, ‘Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you
would be fingering them to anger me.’

Julia then began to piece together as well as she

77
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

could the torn fragments. She first made out these
words, ‘Love-wounded Proteus’; and lamenting over
these and such like loving words, which she made out
though they were all torn asunder, or, she said wounded
(the expression ‘ Love-wounded Proteus’ giving her that
idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them she
would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their
wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several
piece, to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a 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 Proteus than
she had ever done before.

Proteus 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 Proteus, ‘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 Proteus, 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 Proteus.

78
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

Now it had happened that Proteus’ 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 Valen-
tine, 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 dis-
advantage to him in his riper age not to have travelled
in his youth.’

Proteus’ father thought the advice of his friend was
very good, and upon Proteus 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 Proteus any reason for this sudden resolution, it
being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said, ‘My
_ will is the same as Valentine’s wish’; and seeing his son
look astonished, he added, ‘ Look not amazed, that I so
suddenly 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.’

Proteus 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.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus
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. Proteus and Julia

79
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for.
ever in remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a
sorrowful leave, Proteus set out on his journey to Milan,
the abode of his friend Valentine.

Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to
his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan; and
another event had happened to him, of which Proteus
did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the
freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was
become as passionate a lover as Proteus.

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valen-
tine 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 kind-
ness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his
palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young
courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this
Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent
qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valente 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 Valen-
tine the welcome news of his friend Proteus’ arrival.
Valentine said, ‘If I had wished a thing, it would have
been to have seen him here!’ And then he highly
praised Proteus 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 com-
plete in person and in mind, 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

80
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and Valen
tine introduced him to Silvia, saying, ‘Sweet lady, enter-
tain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.’

When Valentine and Proteus 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?’ Proteus replied, ‘My
tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in
a love discourse.’

‘Ay, Proteus,’ returned Valentine, ‘but that life is
altered now. I have done penance for condemning love.
For in revenge of my contempt of love, love has chased
sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Proteus, Love
is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I con-
fess 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 Proteus. But ‘friend’ Proteus must be
called no 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 Proteus; and he, who had till
this time been a pattern of true love and perfect friend-
ship, 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

F 81
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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, despair-
ing 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
Proteus 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 Proteus 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 friend-
ship 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 Proteus quite a miracle of in-
tegrity, in that he preferred telling his friend’s intention
rather than he would conceal an unjust action, highly
commended him, and promised him not to let Valentine
know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but
by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret
himself. For this purpose the duke awaited the coming
of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurrying
towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was

82
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

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 Proteus 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. I 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 I were her father. And
I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn my love
from her. I had thought my age should have been
cherished by her 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 to do in
all this ?’

‘Why,’ said the duke, ‘the lady I would wish to
marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my
aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship is much
changed since I was young: now I would willingly have
you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am tc woo.’

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of
courtship then practised by young men, when they wished
' to win a fair lady’s love, such as presents, frequent visits,
and the like.

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a
present which he sent her, and that she was so strictly
kept by her father, that no man might have access to her
by day.

‘Why then,’ said Valentine, ‘you must visit her by
night.’

‘But at night,’ said the artful duke, who was now
coming to the drift of his discourse, ‘her doors are fast
locked.’

Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the duke
should get into the lady’s chamber at night by means of
a ladder of ropes, saying he would procure him one fitting
for that purpose; and in conclusion advised him to con-
ceal 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 discovered not only the ladder of ropes, but also a
letter of Silvia’s, which he instantly opened and read;
and this letter contained a full account of their intended
elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine for his
ingratitude in thus returning the favour he had shown
him, by endeavouring to steal away his daughter, banished
him from the court and city of Milan for ever; and
Valentine was forced to depart that night, without even
seeing Silvia.

While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine,
Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Proteus;
and her regard for him at last so far overcame her sense

84
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona, and seek
her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from danger on
the road, she dressed her maiden 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 Proteus.

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her
abode at an inn; and her thoughts being all on her dear
Proteus, she entered into conversation with the inn-
keeper, or host, as he was called, thinking by that means
to learn some news of Proteus.

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 Proteus 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 Proteus by the way.

_ But when she came to the palace whither the host
conducted her, a very different effect was produced to
what the kind host intended; for there, to her heart’s
sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant Proteus,
serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing

85
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia over-
heard Silvia from a window talk with Proteus, and
reproach him for forsaking his own 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 Proteus.

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just
witnessed, yet did she still love the truant Proteus; and
hearing that he had lately parted with a servant, she con-
trived with the assistance of her host, the friendly inn-
keeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page; and Proteus
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
Proteus; and Julia, or the page Sebastian as she was
called, entered into conversation with Silvia about
Proteus’ 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 Proteus, 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 Proteus 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

86
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

his Julia gave it tohim. 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 Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded
his money.

Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by
adversity, 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 distressed man,
and being struck with his noble air and manly behaviour,
told him if he would live with them, and be their chief,
or captain, they would put themselves under his com-
mand; 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, at
which place she had heard her lover had taken refuge;

87
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived
in 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, 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 ban-
ditti. ‘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 Proteus, 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. Proteus
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 Proteus 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,
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

having heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came
to console and relieve her.

Proteus 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 Proteus
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 Proteus, 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.’ Proteus, look-
ing upon the ring, saw that it was the one he gave to
Julia, in return for that which he received from her, and
which he had sent by the supposed page to Silvia. ‘ How
is this?’ said he, ‘this is Julia’s ring: how came you by
it, boy?’ Julia answered, ‘Julia herself did give it me,
and Julia herself hath brought it hither.’

Proteus, 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 returned 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. |

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happi-
ness in their reconciliation, and in the love of their faith-
ful 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 torch! 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’ 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 joy-
ful 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 ban-
ished, like Valentine, for state offences, rather than for any
black crimes they had been guilty of. To this the ready
duke consented: and now nothing remained but that
Proteus, the false friend, was ordained, by way of pen-
ance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at the

go
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

recital of the whole story of his loves and falsehoods
before the duke; and the shame of the recital to his
awakened conscience was judged sufficient punishment:
which being done, the lovers, all four, returned back to
Milan, and their nuptials were solemnised in the presence
of the duke, with high triumphs and feasting.

Oi
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

SuHytock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer,
who had amassed an immense fortune by lending money
at great interest to Christian merchants. Shylock, being
a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of the money
he lent with such severity that he was much disliked by
all good men, and particularly 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 covetous
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
conditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in doing
courtesies; indeed, he was one in whom the ancient
Roman honour more appeared than in any that drew
breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his
fellow-citizens; but the friend who was nearest and dear-
est to his heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who,
having but a small patrimony, had nearly exhausted his
little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for his
slender means, as young men of high rank with small
fortunes are too apt todo. Whenever Bassanio wanted

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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 some-
times 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 any 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

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge
of all our tribe; and then you have called me unbeliever,
cut-throat dog, and spit upon my Jewish garments, and
spurned at me with your foot, as if I wasa 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 I break, you may with better face
exact the penalty. —‘ Why, look you, said Shylock, ‘ how
you storm! I would be friends with you, and have your
love. I will forget the shames you have put uponme. 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

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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 exac-
tion of the forfeiture? A pound of man’s flesh, taken
from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as
the flesh of mutton or 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 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 Brutus.

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his
friend Antonio, at the hazard of his life, set out for Bel-
mont 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 was all that he
could boast of ; she, who loved him for his worthy quali-
ties, and had riches enough not to regard wealth in a
husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she
would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten
thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of him; and
then the accomplished Portia prettily dispraised herself,
and said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unprac-

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

tised, 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 servants; 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 attendance upon their lord and lady, when Portia
so gracefully promised to become the obedient wife
of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the
generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at
the same time.

‘ 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 wed-
ding-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

06
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

a letter from Antonio containing fearful tidings. When
Bassanio 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 words that ever blotted paper; gentle
lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I freely told
you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should
have told you that I had less than nothing, being in
debt.” Bassanio then told Portia what has been here
related, of his borrowing the money of Antonio, and of
Antonio’s procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of the
bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound
of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day: and then
Bassanio read Antonio’s letter ; the words of which were,
‘ Sweet Bassamo, my ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew
ts forfeited, and since in paying it is impossible I should
live, I could wish to see you at my death ; notwithstanding,
use your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuade
you to come, let not my letter.” ‘O, my dear love,’ said
Portia, ‘despatch all business, and begone; 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

G | 97
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the
event of the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke
cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend
along with him when he returned ; yet she feared it would
go hard with Antonio, and when she was left alone, she
began to think and consider within herself, if she could
by any means be instrumental in saving the life of her
dear Bassanio’s friend; and notwithstanding when she
wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said to him with
such a meek and wife-like grace, that she would submit
in all things to be governed by his superior 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 Bellario 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
immediately, they arrived at Venice on the very day of
the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before
the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house,
when Portia entered this high court of justice, and
presented a letter from Bellario, in which that learned
counsellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would have come
himself to plead for Antonio, but that he was prevented

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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 Venetian law to have
the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of
the noble quality of mercy, as would have softened any
heart but the unfeeling Shylock’s; saying, that it dropped
as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath ;
and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him
that gave, and him that received it; and how it became
monarchs better than their crowns, being an attribute of
God himself; and that earthly power came nearest to
God’s, in proportion as mercy 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 desiring to have the penalty for-
feited 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

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 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 Portia, ‘you must prepare
your bosom for the knife’: and while Shylock was
sharpening a long knife with great eagerness to cut off the
pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, ‘Have you any-
thing to say?’ Antonio with a calm resignation replied,
that he had but little to say, for that he had prepared his
mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio, ‘Give me
your hand, Bassanio! Fare youwell! Grieve not that I
am fallen into this misfortune for you. 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 so true a friend as Antonio in these
strong terms, yet could not help answering, ‘ Your wife

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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.’ ‘It 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
expectation 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.’ ‘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 tojudgment!’ 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 cut-
ting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of Christian

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

blood, your lands and goods are by the law to be con-
fiscated to the state of Venice.’ Now as it was utterly
impossible for Shylock 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 unexpected deliverance, cried out, ‘Here is
the money!’ But Portia stopped him, saying, ‘Softly ;
there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the
penalty: therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh ;
but mind you shed no blood: nor do not cut off more nor
less than just a pound; be it more or less by one poor
scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight of a single
hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to die,
and all your wealth is forfeited to the senate.’ ‘Give me
my money, and let me go,’ said Shylock. ‘I have it
ready,’ said Bassanio: ‘here it is.’

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

The duke then said to Shylock, ‘That you may see

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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 married against his consent to
a young Christian, 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 aecept
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.’

> 103
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the
money ; but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept of
some reward, she said, ‘Give me your gloves ; I will wear
them for your sake’; and then Bassanio taking off his
gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him upon
his finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to
get from him to make a merry jest when she saw 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 dis-
tressed that the counsellor should ask him for the only
thing he could not part with, and he replied in great
confusion, that he could not give him that ring, because
it was his wife’s gift, and he had vowed never to part
with it; but that he would give him the most valuable
ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. On this-
Portia affected to be affronted, and left the court, saying,
‘ You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered.’

‘ Dear Bassanio,’ said 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
Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by
his lord) gave it to her. And there was laughing among
these ladies to think, when they got home, how they
would tax their husbands with giving away their rings,
and swear that they had given them as a present to some
woman.

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper
of mind which never fails to attend the consciousness of
having performed a good action; her cheerful spirits
enjoyed everything she saw: the moon never seemed to

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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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.’

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 till 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 counsellor 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,

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 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.’ ie

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 coun-
sellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found,
to his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by
the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio’s
life was saved.

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him

106
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

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.

107
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

CYMBELINE

Durine the time of Augustus Cesar, Emperor of Rome,
there reigned in England (which was then called Britain)
a king whose name was Cymbeline.

Cymbeline’s first wife died when his three children
(two sons and a daughter) were very young. Imogen,
the eldest of these children, was brought up in her
father’s court; but by a strange chance the two sons
of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when
the eldest was but three years of age, and the youngest
quite an infant; and Cymbeline could never discover
what was become of them, or by whom they were con-
veyed 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 herself, who married without
the consent or even knowledge of her father or the
queen.

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen’s

108:
IMOGEN’S BED CHAMBER

(Cymbeline—Act II, Scene 2)


CYMBELINE

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 affection continuing to increase with their
years, when they grew up they privately married.

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for
she kept spies constantly in watch upon the actions of
her daughter-in-law, and she immediately told the king
of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when
he heard that his daughter had been so 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 pro-
cure 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 a diamond

109
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

ring, which had been her mother’s, and Posthumus pro-
mised never to part with the ring; and he fastened a
- bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she
would preserve with great care, as a token of his love;
they then bid each other farewell, with many vows of
everlasting love and fidelity.

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her
father’s court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place
he had chosen for his banishment.

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay
young men of different nations, who were talking freely
of ladies: each one praising the ladies of his own country,
and his own mistress. Posthumus, who had ever his
own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the fair
Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise and constant lady
in the world.

One of those gentlemen, whose name was I[achimo,
being offended that a lady of Britain should be so praised
above the Roman ladies, his country-women, provoked
Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of his
so highly-praised wife; and at length, after much alter-
cation, Posthumus 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.

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CYMBELINE

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 of succeeding in his dis-
honourable 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, 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 ex-
pedition, and boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had
given him the bracelet, and likewise permitted him to
pass a night in her chamber: and in this manner Iachimo
told his false tale: ‘Her bedchamber,’ said he, ‘was
hung with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was the
proud Cleopatra when she met her Anthony, a piece ot
work most bravely wrought.’

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

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

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

Tachimo as accurately described the roof of the

III
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

chamber; and added, ‘I had almost forgot her and-irons ;
they were two winking Cupids made of silver, each on
one foot standing.’ He then took out the bracelet, and
said, ‘Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this.
She took it from her arm. I see her yet; her pretty
action did outsell her gift, and yet enriched it too. She
gave it me, and said, she prized it once. He last of all
described the mole he had observed upon her neck.

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful
recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into the
most passionate exclamations against Imogen. He de-
livered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which he had
agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from
Imogen.

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio,
a gentleman of Britain, who was one of Imogen’s attend-
ants, and had long been a faithful friend to Posthumus ;
and after telling him what proof he had of his wife’s dis-
loyalty, 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 for-
bidden 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.

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CYMBELINE

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; 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 disposition, would not trust her with real
poison, but gave her a drug which would do no other
mischief than causing a person to sleep with every
appearance of death for a few hours. This mixture,
which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to
Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill upon the
road, to take it; and so, with blessings and prayers for
her safety and happy deliverance from her undeserved
troubles, he left her.

Providence strangely directed Imogen’s steps to the
dwelling of her two brothers, who had been stolen away
in their infancy. Bellarius, who stole them away, was a

H 113
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 Cymbe-
line, 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 carefully, and they grew
up fine youths, their princely spirits leading them to bold
and daring actions; and as they subsisted by hunting,
they were active and hardy, and were always pressing
their 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 which
she meant to embark for Rome); and being unable to
find any place where she could purchase food, she was
with weariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not
merely putting on a man’s apparel that will enable a
young lady, tenderly brought up, to bear the fatigue of
wandering about lonely forests like a man. Seeing this
cave, she entered, hoping to find some one within of
whom she could procure food. She found the cave
empty, but looking about she discovered some cold meat,
and her hunger was so pressing, that she could not wait
for an 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!’

114
CYMBELINE

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
Polydore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but
supposed that Bellarius was their father; but the real
names of these princes were Guiderius and Arviragus.

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen,
stopped them, saying, ‘Come not in yet; it eats our
victuals, or I should think 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.

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 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.

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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, him) as a brother;
and they entered the cave, where (they having killed
venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them
with her neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing
their supper; for though it is not the custom now for
young women of high birth to understand cookery, it
was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art; and, as
her brothers prettily 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
Polydore 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, Fidele) 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
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,

116
CYMBELINE

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 hunt-
ing, Polydore 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 Polydore 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, Polydore said, ‘While summer
lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy grave.
The pale primrose, that flower most like thy face; the
blue-bell, like thy clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine,
which is not sweeter than was thy breath; all these will
I strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss in winter,
when there are no flowers to cover thy sweet corse.’

When they had finished her funeral obsequies they
departed very sorrowful.

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect
of the sleepy drug going off, she 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,

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

and cook to honest creatures; how came I here covered
with flowers?’ Not being able to find her way back to
the cave, and seeing nothing of her new companions, she
concluded it was certainly all a dream; and once more
Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage, hoping at last
she should find her way to Milford-Haven, and thence
get a passage in some ship bound for Italy; for all her
thoughts were still with her husband Posthumus, whom
she intended to seek in the disguise of a page.

But great events were happening at this time, of
which Imogen knew nothing; for a war had suddenly
broken out between the Roman emperor Augustus
Cesar and Cymbeline, the king of Britain; and a Roman
army had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced
into the very forest over which Imogen was journeying.
With this army came Posthumus.

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the
Roman army, he did not mean to fight on their side
against his own countrymen, but intended to join the
army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who
had banished him.

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 command, and that Imogen was dead), sat heavy on
his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiring
either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by
Cymbeline for returning home from banishment.

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into
the hands of the Roman army; and her presence and
deportment recommending her, she was made a page to
Lucius, the Roman general.

Cymbeline’s army now advanced to meet the enemy,
and when they entered this forest, Polydore and Cadwal

118
CYMBELINE

joined the king’s army. The young men were eager to
engage in acts of valour, though they little thought they
were going to fight for their own royal father: and old
Bellarius went with them to the battle. He had long
since repented of the injury he had done to Cymbeline in
carrying away his sons; and having been a warrior in his
youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the king he
had so injured.

And now a great battle commenced between the two
armies, and the Britons would have been defeated, and
Cymbeline 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 of 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
with Polydore 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
presence (but with very different hopes and _ fears)
Posthumus and Imogen, with her new master the Roman

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false friend
Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline,
with Bellarius, who had stolen them away.

The Roman general was the first who spoke; the rest
stood silent before the king, though there was many a
beating heart among them. ;

Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he
was in the disguise of a peasant; but he did not know
her in her male attire: and she knew Iachimo, and she
saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be her
own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the
author of all her troubles: and she stood before her own
father a prisoner of war.

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed
her in the garb of a boy. ‘It is my mistress,’ thought
he; ‘since she is living, let the time run on to good or
bad.’ Bellarius knew her too, and softly said to Cadwal,
‘Is not this boy revived from death ?’—‘One sand,’
replied Cadwal, ‘does not more resemble another than
that sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele. —‘ The same
dead thing alive,’ said Polydore. ‘Peace, peace,’ said
Bellarius ; ‘if it were he, I am sure he would have spoken
to us. —‘ But we saw him dead,’ again whispered Polydore.
‘Be silent,’ replied Bellarius.

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome
sentence of his own death; and he resolved not to dis-
close to the king that he had saved his life in the battle,
lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him.

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen
under his protection as his page, was the first (as has
been before said) who spoke to the king. He was a man
of high courage and noble dignity, and this was his speech
to the king :—

‘I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but

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CYMBELINE

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. Heis 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-powerful Nature spake in his heart, for he said, ‘I
have surely seen him, his face appears familiar to me. I
know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy; but I give
you your life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I
will grant it you. Yea, even though it be the life of the
noblest prisoner I have.’

‘IT humbly thank your highness,’ said Imogen.

What was then called granting a boon was the same as
a promise to give any one thing, whatever it might be,
that the person on whom that favour was conferred chose
to ask for. They all were attentive to hear what thing
the page would ask for; and Lucius her master said to
her, ‘I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know that is
what you will ask for.—‘ No, no, alas!’ said Imogen,
‘I have other work in hand, good master; your life I
cannot ask for.’

This seeming want of gratitude 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
confess whence he had the ring he wore on his finger.

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened
Tachimo with the torture if he did not confess how he
came by the diamond ring on his finger.

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his
villany, telling, as has been before related, the whole story
of his wager with Posthumus, and how he had succeeded
in imposing upon his credulity.

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the
innocence of his lady cannot be expressed. He instantly
came forward, and confessed to Cymbeline the cruel
sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to execute upon
the princess ; exclaiming wildly, ‘O Imogen, my queen,
my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen !’

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this dis-
tress without discovering herself, to the unutterable joy
of Posthumus, who was thus relieved from a weight of
guilt and woe, and restored to the good graces of the
dear lady he had so cruelly treated.

Cymbeline, 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 acknowledge him for his son-in-law.

Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation
to make his confession. He presented Polydore 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 happi-
ness? 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

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CYMBELINE

concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which
was kept inviolate many years.

How Cymbeline’s wicked queen, through despair of
bringing her projects to pass, and touched with remorse
of conscience, sickened and died, having first lived to see
her foolish son Cloten slain in a 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 Iachimo, in consideration of his
villany having missed its final aim, was dismissed without
punishment,

12g
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

KING LEAH

Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters: Goneril,
wife to the duke of Albany ; Regan, wife to the duke of
Cornwall; and Cordelia, a young maid, for whose love
the king of France and duke of Burgundy were joint
suitors, and were at this time making stay for that pur-
pose in the court of Lear.

The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of
government, he being more than fourscore years old,
determined to take no further part in state affairs, but to
leave the management to younger strengths, that he
might have time to prepare for death, which must at no
long period ensue. With this intent he called his three
daughters to him, to know from their own lips which of
them loved him best, that he might part his kingdom
among them in such proportions as their affection for
him should seem to deserve.

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father
more than words could give out, that he was dearer to
her than the light of her own eyes, dearer than life and
liberty, with a deal of such professing stuff, which is easy
to counterfeit where there is no real love, only a few fine
words delivered with confidence being wanted in that
ease. The king, delighted to hear from her own mouth
this assurance of her love, and thinking truly that her
heart went with it, in a fit of fatherly fondness bestowed
upon her and her husband one third of his ample kingdom.

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LEAR, “Cordelia, Cordelia’

(KING LEAR—Act V. Scene 3,
KING LEAR

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

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

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

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

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father,
that he had given her breeding, and loved her; that she
returned those duties back as was most fit, and did obey
him, love him. and most honour him. But that she

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could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her
sisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the
world. Why had her sisters husbands, if (as they said)
they had no love for anything but their father? If she
should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom she gave
her hand would want half her love, half of her care and
duty ; she should never marry like her sisters, to love her
father all.

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even
almost as extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do,
would have plainly told him so at any other time, in
more daughter-like and loving terms, and without these
qualifications, which did indeed sound a little ungracious;
but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters,
which she had seen drawn such extravagant rewards, she
thought the handsomest thing she could do was to
love and be silent. This put her affection out of sus-
picion of mercenary ends, and showed that she loved, but
not for gain; and that her professions, the less osten-
tatious they were, had so much the more of truth and
sincerity than her sisters’.

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so
enraged the old monarch—who in his best of times
always showed much of spleen and rashness, and in
whom the dotage incident to old age had so clouded
over his reason, that he could not discern truth from
flattery, nor a gay painted speech from words that came
from the heart—that in a fury of resentment he retracted
the third part of his kingdom which yet remained, and
which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away
from her, sharing it equally between her two sisters and
their husbands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall ; whom
he now called to him, and in presence of all his courtiers
bestowing a coronet between them, invested them jointly

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with all the power, revenue, and execution of government,
only retaining to himself the name of king; all the rest
of royalty he resigned ; with this reservation, that himself,
with a hundred knights for his attendants, was to be
maintained by monthly course in each of his daughters’
palaces in turn.

So preposterous a Aipoul of his kingdom, so little
guided by reason, and so much by passion, filled all his
courtiers with astonishment and sorrow; but none of
them had the courage to interpose between this incensed
king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was
beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the
passionate Lear on pain of death commanded him to
desist ; but the good Kent was not so to be repelled. He
had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured as a
king, loved as a father, followed as 2 master; and he had
never esteemed his life further than as a pawn to wage
against his royal master’s enemies, nor feared to lose it
when Lear’s safety was the motive; nor now that Lear
was most his own enemy, did this faithful servant of the
king forget his old principles, but manfully opposed Lear,
to do Lear good; and was unmannerly only because Lear
was mad. He had been a most faithful counsellor in
times past to the king, and he besought him now, that
he would see with his eyes (as he had done in many
weighty matters), and go by his advice still; and in his
best consideration recall this hideous rashness: for he
would answer with his life, his judgment that Lear’s
youngest daughter did not love him least, nor were those
empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token of hollow-
ness. 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. |

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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 banish-
ment to stay there; and before he went, he recommended
Cordelia to the protection of the gods, the maid who had
so rightly thought, and so discreetly spoken; and only
wished that her sisters’ large speeches might be answered
with deeds of love; and then he went, as he said, to shape
his old course to a new country.

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now
called in to hear the determination of Lear about his
youngest daughter, and to know whether they would
persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she was
under her father’s displeasure, and had no fortune but
her own person to recommend her: and the duke of
Burgundy declined the match, and would not take her
to wife upon such conditions; but the king of France,
understanding what the nature of the fault had been
which had lost her the love of her father, that it was
only a tardiness of speech, and the not being able to
frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this
young maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues
were a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take
farewell of her sisters and of her father, though he
had been unkind, and she should go with him, and be
queen of him and of fair France, and reign over fairer
possessions than her sisters: and he called the duke of
Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke, because his love

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for this young maid had in a moment run all away like
water.

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her
sisters, and besought them to love their father well, and
make good their professions: and they sullenly told her
not to prescribe to them, for they knew their duty; but
to strive to content her husband, who had taken her (as
they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune’s alms. And
Cordelia with a heavy heart departed, for she knew the
cunning of her sisters, and she wished her father in better
hands than she was about to leave him in.

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dis-
positions of her sisters began to show themselves in their
true colours. Even before the expiration of the first
month, which Lear was to spend by agreement with his
eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out
the difference between promises and performances. This
wretch having got from her father all that he had to
bestow, even to the giving away of the crown from off
his head, began to grudge even those small remnants of
royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to
please his fancy with the idea of being still a king. She
could not bear to see him and his hundred knights.
Every time she met her father, she put on a frowning
countenance; and when the old man wanted to speak
with her, she would feign sickness, or anything to get rid
of the sight of him; for it was plain that she esteemed his
old age a useless burden, and his attendants an unneces-
sary 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 con-
temptuously pretend not to hear them. Lear could not

I 129
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but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his
daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he
could, as people commonly are unwilling to believe the
unpleasant consequences which their own mistakes and
obstinacy have brought upon them.

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

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

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and laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel; for which
friendly service Lear became more and more attached
to him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his
degree, and as far as so insignificant a personage could
show his love, the poor fool, or jester, that had been of
his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was the custom
of kings and great personages at that time to keep a
fool (as he was called) to make them sport after serious
business: this poor fool clung to Lear after he had given
away his crown, and by his witty sayings would keep up
his good humour, though he could not refrain sometimes
from jeering at his master for his imprudence in un-
crowning 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

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fond father was to suffer from his unworthy daughter:
she now plainly told him that his staying in her palace
was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up
an establishment of a hundred knights; that this estab-
- lishment was useless and expensive, and only served to
fill her court with riot and feasting ; and she prayed him
that he would lessen their number, and keep none but old
men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age.

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor
that it was his daughter who spoke so unkindly. He
could not believe that she who had received a crown
from him could seek to cut off his train, and grudge him
the respect due to his old age. But she, persisting in her
undutiful demand, the old man’s rage was so excited,
that he called her a detested kite, and said that she spoke
an untruth; and so indeed she did, for the hundred
knights were all men of choice behaviour and sobriety of
manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not given
to rioting or feasting, as she said. And he bid his horses
to be prepared, for he would go to his other daughter,
Regan, he and his hundred knights; and he spoke of
ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted devil, and
showed more hideous in a child than the sea-monster.
And he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so as was
terrible to hear; praying that she might never have a
child, or if she had, that it might live to return that scorn
and contempt upon her which she had shown to him:
that she might feel how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it
was to have a thankless child. And Goneril’s husband,
the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself for any
share which Lear might suppose he had in the unkind-
ness, 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

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thought to himself how small the fault of Cordelia (if
it was a fault) now appeared, in comparison with her
sister’s, and he wept; and then he was ashamed that, such
a creature as Goneril should have so much power over his
manhood as to make him weep.

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in
great pomp and state at their palace; and Lear despatched
his servant Caius with letters to his daughter, that she
might be prepared for his reception, while he and his
train followed after. But it seems that Goneril had been
beforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan,
accusing her father of waywardness and ill humours, and
advising her not to receive so great a train as he was
bringing with him. This messenger arrived at the same
time with Caius, and Caius and he met: and who should
it be but Caius’s old enemy the steward, whom he had
formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behaviour
to Lear. Caius not liking the fellow’s look, and suspect-
ing what he came for, began to revile him, and challenged
him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of
honest passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-
maker and carrier of wicked messages deserved; which
coming to the ears of Regan and her husband, they ordered
Caius to be put in the stocks, though he was a messenger
from the king her father, and in that character demanded
the highest respect: so that the first thing the king saw
when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius
sitting in that disgraceful situation.

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he
was to expect; but a worse followed, when, upon inquiry
for his daughter and her husband, he was told they were
weary with travelling all night, and could not see him;
and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry
manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom should

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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 at-
tendants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old and
wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons
that had more discretion than himself. And Lear showed
how preposterous that would sound, if he were to go
down on his knees, and beg of his own daughter for food
and raiment, and he argued against such an unnatural
dependence, declaring his resolution never to return with
her, but to stay where he was with Regan, he and his
hundred knights; for he said that she had not forgot the
half of the kingdom which he had endowed her with, and
that her eyes were not fierce like Goneril’s, but mild and
kind. And he said that rather than return to Goneril,
with half his train cut off, he would go over to France,
and beg a wretched pension of the king there, who had
married his youngest daughter without a portion.

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment
of Regan than he had experienced from her sister Goneril.
As if willing to outdo her sister in unfilial behaviour, she
declared that she thought fifty knights too many to wait
upon him: that five-and-twenty were enough. Then
Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Goneril and said that
he would go back with her, for her fifty doubled five-and-
twenty, and so her love was twice as much as Regan’s.
But Goneril excused herself, and said, what need of so
many as five-and-twenty? or even ten? or five? when
he might be waited upon by her servants, or her sister’s

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servants? So these two wicked daughters, as if they
strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their old father,
who had been so good to them, by little and little would
have abated him of all his train, all respect (little enough
for him that once commanded a kingdom), which was
left him to show that he had once been a king! Not
that a splendid train is essential to happiness, but from a
king to a beggar is a hard change, from commanding
millions to be without one attendant; and it was the
ingratitude in his 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 revenge against those
unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should
be a terror to the earth!

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak
arm could never execute, night came on, and a loud
storm of thunder and lightning with rain ; and his daugh-
ters still persisting in their resolution not to admit his
followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather to
encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay
under the same roof with these ungrateful daughters:
and they, saying that the injuries which wilful men pro-
cure 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 ele-
ments, less sharp than his daughters’ unkindness. For
many miles about there was scarce a bush; and there
upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark
night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds and
the thunder; and he bid the winds to blow the earth into

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the sea, or swell the waves of the sea till they drowned
the earth, that no token might remain of any such un-
grateful animal as man. The old king was now left with
no other companion than the poor fool, who still abided
with him, with his merry conceits striving to outjest
misfortune, saying it was but a naughty night to swim
in, and truly the king had better go in and ask his
daughter’s blessing :—
But he that has a little tiny wit,
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain!

Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day:

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady’s pride.
Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch
was found by his ever-faithful servant the good earl of
Kent, now transformed to Caius, who ever followed close
at his side, though the king did not know him to be the
earl; and he said, ‘ Alas! sir, are you here? creatures
that love night, love not such nights as these. This
dreadful storm has driven the beasts to their hiding-
places. Man’s nature cannot endure the affliction or the
fear.’ And Lear rebuked him and said, these lesser evils
were not felt, where a greater malady was 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
persuaded him to enter a little wretched hovel which
stood upon the heath, where the fool first entering,
suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a
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spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be
nothing more than a poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept
into this deserted hovel for shelter, and with his talk
about devils frighted the fool, one of those poor lunatics
who are either mad, or feign to be so, the better to extort
charity from the compassionate country people, who go
about the country, calling themselves poor Tom and poor
Turlygood, saying, ‘Who gives anything to poor Tom?’
sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary into their
arms to make them bleed ; and with such horrible actions,
partly by prayers, and partly with lunatic curses, they
move or terrify the ignorant country-folks into giving
them alms. This poor fellow was such a one; and the
king seeing him in so wretched a plight, with nothing
but a blanket about his loins to cover his nakedness, could
not be persuaded but that the fellow was some father
who had given all away to his daughters, and brought
himself to that pass: for nothing he thought could
bring a man to such wretchedness but the having unkind
daughters.

And from this and many such wild speeches which
he uttered, the good Caius plainly perceived that he was
not in his perfect mind, but that his daughters’ ill usage
had really made him go mad. And now the loyalty of
this worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essential
services than he had hitherto found opportunity to per-
form. For with the assistance of some of the king’s
attendants who remained loyal, he had the person of his
royal master removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover,
where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent,
chiefly lay; and himself embarking for France, hastened
to the court of Cordelia, and did there in such moving
terms represent the pitiful condition of her royal father,
and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of her

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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 guard-
ians which the good earl of Kent had put over him to
take care of him in his lunacy, was found by some of
Cordelia’s train, wandering about the fields near Dover,
in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and singing aloud to
himself, with a crown upon his head which he had made
of straw, and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had
picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice of the physi-
cians, 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 kind-
ness from her whom he had cast off for so small a fault
in his displeasure; both these passions struggling with
the remains of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain
sometimes made him that he scarce remembered where
he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke
to him: and then he would beg the standers-by not to
laugh at him, if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to
be his daughter Cordelia! And then to see him fall on

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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 them-
selves, 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 him-
self. And she told her father how she had come from
France with purpose to bring him assistance; and he
said that she must forget and forgive, for he was old and
foolish, and did not know what he did; but that to be
sure she had great cause not to love him, but her sisters
had none. And Cordelia said that she had no cause, no
more than they had.

So we will leave this old king in the protection of his
dutiful and loving child, where, by the help of sleep and
medicine, she and her physicians at length succeeded in
winding up the untuned and jarring senses which the
cruelty of his other daughters had so violently shaken.
Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel
daughters.

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false
to their old father, could not be expected to prove more
faithful to their own husbands. They soon grew tired
of paying even the appearance of duty and affection, and
in an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon
another. It happened that the object of their guilty
loves was the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of
the late earl of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had
succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful
heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked practices was

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now ear! himself; a wicked man, and a fit object for the
love of such wicked creatures as Goneril and Regan. It
falling out about this time that the duke of Cornwall,
Regan’s husband, died, Regan immediately declared her
intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rous-
ing 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 im-
prisoned 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 daaghters.

While the eyes of all men were upon this event,
admiring the justice displayed in their deserved deaths,
the same eyes were suddenly taken off from this sight
to admire at the mysterious ways of the same power in
the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter,
the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve
a more fortunate conclusion: but it is an awful truth,
that innocence and piety are not always successful in
this world. The forces which Goneril and Regan had
sent out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester
were victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this
wicked earl, who did not like that any should stand
between him and the throne, ended her life in prison.
Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her
young years, after showing her to the world an illustrious
example of filial duty. Lear did not long survive this
kind child.

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still
attended his old master’s steps from the first of his
daughters’ ill usage to this sad period of his decay, tried

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KING LEAR

to make him understand that it was he who had followed
him under the name of Caius; but Lear’s care-crazed
brain at that time could not comprehend how that could
be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same person: so
Kent thought it needless to trouble him with explana-
tions at such a time; and Lear soon after expiring, this
faithful servant to the king, between age and grief for his
old master’s vexations, soon followed him to the grave.

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad ear]
of Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, and him-
self slain in single combat with his brother, the lawful
earl; and how Goneril’s husband, the duke of Albany,
who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never
encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against
her father, ascended the throne of Britain after the death
of Lear, is needless here to narrate; Lear and his Three
Daughters being dead, whose adventures alone concern
our story.

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MACBETH

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

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo,
returning victorious from this great battle, their way lay
over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by the
strange appearance of three figures like women, except
that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild .
attire made them look not like any earthly creatures.
Macbeth first addressed them, when they, seemingly
offended, laid each one her choppy finger upon her skinny
lips, in token of silence; and the first of them saluted
Macbeth 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 shall be
hereafter!’ Such a prophetic greeting might well amaze
him, who knew that while the king’s sons lived he could
not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turning to
Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms,
to be lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, but

142
THE WHIRD SISTERS

(Macbeth—Act IV. Scene 1)


MACBETH

much happier! and prophesied that though he should
never reign, yet his sons after him should be kings in
Scotland. They then turned into air, and vanished: by
which the generals knew them to be the weird sisters, or
witches.

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of
this adventure, there arrived certain messengers from the
king, who were empowered by him to confer upon Mac-
beth the dignity of thane of Cawdor: an event so miracu-
lously corresponding with the prediction of the witches
astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in amazement,
unable to make 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 pro-
mised to me has so wonderfully come to pass?’ ‘That
hope,’ answered the general, ‘might enkindle you to aim
at the throne; but oftentimes these ministers of darkness
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 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
accomplishment. 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

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the thoughts of blood, and did not cease to represent the
murder of the king as a 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
nobility upon gracious terms, came to Macbeth’s house,
attended 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 martlet, or swallow, had built
under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the build-
ing, wherever it 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.

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

144
MACBETH

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 inordinate
ambition. She had won him to consent to the murder,
but she doubted his resolution; and she feared that the
natural tenderness of his disposition (more humane than
her own) would come between, and defeat the purpose.
So with her own hands armed with a dagger, she ap-
proached the king’s bed; having taken care to ply the
grooms of his chamber so with wine, that they slept
intoxicated, and careless of their charge. There lay
Duncan in a sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey,
and as she viewed him earnestly, there was something in
his face, as he slept, which resembled her own father;
and she had not the courage to proceed.

She returned to confer with her husband. His resolu-
tion 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, it 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

x 145
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in
the dark to the room where Duncan lay; and as he went,
he thought he saw another dagger in the air, with the
handle towards him, and on the blade and at the point of
it drops of blood; but when he tried to grasp at it, it was
nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his
own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had in
hand.

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king’s room,
whom he despatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just
as he had done the murder, one of the grooms, who slept
in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and the other cried
‘Murder,’ which woke them both; but they said a short
prayer; one of them said, ‘God bless us!’ and the other
answered ‘Amen’; and addressed themselves to sleep

146
MACBETH

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 purpose, 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; and
the youngest, Donalbain, made his escape to Ireland.

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

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could
not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Macbeth should be king, yet not his children, but the
children of Banquo, should be kings after him. The
- thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands
with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the
posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within
them, that they 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 invited. The way by which Banquo was
to pass to the palace 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 gracefulness and attention which conciliated every one
present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with his thanes
and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the
country was under his roof, if he had but his good friend
Banquo present, whom yet he hoped he should rather
have to chide for neglect, than to lament for any mis-
chance. 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

148
MACBETH

stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost.
His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but per- .
ceived 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 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 dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of
Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled with.

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

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where
they, who knew by foresight of his coming, were engaged
in preparing their dreadful charms, by which they con-
jured up infernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. Their
horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the eye
of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard,
and the wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the
tooth of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark,
the mummy of a witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock
(this to have effect must be digged in the dark), the gall
of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew
tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead
child: all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, or

149
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

cauldron, 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 resolved by them, or by their masters, the
spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful ceremonies
which he saw, boldly answered, ‘ Where are they? let me
see them.’ And they called the spirits, which were
three. And the first arose in the likeness of an armed
head, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him be-
ware 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 conspira-
cies, saying, that he should never be vanquished, until the
wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill should come against
him. ‘Sweet bodements! good!’ cried Macbeth ; ‘who
can unfix the forest, and move it from its earth-bound
roots? I see I shall live the usual period of man’s life,
and not be cut off by a violent death. But my heart

150
MACBETH

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 cauldron 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 Malcolm, the eldest son of the late king, with in-
tent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, theright heir,
upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the
castle of Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom
the thane had left behind, to the sword, and extended the
slaughter to all who claimed the least relationship to
Macduff.

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all
his chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join
with Malcolm and Macduff, who were now approaching
with a powerful army, which they had raised in England ;
and the rest secretly wished 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,

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any
longer.

While these things were acting, the queen, who had
been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom
he could sometimes seek a momentary 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 determined to die
(as he expressed it) ‘with armour on his back.’ Besides
this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled him
with a false confidence, and he remembered 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 impreg-
nable 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 Mac-
beth now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the
equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear till
Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane; and now a
wood did move! ‘However,’ said he, ‘if this which he

152
MACBETH

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 besiegers, who had now
come up to the castle.

The strange appearance which had given the mes-
senger an idea of a wood moving is easily solved. When
the besieging army marched through the wood of Birnam,
Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed his soldiers to
hewdown every one a bough and bear it before him, by way
of concealing the true numbers of his host. This march-
ing 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
themselves his friends, but in reality hated the tyrant and
inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought
with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to pieces all
who were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff
was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the
caution of the spirit who had counselled him to avoid
Macduff, above all men, he would have turned, but Mac-
duff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight,
opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued ; Macduff
giving him many foul reproaches for the murder of his
wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged
enough with blood of that family already, would still have
declined the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it,
calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain.

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit,
how none of woman born should hurt him; and smiling

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confidently he said to Macduff, ‘Thou losest thy labour,
Macduff. As easily thou mayest impress the air with thy
sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life,
which must not yield to one of woman born.’

‘ Despair thy charm,’ said Macduff, ‘ and let that lying
spirit whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Macduff was
never born of woman, never as the 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
equivocations of witches and juggling spirits, who deceive
us in words which have double senses, and while they
keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a
different meaning. I will not fight with thee.’

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

‘Never,’ said Macbeth, whose courage returned with
despair; ‘I will not live to kiss the ground before young
Malcolm’s feet, and to be baited with the curses of the
rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,
and thou opposed to me, who wast never born of woman,
yet will I try the last.” With these frantic words he
threw himself upon Macduff, who, after a severe struggle,
in the end overcame him, and cutting off his head, made
a present of it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm;
who took upon him the government which, by the
machinations of the usurper, he had so long been deprived
of, and ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek, amid
the acclamations of the nobles and the people.

154
KING, ‘‘ Why, then, young Bertram take her; she’s thy wife”

{ALL'S WELL THAT END'S WELL—Act II. Scene 3)


ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

BeERTRAM, count of Rousillon, 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 him to the king. The king of France
was an absolute monarch, and the invitation to court was
in the form of 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
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

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 something of the history of Helena,
saying she was the only daughter of the famous physician
Gerard de Narbon, and that he had recommended his
daughter to her care when he was dying, so that since his
death she had taken Helena under her protection; then
the countess praised the virtuous disposition and excellent
qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues from
her worthy father. While she was speaking, Helena wept
in sad and mournful silence, which made the countess
gently reprove her for too much grieving for her father’s
death.

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The countess
parted with this dear son with tears and many blessings,
and commended him to the care of Lafeu, saying, |
‘Good my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned
courtier.’

Bertram’s last words were spoken to Helena, but they
were words of mere civility, wishing her happiness; and
he concluded his short farewell to her with saying, ‘ Be
comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make
much of her.’

Helena had long loved Bertram, 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
remembered that he was the count of Rousillon, de-

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

scended 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 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 collected as sovereign and almost infal-
lible 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 unlearned virgin, if she should offer to perform a
cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if

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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 Rousillon’s wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess
was informed by her steward, that he had overheard
Helena talking to herself, and that he understood from
some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram,
and thought of following him to Paris. The countess
dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to
tell Helena she wished to speak with her. What she had
just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of days
long past into the mind of the countess; those days
probably when her love for Bertram’s father first began;
and she said to herself, ‘Even so it was with me when I
was young. Love is a thorn that belongs to the rose of
youth ; for in the season of youth, if ever we are nature’s
children, these faults are ours, though then we think not
they are faults.’ While the countess was thus meditating
on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered,
and she said to her, ‘ Helena, you know I am a mother
to you. Helena replied, ‘You are my honourable
mistress. ‘You are my daughter,’ said the countess
again; ‘I say I am 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 Rousillon 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

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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 affec-
tions, 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 in-
equality 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 worshipper, but knows of him no
more. The countess asked Helena if she had not lately
an intent to go to Paris?) Helena owned the design she
had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of
the king’s illness. ‘This was your motive for wishing to
go to Paris,’ said the countess, ‘was it? Speak truly.’
Helena honestly answered, ‘My lord your son made me
to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and the
king, had from the conversation of my thoughts been
absent then.’ The countess heard the whole of this con-
fession without saying a word either of approval or of
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 deathbed; and remembering the
solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in
regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the life of
the king himself, seemed to depend on the execution of a
project (which though conceived by the fond suggestions
of a loving maiden’s thoughts, the countess knew not but

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it might be the unseen workings of Providence to bring
to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the founda-
tion 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 ex-
perience and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit her
life, if it failed to restore his majesty to perfect health in
the space of two days. The king at length consented to
try it, and in two days’ time 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 con-
ceived of the efficacy of her father’s medicine. Before two
days were at an end, the king was restored to perfect
health, and he assembled all the young 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 husband. Helena was not slow to make

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

her choice, for among these young lords she saw the
count Rousillon, and turning to Bertram, she said, ‘ This
is the man. [I dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I
give me and my service ever whilst I live into your
guiding power.’ ‘Why, then,’ said the king, ‘young
Bertram, take her; she is your wife.’ Bertram did not
hesitate to declare his dislike to this present of the king’s
of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor
physician’s daughter, bred at his father’s charge, and now
living a dependant on his mother’s bounty. Helena
heard him speak these words of rejection and of scorn,
and she said to the king, ‘That you are well, my lord, 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 obtain, seemed to have won but
a splendid blank, her husband’s love not being a gift in
the power of the king of France to bestow.

Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired
by Bertram to apply to the king for him for leave of
absence from court; and when she brought him the
king’s permission for his departure, Bertram told her that
he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had
much unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder
at the course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not,
she grieved when she found it was his intention to leave
her. He ordered her to go home to his mother. When
Helena heard this unkind command, she replied, ‘Sir,
I can nothing say to this, but that I am your most
obedient servant, and shall ever with true observance

L . 161
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seek to eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars
have failed to equal my great fortunes.’ But this humble
speech of Helena’s did not at all move the haughty
Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he parted from her
without 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 Rousillon; but she returned
back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and as
soon as she entered the house she received a letter from
Bertram which. almost broke her heart.

The good countess received her with a cordial wel-
come, as if she had been her son’s own choice, and a lady
of a 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 recep-
tion 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, Tull 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.

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

The next morning Helena was missing. She left a
letter to be delivered to the countess after she was gone,
to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden absence :
in this letter she informed her that she was so much
grieved at having driven Bertram from his native country
and his home, that to atone for her offence, she had
undertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques le
Grand, and concluded with requesting the countess to
inform her son that the wife he so hated had left his
house for ever.

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and
there became an officer in the duke of Florence's army,
and after a successful war, in which he 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 pre-
paring 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 this city, she heard that a hospitable
widow dwelt there, who used to receive into her house
the female pilgrims that were going to visit the shrine of
that saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment.
To this good lady, therefore, Helena went, and the
widow gave her a courteous welcome, and invited her to
see whatever was curious in that famous city, and told
her that if she would like to see the duke’s army, she
would take her where she might have a full view of it.
‘And you will see a countryman of yours,’ said the
widow; ‘his name is Count Rousillon, who has done
worthy service in the duke’s wars.’ Helena wanted no
second invitation, when she found Bertram was to make
part of the show. She accompanied her hostess; and a

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sad and mournful pleasure it was to her to look once
more upon her dear husband’s face. ‘Is he not a hand-
some man?’ said the widow. ‘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 another 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 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 circum-
stances, 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

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

education and good advice she had given her; and she
further said, that Bertram had been particularly im-
portunate 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 her-
self 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 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 to receive him. The flattering compliments and
love discourse he addressed to Helena were precious

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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
love her for ever; which she hoped would be prophetic
of a real affection, when he should know it was his own
wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation had so
delighted him.

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was,
else perhaps he would not have been so 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 on her leaving a favourable impression
on the mind of Bertram from this night’s interview, she
exerted all her wit to please him; and the simple graces
of her lively conversation and the endearing sweetness of
her manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she
should be his wife. Helena begged the ring from 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 import-
ance to 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 accom-
pany 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 was gone

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

upon a visit to the countess of Rousillon, 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 Rousillon, 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—cal]
him hither’; meaning Bertram, who now presented him.
self 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 he perceived that Bertram wore the
very ring upon his finger which he had given to Helena:
and he well remembered that Helena had called all the
saints in heaven to witness she would never part with
that ring, unless she sent it to the king himself upon
some great disaster befalling her; and Bertram, on the
king’s questioning him how he came by the ring, told
an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him out of
a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the

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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
wrapt in dismal thinking, for I 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 promise of marriage. Bertram, fear-
ing the king’s anger, denied he had made any such pro-
mise; 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 per-
mitted 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 sus-
picion of his having destroyed his wife might possibly
be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved with
even a maternal affection, was still living, felt a delight
she was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce
believing for joy that it was Helena, said, ‘Is this indeed
the wife of Bertram that I see?’ Helena, feeling herself
yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, ‘ No, my good lord,
it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name and
not the thing.’ Bertram cried out, ‘Both, both! O

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

pardon!’—‘O my lord,’ said Helena, ‘when I person-
ated 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 sorrow-
fully, 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 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 to prove this fact; and the king was so
well pleased with Diana, for the friendly assistance she
had rendered the dear lady he so truly valued for the
service she had done him, that he promised her also a
noble husband: Helena’s history giving him a hint, that
it was a suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair
ladies when they 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 Rousillon.

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

KaTHARINE, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of
Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She was a lady
of such an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper, such a
loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua by no
other name than Katharine the Shrew. It seemed very
unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman would
ever be found who would venture to marry this lady,
and therefore Baptista was much blamed for deferring
his consent to many excellent offers that were made to
her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca’s suitors
with this excuse, that when the eldest sister was fairly
off his hands, they should have free leave to address
young Bianca.

It happened, however, that a gentleman, named
Petruchio, came to Padua, purposely to look out for
a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports of
Katharine’s temper, and hearing she was rich and hand-
some, 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 humourist,
and withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, that
he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious
deportment, when his spirits were so calm that himself
could have laughed merrily at his own angry feigning,

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THE GENTLE KATHERINE

(The Taming of the Shrew—Act II. Scene 1)
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

for his natural temper was careless and easy; the bois-
terous airs he assumed when he became the husband of
Katharine being but in sport, or more properly speaking,
affected by his excellent discernment, as the only means
to overcome, in her own way, the passionate ways of the
furious 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 composed, for her
music-master rushed into the room to complain that the
gentle Katharine, his pupil, had broken his head with her
lute, for presuming to find fault with her performance ;
which, when Petruchio heard, he said, ‘It is a brave
wench; I love her more than ever, and long to have
some chat with her’; and hurrying the old gentleman
for a positive answer, he said, ‘My business is in haste,
signior Baptista, I cannot come every day to woo. You
knew my father: he is dead, and has left me heir to all
his landsand 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 mean time Petruchio was settling with him-

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self the mode of courtship he should pursue; and he
said, ‘I will woo her with some spirit when she comes.
If she rails at me, why then I will tell her she sings as
sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns, I will say she
looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she
will not speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her
language; and if she bids me leave her, I will give her
thanks as if she bid me stay with her a week.’ Now the
stately 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
Christendom, and therefore, Kate, hearing your mild-
ness 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 (intending 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, saying she would rather see him
hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for wish-
ing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio.
Petruchio desired her father not to regard her angry

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THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

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 Sunday.’

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 Katharine, nor was he dressed him-
self 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 him,
and not to his clothes; and finding it was in vain to
argue with him, to the church they went, he still
behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest
asked Petruchio if 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 again. 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 vet in the church, he called for wine,

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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 seeming so daring and resolute
that no one dared attempt to stop him.

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse,
lean and lank, which he had picked out for the purpose,
and himself 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 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
Katharine had heard nothing but the wild ravings of
Petruchio at the servant and the horses, they arrived
at his house. Petruchio weleomed her kindly to her
home, but he resolved she should have neither rest
nor food that night. The tables were spread, and
supper soon served; but Petruchio, pretending to find
fault with every dish, threw the meat about the floor,
and ordered the servants to remove it away; and all —

174
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

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, throw-
ing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so
that she was foreed 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 not give her anything
unknown to their master. ‘ Ah,’ said she, ‘did he marry
me to famish me? Beggars that come to my father’s
door have food given them. But I, who never knew
what it was to entreat for anything, am starved for want
of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking,
and with brawling fed; and that which vexes me more
than all, he does it under the name of perfect love,
pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were present death
to me.’ Here the 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 purpose.’ He

175
TALES. FROM SHAKSPEARE

then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Ex-
treme 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 in-
tended to bring her to, and he replied, ‘The poorest
service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before
you touch the meat.’ On this 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 it bigger. Katharine said, ‘I will
have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these.’
—‘When you are gentle, replied Petruchio, ‘you shall
have one too, and not till then.’ The meat Katharine
. had eaten had a little revived her fallen spirits, and she
said, ‘Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, and
speak I will: I am no child, no babe; your betters have
endured to hear me say my mind; and if you cannot,
you had better stop your ears.’ Petruchio would not
hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a
176
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

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, ‘I like the cap, and I will have this cap or
none. —‘ You say you wish to see the gown,’ said
Petruchio, still affecting to misunderstand her. The
tailor then came forward and showed her a fine gown
he had made for her. Petruchio, whose intent was that
she should have neither cap nor gown, found as much
fault with that. ‘O mercy, Heaven!’ said he, ‘what
stuffis here! What, do you call this a sleeve? itis 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 haberdasher 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 morn-
ing, 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 be so completely sub-
dued, that she should assent to everything he said,
before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as

M ; 177
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

if he were lord even of the sun, and could command
the hours, he said it should be what time he pleased
to have it, before he set forward; ‘For,’ he said, ‘ what-
ever I say or do, you still are crossing it. I will not go
to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o’clock I say it is.’
Another day 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 contradiction, would
Petruchio allow her to go to her father’s house; and even
while they were upon their journey thither, she was in
danger of being turned back again, only because she hap-
pened to hint it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon
shone brightly at noonday. ‘Now, by my mother’s
son,’ said he, ‘and that is myself, it shall be the moon, or
stars, or what I list, before I journey to your father’s
house.’ He then made as if he were going back again;
but 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 it a 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. —‘I 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 gentlewoman, praising the red and white
178
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

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, ‘ 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 everything I look on seemeth green. Now I
perceive you are a reverend father: I hope you will
pardon me for my sad mistake.’—‘ Do, good old grand-
sire, said Petruchio, ‘and tell us which way you are
travelling. We shall be glad of your good company, if
you are going our way.’ The old gentleman replied,
‘Fair sir, and you, my merry mistress, your strange
encounter has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio,
and I am going to visit a son of mine who lives at Padua.’
Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman to be the father
of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married
to Baptista’s younger daughter, Bianca, and he made
Vincentio very happy, by telling him the rich marriage
his son was about to make: and they all journeyed on
pleasantly together till they came to Baptista’s house,
where there was a 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

179
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

wedding feast, and there was present also another newly
married pair.

Lucentio, Bianca’s husband, and Hortensio, the other
new married man, could not forbear sly jests, which
seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition of Petruchio’s
wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed highly pleased
with the mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen,
laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice.
Petruchio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies
were retired after dinner, and then he perceived Baptista
himself joined in the laugh against him: for when
Petruchio . affirmed that his wife would prove more
obedient than theirs, the father of Katharine said, ‘ Now,
in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the
veriest shrew of all.’ ‘Well,’ said Petruchio, ‘I say no,
and therefore for assurance that I speak the truth, let us
each one send for his wife, and he whose wife is most
obedient to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a
wager which we will propose.’ To this the other two
husbands willingly consented, for they were quite confi-
dent 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
Hortensio 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 him a worse answer. And now
it was Hortensio’s turn to send for his wife; and he said

180
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

to his servant, ‘Go, and entreat my wife to come to me.’
‘Oh ho! entreat her!’ said Petruchio. ‘Nay, then, she
needs must come.—‘I am afraid, sir,’ said Hortensio,
‘your wife will not be entreated.’ But presently this
civil husband looked a little blank, when the servant
returned without his mistress; and he said to him, ‘ How
now! Where is my wife ?’—< Sir,’ said the servant, ‘my
mistress says, you have some goodly jest in hand, and
therefore she will not come. She bids you come to her.’
—‘ Worse and worse!’ said Petruchio; and then he sent
his servant, saying, ‘Sirrah, go to your mistress, and
tell her I command her to come to me.’ The company
had scarcely time to think she would not obey this
summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed, ‘ Now,
by my Aolidame, 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 Hortensio’s
wife?’ said he. Katharine replied, ‘They sit conferring
by the parlour fire.—‘Go, fetch them hither!’ said
Petruchio. Away went Katharine without reply to per-
form her husband’s command. ‘Here is a wonder,’ said
Lucentio, ‘if you talk of a wonder. —‘ And so it is,’ said
Hortensio; ‘I marvel what it bodes.’—‘ Marry, peace it
bodes,’ said Petruchio, ‘ and love, and quiet life, and right
supremacy; and, to be short, everything that is sweet
and happy.’ 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, ‘I will win the wager
better yet, and show more signs of her new-built virtue
and obedience.’ Katharine now entering with the two
ladies, he continued, ‘See where she comes, and brings
181
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 under foot.’ Katharine
instantly took off her cap, and threw it down. ‘Lord!’
said Hortensio’s wife, ‘may I never have a cause to sigh
till I am brought to such a silly pass!’ And Bianca, she
too said, ‘ Fie, what foolish duty call you this?’ On this
Bianca’s husband said to her, ‘I wish your duty were as
foolish too! The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, has
cost me a hundred crowns since dinner-time.’-—‘ The more
fool you,’ said Bianca, ‘for laying on my duty.’—‘ Kath-
arine,’ 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 wifelike 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 heretofore, as
Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine the most obedient
and duteous wife in Padua.

182
DROMIO OF EPHESUS, “Let my master

(THE COMEDY OF ERRORS—Act III. Scene 1)


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

THE 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.

Aigeon, 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 sentence of
death.

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

Aigeon 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 :—

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

183
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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

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

‘The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous
complaints of the pretty babes, who, not knowing what to
fear, wept for fashion, because they saw their mother
weep, filled me with terror for them, though I did not for
myself fear death; and all my thoughts were bent to
contrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest son
to the end of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men
provide against storms; at the other end I bound the
youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same time I
directed my wife how to fasten the other children in like
manner to another mast. She thus having the care of
the two eldest children, and I of the two younger, we
bound ourselves separately to these masts with the
children; and but for this contrivance we had all been
lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock, and was dashed

184
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

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

‘My youngest son, and now my only care, when he
was eighteen years of age, began to be inquisitive after
his mother and his brother, and often 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 unwilling to leave any
place unsought that harbours men; but this day must
end the story of my life, and happy should I think myself
in my death, if I were assured my wife and sons were
living.’

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

185
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit him to
alter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead of doom-
ing 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 Aigeon,
for not knowing any man in Ephesus, there seemed to
him but little chance that any stranger would lend or
give him a thousand marks to pay the fine; and helpless
and hopeless of any relief, he retired from the presence of
the duke in the custody of a jailor.

figeon 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.

Aiigeon’s sons, besides being exactly alike in face and
person, were both named alike, being both called Anti-
pholus, and the two twin slaves were also both named
Dromio. Ageon’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 Aigeon 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 Epi-
damnum; this Antipholus agreed to do, and he was
sorry to hear one of his own countrymen was in this
danger, but he little thought this old merchant was his
own father.

The eldest son of Aigeon (who must be called
Antipholus of Ephesus, to distinguish him from his
brother Antipholus of Syracuse) had lived at Ephesus

186 :
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

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 Anti-
pholus, 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

187
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

away, he stood awhile thinking over his solitary wander-
ings in search of his mother and his brother, of whom
in no place where he landed could he hear the least
tidings ; and he said sorrowfully to himself, ‘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)
returned. 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 Antipholus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The two
Dromios and the two Antipholuses were still as much
alike as Aigeon had said they were in their infancy;
therefore no wonder Antipholus 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 stiil answer-
ing, that his mistress had sent him to fetch Antipholus
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, ‘I pray you, sir,
jest as you sit at dinner. I had no charge but to fetch

188
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

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 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 doubt-
ing 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, ‘O how
comes it that I have lost your love ?’—* Plead you to me,
fair dame?’ said the astonished Antipholus. 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.

189
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 mistress, and Dromio
was in the kitchen; and though they almost knocked
the door down, they could not gain admittance, 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 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 goldsmith 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 choosing to stay in
a place any longer, where he met with such strange
adventures that he surely thought himself bewitched.

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THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

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 per-
sisting 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 conclusion of their dispute, Antipholus and the
merchant were both taken away to prison together.

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 wondering that his master should send him back
to the strange house where he dined, and from which he
had just before been in such haste to depart, did not dare
to reply, though he came to tell his master the ship was
ready to sail: for he saw Antipholus was in no humour
to be jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling
within himself, that he must return to Adriana’s house,
‘Where,’ said he, ‘ Dowsabel claims me for a husband : but
1 must go, for servants must obey their masters’ commands.’

191
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was
returmng, 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
sorcerers and witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve
his master from his bewildered thoughts, by asking him
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 illusions’; and quite terrified at his own
confused thoughts, he cried out, ‘Some blessed power
deliver us from this strange place!’

And now another stranger came up to him, and she
was a lady, and she too called him Antipholus, and told
him he had dined with her that day, and asked him for a
gold chain 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 promised her a chain, which
Antipholus still denying, she further said, that she had

192
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

given him a valuable ring, and if he would not give her
the gold chain, she insisted upon having her own ring
again. On this 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 Antipholus 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 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 jailor (who allowed him to come home to get the

x 193
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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
husband, and had never been in Ephesus till that day,
she had no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid
the jailor the money, and having discharged him, she
ordered her servants to bind her husband with ropes, and
had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent for a doctor
to come and cure him of his madness: 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 convent in their neighbourhood, there they
saw Antipholus and Dromio, as they thought, being
again deceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers.

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

194
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

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 mad-
ness, 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 dis-
turbed his mind?’ Adriana replied, that no such things
as these had been the cause. ‘Perhaps,’ said the abbess,
‘he has fixed his affections on some other lady than you
his wife ; and that has driven him to this state.’ Adriana
said she had long thought the love of some other lady
was the cause of his frequent absences from home. Now
it was not his love for another, but the teasing jealousy
of his wife’s temper, that often obliged Antipholus to
leave his home; and (the abbess suspecting this from the
vehemence of Adriana’s manner) to learn the truth, she
said, ‘You should have reprehended him for this.’—
‘Why, so I did,’ replied Adriana. ‘ Ay,’ said the abbess,
‘but 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 con-
versation: in bed I would not let him sleep for speaking

195
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

of it. At table I would not let him eat for speaking
of 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 disturbed by your brawls;
being debarred from the enjoyment of society and recrea-
tion, what could ensue but dull melancholy and comfort-
less despair? The consequence is then, that your jealous
fits have made your husband mad.’

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

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still
insisted 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

196
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

was passing away, it being now near sunset; and at
sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the
money.

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

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

Aigeon, 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 affec-
tion, with joyful hope that he should now be released.
But to the utter astonishment 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 old Aigeon 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 acknow-
ledge his father in his misery; in the midst of this per-
plexity, the lady abbess and the other Antipholus and

197
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Dromio came out, and the wondering Adriana saw two
husbands and two Dromios standing before her.

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

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the
history of Aligeon; 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 conclu-
sion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself known
to be the long-lost wife of Aigeon, and the fond mother
of the two Antipholuses.

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 abbess of this convent, and in discharging the rites
of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had unknow-
ingly protected her own son.

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings
between these long separated parents and their children
made them for a while forget that Algeon 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
Aigeon, 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 dis-
course at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse
fortunes. And the two Dromios’ humble joy must
not be forgotten; they had their congratulations and

198
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented
his brother on his good looks, being well pleased to see
his own person (as in a glass) show so handsome in his
brother.

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

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 some-
times, 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.

199
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such
a mild and gentle temper, that he suffered his subjects
to neglect the laws with impunity; and there was in
particular one law, the existence of which was almost
forgotten, the duke never having put it in force during
his whole reign. This was a law dooming any man to
the punishment of death, who should live with a woman
that was not his wife; and this law, through the lenity of
the duke, being utterly disregarded, the holy institution
of marriage became neglected, and complaints were every
day made to the duke by the parents of the young ladies
in Vienna, that their daughters had been seduced from
their protection, and were living as the companions of
single men.

The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing
evil among his subjects; but 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 a while from his dukedom, and depute
another to the full exercise of his power, that the law
against these dishonourable lovers might be put in effect,
without giving offence by an unusual severity in his own
person.

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in

200
ISABEL'S PLEADING

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MEASURE FOR MEASURE

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 his new dignity, that a gentleman, whose
name was Claudio, had seduced a young lady from her
parents; and for this offence, by command of the new
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 old lord Escalus himself interceded for him.
‘ Alas,’ said he, ‘this gentleman whom I would save had
an honourable father, for whose sake I pray you pardon
the young man’s transgression.’ But Angelo replied,
‘We must not make a scare-crow of the law, setting it
up to frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it harm-
less, 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 pro-
poses to enter the convent of Saint Clare; acquaint her
with the danger of my state; implore her that she make
friends with the strict deputy; bid her go herself to

201
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

Angelo. I have great hopes in that; for she can dis-
course with prosperous art, and well she can persuade;
besides, there is a speechless dialect in youthful sorrow,
such as moves men.’

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day
entered upon her noviciate in the convent, and it was her
intent, after passing through her probation as a novice,
to take the veil, and she was inquiring of a nun concern-
ing 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 sisterhood, the votarists of Saint
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 salu-
tation 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 on your cheeks pro-
claim you are no less! can you bring me to the sight of
Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sister to her un-
happy brother Claudio ?’—‘ Why her unhappy brother ee
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

202
MEASURE FOR MEASURE

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 days’ friendship; and as
Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had
been led by her affection for him into this transgression.
‘She it is,’ replied Lucio. ‘Why then, let my brother
marry Juliet,’ said Isabel. Lucio replied that Claudio
would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had
sentenced him to die for his offence; ‘ Unless,’ said he,
‘you have the grace by your fair prayer to soften Angelo,
and that is my business between you and 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 fear-
ing to attempt it. Go to lord Angelo! When maidens
sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like gods.’—‘I will
see what I can do,’ said Isabel: ‘I will but stay to give
the prioress notice of the affair, and then I will go to
Angelo. Commend me to my brother: soon at night
I will send him word of my success.’

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on
her knees before Angelo, saying, ‘I am a woful suitor to
your honour, if it will please your honour to hear me.’—
‘Well, what is your suit?’ said Angelo. She then made
her petition in the most moving terms for her brother’s
life. But Angelo said, ‘Maiden, there is no remedy;
your brother is sentenced, and he must die.—<‘O 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

203
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

you should need a pin, you could not with a more tame
tongue desire it.’ Then again Isabel on her knees im-
plored 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-morrow ?’ said Isabel ; ‘Oh,
that is sudden: spare him, spare him; he is not prepared
for death. Even for our kitchens we kill the fowl in
season; shall we serve Heaven with less respect than
we minister to our gross selves? Good, good, my lord,
bethink you, none have died for my brother’s offence,
though many have committed it. So you would be the
first that gives this sentence, and he the first that suffers
it. Go to your own bosom, my lord; knock there, and
ask your heart what it does know that is like my brother's
fault; if it confess a natural guiltiness such as his is, let
it not sound a thought against my brother’s life!’ Her
last words more moved Angelo than all she had before
said, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion
in his heart, and he began to form thoughts of dishonour-
able love, such as Claudio’s crime had been; and the
204
MEASURE FOR MEASURE

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 temporal.’
—‘ Well, come to me to-morrow,’ said Angelo. And for
this short respite of her brother's life, and for this per-
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. Even 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 penitence and
peace, But Angelo felt all the pangs of irresolute guilt:
now wishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence

205
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

and honour, and now suffering remorse and horror for a
crime as yet but intentional. But in the end his evil
thoughts prevailed; and he who had so lately started at
the offer of a bribe, resolved to tempt this maiden with
so high a bribe, as she might not be able to resist, even
with the precious gift of her dear brother’s life.

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired
she might be admitted alone to his presence: and being
there, he said to her, if she would yield to him her virgin
honour and transgress even as Juliet had done with
Claudio, he would give her her brother’s life; ‘ For,’ said
he, ‘I love you, Isabel.’-—‘ My brother,’ said Isabel, ‘did
so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall die for it.’—
‘But,’ said Angelo, ‘Claudio shall not die, if you will
consent to visit me by stealth at night, even as Juliet
left her father’s house at night to’ come to Claudio.’
Isabel, in amazement at his words, that he should tempt
her to the same fault for which he passed sentence upon
her brother, said, ‘I would 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 I 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 express 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?’ said Angelo; ‘my unsoiled
name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched

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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 dishonour-
able solicitations.

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was con-
fined, she said, ‘Peace be here, grace, and good com-
pany!’—‘ Who is there?’ said the disguised duke;
‘come in; the wish deserves a welcome.’—‘ My business
is a word or two with Claudio,’ said Isabel. Then the
duke left them together, and desired the provost, who
had the charge of the prisoners, to 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 con-
sented to it would strip your honour from you, and
leave you naked.’—‘Let me know the point,’ said
Claudio. ‘O, I do fear you, Claudio!’ replied his sister;
‘and I quake, lest you should wish to live, and more
respect the trifling term of six or seven winters added
to your life, than your perpetual honour! Do you dare
to die? The sense of death is most in apprehension,
and the poor beetle that we tread upon, feels a pang as

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great as when a giant dies.’ ‘Why do you give me this
shame?" said Claudio. ‘Think you I can fetch a resolu-
tion 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. O, 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.—‘O faithless coward !
O dishonest wretch!’ said Isabel; ‘would you preserve
your life by your sister’s shame? O fie, fie, fie! I
thought, my brother, you had in you such a mind of
honour, that had you twenty heads to render up on
twenty blocks, you would have yielded them up all,
before your sister should stoop to such dishonour.’ ‘Nay,
hear me, Isabel!’ said Claudio. But what he would have
said in defence of his weakness, in desiring to live by
the dishonour of his virtuous sister, was interrupted by
the entrance of the duke; who said, ‘Claudio, I have
overheard what has passed between you and your sister.
Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; what he
said, has only been to make trial of her virtue. She
having the truth of honour in her, has given him that
gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. There
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MEASURE FOR MEASURE

is no hope that he will pardon you; therefore pass your
hours in prayer, and make ready for death. Then
Claudio repented of his weakness, and said, ‘Let me
ask my sister’s pardon! I am so out of love with life,
that I will sue to be rid of it.’ And Claudio retired,
overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault.

The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended
her virtuous resolution, saying, ‘The hand that made
you fair, has made you good.’—‘O,’ said Isabel, ‘how
much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! if ever he
return, and I can speak to him, I will discover his govern-
ment.’ Isabel knew not that she was even now making
the discovery she threatened. The duke replied, ‘That
shall not be much amiss; yet as the matter now stands,
Angelo will repel your accusation; therefore lend an
attentive 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 fortune she lost the affections
of her husband, the well-seeming Angelo ; who pretending

Oo 209
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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 mid-
night; 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 intention.
He had before this time visited this unhappy lady in
his assumed character, giving her religious instruction
and friendly consolation, at which times he had learned
her sad story from her own lips; and now she, looking
upon him as a holy man, readily consented to be 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

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MEASURE FOR MEASURE

vineyard gate; this other a little door which leads from
the vineyard to the garden. There I have made my
promise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and
have got from him his word of assurance for my brother’s
life. I have taken a due and wary note of the place;
and with whispering and most guilty diligence he showed
me the way twice over. —‘ Are there no other tokens
agreed upon between you, that Mariana must observe ?’
said the duke. ‘No, none,’ said Isabel, ‘only to go when
itis dark. I have told him my time can be but short;
for I have made him think a servant comes along with
me, and that this servant is persuaded I come about my
brother.” The duke commended her disereet manage-
ment, 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 sup-
posed, 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 repaired to the prison, and it was well
for Claudio that he did so, else would Claudio have that
night been beheaded; for soon after the duke entered
the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy, com-
manding that Claudio should be beheaded, and his head
sent to him by five o’clock in the morning. But the
duke persuaded the provost to put off the execution of
Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, by sending him the head
of a man who died that morning in the prison. And to
prevail upon the provost to agree to this, the duke,
whom still the provost suspected not to be anything
more or greater than he seemed, showed the provost a
letter written with the duke’s hand, and sealed with his

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

seal, which when the provost saw, he concluded this
friar must have some secret order from the absent
‘ duke, and therefore he consented to spare Claudio;
and he cut off the dead man’s head, and carried it to
Angelo.

Then the duke in his own name, wrote to Angelo
a letter, saying, that certain accidents had put a stop
to his journey, and that he should be in Vienna by the
following morning, requiring Angelo to meet him at the
entrance of the city, there to deliver up his authority ;
and the duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, that
if any of his subjects craved redress for injustice, they
should exhibit their petitions in the street on his first
entrance into the city.

Karly in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and
the duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret
reasons thought it good to tell her that Claudio was
beheaded ; therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had
sent the pardon for her brother, he said, ‘ Angelo has
released Claudio from this world. His head is off, and
sent to the deputy.’ The much-grieved sister cried out,
*‘O unhappy Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world,
most wicked Angelo!’ The seeming friar bid her take
comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he
acquainted her with the near prospect of the duke’s
return, and told her in what manner she should proceed
in preferring her complaint against Angelo; and he bade
her not fear if the cause should seem to go against her
for a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed, he
next went to Mariana, and gave her counsel in what
manner she also should act.

Then the duke laid aside his friar’s habit, and in his
own royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful
subjects, assembled to greet his arrival, entered the city

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MEASURE FOR MEASURE

of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who delivered
up his authority in the proper form. And there came
Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and said,
‘Justice, most royal duke! I am the sister of one
Claudio, who, for the seducing a young maid, was
condemned to lose his head. I made my suit to lord
Angelo for my brother’s pardon. It were needless to
tell your grace how I prayed and kneeled, how he repelled
me, and how 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
dishonourable 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 dis-
believe her story; and Angelo said that grief for her
brother’s death, who had suffered by the due course of
the law, had disordered her senses. And now another
suitor approached, which was Mariana; and Mariana said,
‘Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven, and
truth from breath, as there is sense in truth and truth in
virtue, I am this man’s wife, and, my good lord, the words
of Isabel are false; for the night she says she was with
Angelo, I passed that night with him in the garden-house,
As this is true, let me in safety rise, or else for ever be
fixed here a marble monument.’ Then did Isabel appeal
for the truth of what she had said to friar Lodowick, that
being the name the duke had assumed in his disguise.
Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions in
what they said, the duke intending that the 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
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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

differed in their story, and he hoped from their contra-
dictory evidence to be able to clear himself from the
accusation of Isabel; and he said, assuming the look of
offended innocence, ‘I did but smile till now; but, good
my lord, my patience here is touched, and I perceive
these poor distracted women are but the instruments of
some greater one, who sets them on. Let me have way,
my lord, to find this practice out.—‘ Ay, with all my
heart,’ said the duke, ‘and punish them to the height of
your pleasure. You, lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo,
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
presented himself before Angelo and Escalus: and the
good old Escalus, who thought Angelo had been falsely
accused, said to the supposed friar, ‘Come, sir, did you
set these women on to slander lord Angelo?’ He replied,
‘Where is the duke? It is he who should hear me speak.’
Escalus said, ‘ The duke is in us, and we will hear you.
Speak justly.’—‘ Boldly at least,’ retorted the friar; and
then he blamed the duke for leaving the cause of Isabel
in the hands of him she had accused, and spoke so freely
of many corrupt practices he had observed, while, as he
said, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus
threatened him with the torture for speaking words
against the state, and for censuring the conduct of the
duke, and ordered kim to be taken away to prison. Then,
to the amazement of all present, and to the utter confusion
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MEASURE FOR MEASURE

of Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his disguise, and

they saw it was the duke himself.
The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her,
Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince, but
with my habit I have not changed my heart. I am still
devoted to your service.’ ‘O give me pardon,’ said Isabel,
‘that I, your vassal, have employed and troubled your un-
known sovereignty.’ 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; meaning 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 instate and
widow you withal, to buy you a better husband.’—‘O 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 Isabe:
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,

215
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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
maymyhusband. Oh, 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 remembered, when
dressed in a little brief authority, how hard his heart had
been, and felt how sweet is mercy.

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and
offered himself again to. the acceptance of Isabel, whose
virtuous and noble conduct had won her prince’s heart.
Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to marry; and
the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a
humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her,
made her with grateful joy accept the honour he offered

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MEASURE FOR MEASURE

her; and when she became duchess of Vienna, the excel-
lent example of the virtuous Isabel worked such a com-
plete 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.

257
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

SEBASTIAN and his sister Viola, 2 young gentleman and
lady of Messaline, were twins, and (which was accounted
a great wonder) from their birth they so much resembled
each other, that, but for the difference in their dress, they
could not be known apart. They were both born in one
hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of perish-
ing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria, as
they were making a sea-voyage together. The ship, on
board of which they were, split on a rock in a violent
storm, and a very small number of the ship’s company
escaped with their lives. The captain of the vessel, with
a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a small]
boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore,
where she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own
deliverance, began to lament her brother’s loss; but the
captain comforted her with the assurance that he had
seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to a
strong mast, on which, as long as he could see anything
of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above
the waves. Viola was much consoled by the hope this
account gave her, and now considered how she was to
dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from home;
and she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria.
‘ Ay, very well, madam,’ replied the captain, ‘for I was
born not three hours’ travel from this place.—‘ Who
governs here?’ said Viola. The captain told her, Illyria
218
OLIVIA, “But we will draw the curtain and show you the picture”

(THE TWELFTH NIGHT—A

TWELFTH NIGHT

was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well
as dignity. Viola said, she had heard her father speak of
Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. ‘And he is so
now,’ said the captain; ‘or was so very lately, for, but a
month ago, I went from here, and then it was the general
talk (as you know what great ones do, the people will
prattle of) that Orsino sought the love of fair Olivia, a
virtuous maid, the daughter of a 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 willingly serve this lady. But he
replied, this would be a hard thing to accomplish, because
the Lady Olivia would admit no person into her house
since her brother’s death, not even the duke himself.
Then Viola formed another project in her mind, which
was, in a man’s habit, to serve the duke Orsino as a page.
It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on male
attire, and pass for a boy; but the forlorn and 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

219
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

being mistaken for each other; for, as will afterwards
appear, Sebastian was also saved.

Viola’s good friend, the captain, when he had trans-
formed this pretty lady into a gentleman, having some
interest at court, got her presented to Orsino under the
feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully
pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this
handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that
being the office Viola wished to obtain: and she so well
fulfilled the duties of her new station, and showed such a
ready observance and faithful attachment to her lord,
that she soon became his most favoured attendant. To
Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love for
the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and un-
successful 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, listen-
ing 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
confidants 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 could behold without

220
TWELFTH NIGHT

the deepest admiration, 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, ‘If a
lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and
perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not
love her in return, would you not tell her that you could
not love, and must she not be content with this answer ?’
But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he
denied that it was possible for any woman to love as he
did. He said, no woman’s heart was big enough to hold
so much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare the
love of any lady for him, to his love for Olivia. Now,
though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke’s
opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite
true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in
it as Orsino’s had; and she said, ‘ Ah, but I know, my
lord. —*‘ What do you know, Cesario?’ said Orsino.
‘Too well I know,’ replied Viola, ‘what love women may
owe tomen. They are as true of heart as we are. My
father had a daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I
a woman, should love your lordship. —‘ And what is her
history ?’ said Orsino. ‘A blank, my lord,’ replied Viola;
‘she never told her love, but let concealment, like a
worm in the bud, feed 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 expressive 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
handmaid she returned you this answer: Until seven
221
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face,
but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her
chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her
dead brother.’ On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, ‘O
she that 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. ‘O then,’ replied Orsino, ‘unfold to
her the passion of my love. Make a long discourse to
her of my dear faith. It will well become you to act my
woes, for she will attend more to you than to one of
graver aspect.’

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she
undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to
become a wife to him she wished to marry: but having
undertaken the affair, she performed it with fidelity ; and
Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who
insisted upon being admitted to her presence. ‘I told
him,’ said the servant, ‘that you were sick: he said he
knew you were, and therefore he came to speak with
you. I told him that you were asleep: he seemed to
have a fore-knowledge of that too, and said, that there-
fore he must speak with you. What is to be said to him,
lady? for he seems fortified against all denial, and will
speak with you, whether you will or no.’ Olivia, curious
to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired
he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her
face, she said she would once more hear Orsino’s embassy,
not doubting but that he came from the duke by his

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TWELFTH NIGHT

importunity. Viola, entering, put on the most manly
air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier
language of great men’s pages, she said to the veiled lady,
‘Most radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray
you tell me if you are the lady of the house; for I should
be sorry to cast away my speech upon another; for
besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken
great pains to learn it.—‘ Whence come you, sir?’ said
Olivia. ‘I can say little more than I have studied,
replied Viola; ‘and that question is out of my part.’—
‘ Are you a comedian?’ said Olivia. ‘No,’ replied Viola;
‘and yet I am not that which I play’; meaning that she,
being a woman, feigned herself to bea man. And again
she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house.
Olivia said she was; and then Viola, having more curi-
osity 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 supposed page, the humble Cesario.
When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, ‘ Have
you any commission from your lord and master to
negotiate with my face?’ And then, forgetting her
determination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew
aside her veil, saying, ‘But I will draw the curtain and
show the picture. Is it not well done?’ Viola replied,
‘It is beauty truly mixed; the red and white upon your
cheeks is by Nature’s own cunning hand laid on. You
are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these
graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy.—‘O,
sir, replied Olivia, ‘I will not be so cruel. The world
may have an inventory of my beauty. As, item, two lips,
indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them;
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one neck; one chin; and so forth. Were you sent here
to praise me?’ Viola replied, ‘I see what you are: you
are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master
loves you. O such a love could but be recompensed,
though you were crowned the queen of beauty: for
Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears, with
groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire.‘ Your lord,’
said Olivia, ‘knows well my mind. I cannot 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
Kcho, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out Olivia. O
you should not rest between the elements of earth and
air, but you should pity me.—‘ You might do much,’
said Olivia: ‘what is your parentage?’ Viola replied,
‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a
gentleman.’ Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola,
saying, ‘Go to your master, and tell him, I cannot love
him. Let him send no more, unless perchance you come
again to tell me how he takes it.’ And Viola departed,
bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty.
When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, Above
my fortunes, yet my state is 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 affec-
tions, she blamed herself for her sudden love: but the
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TWELFTH NIGHT

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
to recollect that Olivia’s looks and manner were expres-
sive 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 fruit-
less 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 com-
mand 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 mean time, 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, 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.’—

P 4,3 225
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE
SONG

Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress 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, O prepare it!
My part of death no one so true did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strewn:
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song,
which in such true simplicity described the pangs of
unrequited love, and she bore testimony in her counte-
nance of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks
were observed 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 himself, 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 discover when their ladies delight to converse with
handsome young messengers; and the instant Viola
arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke’s
page was shown into Olivia’s apartment with great
respect ; and when Viola told Olivia that she was come
once more to plead in her lord’s behalf, this lady said, ‘I

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TWELFTH NIGHT

desired you never to speak of him 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, 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 Olivia’s fond solicitation was, a declaration of a reso-
lution Never 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 con-
fessing that she was a woman; but she was relieved at
once from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery,
by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them,
and as if he had been long known to her, and were her
dearest friend, said to her opponent, ‘If this young
gentleman has done offence, I will take the fault on me;
and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy you.’
Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection,
or to inquire the reason of his kind interference, her new
friend met with an enemy where his bravery was of no

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

use to him; for the officers of justice coming up in that
instant, apprehended the stranger in the duke’s name, to
answer for an offence he had committed some years
before: and he said to Viola, ‘This comes with seeking
you’: and then he asked her for a purse, saying, ‘ Now
my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves
me much more for what I cannot do for you, than for
what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of
comfort.’ His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she
protested she knew him not, nor had ever received a
purse 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 unkind-
ness. He said, ‘This youth, whom you see here, I
snatched from the jaws of death, and for his sake alone
I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this danger.’ But
the officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints
of their prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, ‘ What
is that to us?’ And as he was carried away, he called
Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed
Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long as he was within
hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian,
though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her
to ask an explanation, she conjectured that this seeming
mystery might arise from her being mistaken for her
brother; and she began to cherish hopes that it was her
brother whose life this man said he had preserved. And
so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio,
was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his
ship when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating
on the mast to which he had fastened himself in the
storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for Sebastian,
that he resolved to accompany him whithersoever he
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TWELFTH NIGHT

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’a 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 any-
thing 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
invitation to fight, slunk home as fast as she 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 him a blow. Sebastian was no coward; he re-
turned the blow with interest, and drew his sword.

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came
out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for
Cesario, invited him to come into her house, expressing
much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. Though
Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this
lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went
very willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to

229
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

find Cesario (as she thought him) become more sensible
of her attentions ; for though their features were exactly
the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be
seen in his face, which she had complained of when she
told her 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 discreetly, and that in all but her
sudden love for him she appeared in the full possession of
her reason, he well approved of the courtship; and Olivia
finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing he
might change his mind, proposed that, as she had a priest
in the house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian
assented to this proposal; and when the marriage cere-
mony 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; and he said, ‘ Here
comes the countess: now Heaven walks on earth! but

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TWELFTH NIGHT

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 ingratitude 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 dissembler, her husband, as he
called Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again,
when (as it seemed to them) a miracle appeared! for
another Cesario entered, and addressed Olivia as his wife.
This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of
Olivia; and when their wonder had a little ceased at
seeing two persons with the same face, the same voice,
and the same habit, the brother and sister began to
231

=
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 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.’

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TWELFTH NIGHT

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.

233
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

TIMON OF ATHENS

Trmon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely
fortune, affected a humour of liberality which knew no
limits. His almost infinite wealth could not flow in so
fast, but he poured it out faster upon all sorts and degrees
of people. Not the poor only tasted of his bounty, but
great lords did not disdain to rank themselves among
his dependants and 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 com-
bined with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all
hearts to his love; men of all minds and dispositions
tendered their services to lord Timon, from the glass-
faced flatterer, whose face reflects as in a mirror the
present humour of his patron, to the rough and unbending
cynic, who affecting a contempt 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
recommendatory introduction to the world, he had no
more to do but to dedicate it to lord Timon, and the
poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse from the
patron, and daily access to his house and table. If a

234
TIMON OF ATHENS

painter had a picture to dispose of, he had only to take
it to lord Timon, and pretend to consult his taste as to
the merits of it; nothing more was wanting to persuade
the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller had a
stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for
their costliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon’s house.
was a ready mart always open, where they might get off
their wares or their jewellery at any price, and the good-
natured lord would thank them into the bargain, as if
they had done him a piece of courtesy in letting him
have the refusal of such precious commodities. So that
by this means his house was thronged with superfluous
purchases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious
pomp ; and his person was still more inconveniently beset
with a crowd of these idle visitors, lying poets, painters,
sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and
expectants, who continually filled his lobbies, raining
their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacrificing
to him with 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 per-
mission and bounty.

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

235
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 furniture which was theirs. The thing so praised,
whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning
with the compliments of the giver for lord Timon’s
acceptance, and apologies for the unworthiness of the
gift; and this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, did
not fail to produce from Timon’s bounty, who would not
be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses,
certainly presents of far richer worth, as these pretended
donors knew well enough, and that their false presents
were but the putting out of so much money at large and
speedy interest. In this way lord Lucius had lately sent
to Timon a present of four milk-white horses, trapped in
silver, which this cunning lord had observed Timon upon
some occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus,
had bestowed upon him in the same 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

236
TIMON OF ATHENS

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 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 husband. But for
the most part, knaves and parasites had the command of
his fortune, false friends whom he did not know to be
such, but, because they flocked around his person, he
thought they must needs love him; and because they
smiled and flattered him, he thought surely that his
conduct was approved by all the wise and good. And
when he was feasting in the midst of all these flatterers
and mock friends, when they were eating him up, and
draining his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest
wines drunk to his health and prosperity, he could not
perceive the difference of a friend from a flatterer, but
to his deluded eyes (made proud with the sight) it seemed
a precious comfort to have so many like brothers com-
manding one another’s fortunes (though it was his own
fortune which paid all the costs), and with joy they would

237
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 occasion would have been unmannerly in a servant,
beseeching him with tears to look into the state of his
affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the
discourse to something else; for nothing is so deaf to
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 creature, when
all the rooms of Timon’s great house have been 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
brought him praises from all sorts of people, how quickly
the breath would be gone of which the praise was made;
praises won in feasting would be lost in fasting, and at
one cloud of winter-showers these flies would disappear.

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TIMON OF ATHENS

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 forfeited, and that all he
possessed at present was not enough to pay the one half
of what he owed. Struck with wonder at this presenta-
tion, Timon hastily replied, ‘My lands extend from
Athens to Lacedaemon.’ ‘O my good lord, said Flavius,
‘the world is but a world, and has bounds; were it all
yours to give in a breath, how quickly were it gone!’

Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty had
yet come from him, that if he had given his wealth away
unwisely, it had not been bestowed to feed his vices, but
to cherish his friends; and he bade the kind-hearted
steward (who was weeping) to take comfort in the assur-
ance 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 despatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords
Lucullus and Sempronius, men upon whom he _ had
lavished his gifts in past times without measure or
moderation; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately
released out of prison by paying his debts, and who, by
the death of his father, was now come into the possession
of an ample fortune, and well enabled to requite Timon’s
courtesy : to request of Ventidius the return of those five
talents which he had paid for him, and of each of those
noble lords the loan of fifty talents; nothing doubting

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that their gratitude would supply his wants (if he needed
it) to the amount of five hundred times fifty talents.

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord
had been dreaming overnight of a silver bason and cup,
and when Timon’s servant was announced, his sordid
mind suggested to him that this was surely a making out
of his dream, and that Timon had sent him such a
present: but when he understood the truth of the
matter, and that Timon wanted money, the quality of
his faint and watery friendship showed itself, for with
many protestations he vowed to the servant that he had
long foreseen the ruin. of his master’s affairs, and many a
time had he come to dinner to tell him of it, and had
come again to 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, 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

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TIMON OF ATHENS

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 recollection 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’s pride had made necessary
to him: yet, oh! the monster which man makes himself
when he proves ungrateful! 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,
extolling 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 mansion forsaken, and become a
shunned and hated place, a place for men to pass by, not
a place, as formerly, where every passenger must stop
and taste of his wine and good cheer; now, instead of
being thronged with feasting and tumultuous guests, it

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was beset with impatient and clamorous 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 jail, which he could not pass, nor go
in nor out for them; one demanding his due of fifty
talents, another bringing in a bill of five thousand crowns,
which if he would tell out his blood by drops, and pay |
them so, he had not enough in his body to discharge,
drop by drop.

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 invited his accustomed guests, lords, ladies, all
that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lord 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 lordship? 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 returning prosperity.
For the swallow follows not summer more willingly than

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TIMON OF ATHENS

men of these dispositions follow the good fortunes of the
great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these shrink
from the first appearance of a reverse; such summer
birds are men. But now with music and state the
banquet of smoking dishes was served up; and when the
guests had a little done admiring whence the bankrupt
Timon could find means to furnish so costly a feast, some
doubting whether the scene which they saw was real, as
scarce trusting their own eyes; at a signal given, the
dishes were uncovered, 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 presented, now appeared under the covers
of these dishes a preparation more suitable to Timon’s
poverty, nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm water,
fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose professions
were indeed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery
as the water with which Timon welcomed his astonished
guests, bidding them ‘Uncover, dogs, and lap’; and
before they could recover their surprise, sprinkling it in
their faces, that they might have enough, and throwing
dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling out,
lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a
splendid confusion, Timon pursuing them, still calling
them what they were, ‘smooth smiling parasites, de-
stroyers 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 from
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;

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

What a change from lord Timon therich, lord Timon
the delight of mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the
man-hater! Where were his flatterers now? Where
were his attendants and retinue? Would the bleak air,
that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his
shirton 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 cool brook,
when it was iced with winter, administer to him his warm
broths and caudles when sick of an overnight’s surfeit ?
Or would the creatures that lived in those wild woods
come and lick his hand and flatter him ?

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, his
poor sustenance, his spade struck against something
heavy, which proved to be gold, a great heap which
some miser had probably buried in a time of alarm,
thinking to have come again, and taken it from its
prison, but died before the opportunity had arrived,
without making any man privy to the concealment ; soit

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TIMON OF ATHENS

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 re-
tained 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 innocent smiles, for those
(he said) would live, if they grew up, to be traitors ; but to
steel his eyes and ears. against any sights or sounds that
might awaken compassion; and not to let the cries of

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virgins, babes, or mothers hinder him from making one
universal massacre of the city, but to confound them all
in his conquest; and when he had conquered, he prayed
that the gods would 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 of a man standing in an admiring
posture at the door of his cave. It was Flavius, the
honest steward, whom love and zealous affection to his
master had led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling,
and to offer his services; and the first sight of his master,
the once noble Timon, in that abject condition, naked as
he was born, living in the manner of a beast among beasts,
looking like his own sad ruins and a monument of decay,
so affected this good servant, that he stood speechless,
wrapped up in horror, and confounded. And when he
found 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 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
man’s face without abhorrence, or hear words uttered from
his man’s lips without loathing; and this singly honest
man was forced to depart, because he was a man, and
because, with a heart more gentle and compassionate

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TIMON OF ATHENS

than is usual to man, he bore man’s detested form and
outward feature.

But greater visitants than a poor steward were about
to interrupt the savage quiet of Timon’s 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 conduct came fresh into their forgetful minds, for
Timon had been their general in past times, and a valiant
and expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was
deemed able to cope with a besieging army such as then
threatened them, or to drive back the furious approaches
of Alcibiades.

A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emer-
gency to wait upon Timon. To him they come in their
extremity, to whom, when he was in extremity, they had
shown but small regard; as if they 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 in-
gratitude had so lately driven him; now they offer him
riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for past injuries, and
public honours, and the public love; their persons, lives,
and fortunes, to be at his 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 countrymen, Timon
cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old

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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
disappointed senators ; only at parting he bade them com-
mend 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 kindness before his death. These
words a little revived the senators, who hoped that his
kindness for their city was returning. Then Timon told
them that he had a tree, which grew near his cave, which
he should shortly have occasion to cut down, and he in-
vited 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 boun-
ties, 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 fre-
quented, 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 1’

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

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TIMON OF ATHENS

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 had 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.

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ROMEO AND JULIET

Tux two chief fainilies 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
extended 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 encounter with a
Montague by chance, but fierce words and sometimes
bloodshed ensued; and frequent were the brawls from
such accidental meetings, which disturbed the happy
quiet of Verona’s 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 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, per-
suaded the young lord to go to this assembly in the
disguise of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and
seeing her, compare her with some choice beauties of
Verona, who (he said) would make him think his swan a
crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio’s words;
nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded

250
ROMEO AND JULIET

(Romeo and Juliet—Act V. Scene


ROMEO AND JULIET

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 Capulets then young Romeo with
Benvolio and their friend Mercutio went masked. Old
Capulet bid them welcome, and told them that ladies
who had their toes unplagued with corns would dance
with them. And the old man was light-hearted and
merry, and said that he had worn a mask when he was
young, and could have told a whispering tale in a fair
lady’s ear. And they fell to dancing, and Romeo was
suddenly struck with the exceeding beauty of a lady 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, forced to
be patient against his will, restrained himself, but swore
; 251
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

that this vile Montague should at another time dearly
pay for his intrusion.

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place
where the lady stood; and under favour of his masking
habit, which might seem to excuse in part the liberty, he
presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by the
hand, calling it a shrine, which if he profaned by touch-
ing it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for
atonement. ‘Good pilgrim,’ answered the lady, ‘your
devotion shows by far too mannerly and too courtly:
saints have hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss
not.—‘Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?’ said
Romeo. ‘Ay,’ said the lady, ‘lips which they must use
in prayer. —‘O then, my dear saint,’ said Romeo, ‘hear
my prayer, and grant it, lest I despair.’ In such like
allusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when
the lady was called away to her mother. And Romeo
inquiring who her mother was, discovered that the lady
whose peerless beauty he was so much struck with, was
young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet, the
great enemy of the Montagues; and that he had un-
knowingly 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 considera-
tions should induce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions de-
parted; but they soon missed him, for, unable to stay
away from the house where he had left his heart, he

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ROMEO AND JULIET

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 cheek upon
her hand, he passionately wished himself a glove upon
that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this
while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and
exclaimed, ‘Ah me!’ Romeo, enraptured to hear her
speak, said softly, and unheard by her, ‘O speak again,
bright angel, for such you appear, being over my head,
like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals fall
back to gaze upon.’ She, unconscious of being overheard,
and full of the new passion which that night’s adventure
had given birth to, called upon her lover by name (whom
she supposed absent): ‘O Romeo, Romeo!’ said she,
‘wherefore art 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 wishing him some other name, or that he
would put away that hated name, and for that name which
was no part of himself, he should take all herself. At this
loving word Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking
up the dialogue as if her words had been addressed to
him personally, and not merely in fancy, he bade her call
him Love, or by whatever other name she pleased, for he
was no longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing to

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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 utter-
ing, 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 came you into this place,’ said Juliet,
‘and by whose direction ?’—‘ Love directed me,’ answered
Romeo: ‘I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from
me, as that vast shore which is washed with the farthest
sea, I should venture for such merchandise.’ A crimson
blush came over Juliet’s face, yet unseen by Romeo by
reason of the night, when she reflected upon the discovery
which she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her
love to Romeo. She would fain have recalled 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 protracted courtship.

254
ROMEO AND JULIET

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 un-
worthy mind, but that he must lay the fault of it (if it
were a fault) upon the accident of the night which had so
strangely discovered her thoughts. And she added, that
though her behaviour to him might not be 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 lady,
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 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 daybreak ;
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

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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 loath to part as
she; for the sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each
other’s tongues at night. But at last they parted, wishing
mutually sweet sleep and rest for that night.

The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo,
who was too full of thoughts of his mistress and that
blessed meeting to allow him to sleep, 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 truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo
replying, that he himself had often chidden him for
doting on Rosaline who could not love him again,
whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by him, the
friar assented in some measure to his reasons; and think-
ing that a matrimonial alliance between young Juliet and

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ROMEO AND JULIET

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 inter-
posed 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.

The 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

R 257
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

quarrel was beginning, when Romeo himself passing that
way, the fierce Tybalt turned from Mercutio to Romeo,
and gave him the disgraceful appellation of villain.
Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above all
men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much
beloved by her; besides, this young 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 dis-
dainful words provoked 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 dis-
turbed by these brawls of Montagues and Capulets, came
determined to put the law in strictest force against those
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ROMZO AND JULIET

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 the truth as he could without injury to Romeo,
softening and excusing the part which his friends took in
it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for the loss of
her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her
revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his
murderer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio’s repre-
sentation, 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 passionate exclamations of
these women, on a careful examination of the facts, pro-
nounced 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 ever-
lastingly 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 resent-
ment: 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,

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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
Lawrence’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 consolation of philosophy to his
. griefs: but this frantie young man would hear of none,
but like a madman he tore his hair, and threw himself all
along upon the ground, as he said, to take the measure
of his grave. From this unseemly state he was roused
by a message from his dear lady, which a little revived
him; and then the friar took the advantage to expostu-
late 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 happi-
ness 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

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ROMEO AND JULIET

straightways to Mantua, at which place he should
sojourn, till the friar found 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, proposing 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 day. The unwelcome daybreak
seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard the
morning song of the lark, she would have persuaded her-
self 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,

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TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

for it was death for him to be found within the walls ot
Verona after daybreak.

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

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

262
ROMEO AND JULIET

-then gave her, the effect of which would be that for two-
and-forty hours after drinking it she should appear cold
and lifeless; and 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 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 rejoicings as Verona
had never before witnessed.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion.
She had many misgivings lest the friar, to avoid the
blame which might be imputed to him for marrying her
to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he was always
known for a holy man : then lest she should awake before
the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the
terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets’ bones,
and where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud,

. 263
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

would not be enough to drive her distracted: again she
thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits haunting
the places where their bodies were bestowed. But then
her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris 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 point of seeing her advanced (as they
thought) by a promising and advantageous match. Now
all things that were ordained for the festival were turned
from their properties to do the office of a black funeral.
The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the
bridal hymns were changed for sulleri dirges, the sprightly
instruments to melancholy bells, and the flowers that
should have been strewed in the bride’s path, now served
but to strew her corse. Now, instead of a priest to
marry her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was
borne to church indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes
of the living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the
dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, 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

264
ROMEO AND JULIET

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 would come
to release her from that dreary mansion. 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 think), and that
his lady came and found him dead, and breathed such life
with kisses in his lips, that he revived, and was an
emperor! And now that a messenger came from Verona,
he thought surely it was to confirm some good news
which his dreams had presaged. But when the contrary
to this flattering vision appeared, and that it was his lady
who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by any
kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready, for he deter-
mined that night to visit Verona, and to see his lady in her
tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts
of desperate men, he called to mind a poor apothecary,
whose shop in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the
beggarly appearance of the man, who seemed famished,
and the wretched show in his show 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 disastrous life might haply
meet with a conclusion so desperate), ‘If a man were to
need poison, which by the law of Mantua it is death to
sell, here lives a poor wretch who would sell it him.’
These words of his now came into his mind, and he
sought out the apothecary, who after some 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

265
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

sight of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he had
satisfied his sight, to swallow the poison, and be buried
by her side. He reached Verona at midnight, and found
the churchyard, in the midst of which was situated the
ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light,
and a spade, and wrenching iron, and was proceeding to
break open the monument, when he was interrupted by a
voice, which by the name of vile 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 had in the dead,
but knowing him to be a Montague, and (as he supposed)
asworn foe toall the Capulets, he judged that he was come
by night to do some villanous 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
266
ROMEO AND JULIET

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 here he shook the burden of his cross stars from his
weary body, swallowing that poison which the apothecary
had sold him, whose operation was fatal and real, not like
that dissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, the
effect of which was now nearly expiring, and she about
to awake to complain that Romeo had not kept his time,
or that he had come too soon.

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had
promised that she should awake; and he, having learned
that his letters which he had sent to Mantua, by some
unlucky detention of the messenger, 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 breathless 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
frightened by the noise of people coming, he fled: but

267
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

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 exclaim-
ing, 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, sighing, and weep-
ing, ina suspicious manner. A great multitude being
assembled at the Capulets’ monument, the friar was de-
manded 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 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 J uliet, 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

268
ROMEO AND JULIET

the potion should cease, and by what unfortunate mis-
carriage of the messenger the letters never reached
Romeo: further than this the friar could not follow the
story, nor knew more than that coming himself, to
deliver Juliet from that place of death, he found the
count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of the
transactions was supplied by the narration of the page
who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by the servant
who came with Romeo from Verona, to whom this faith-
ful 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 for-
giveness of his parents, acknowledging 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 in these complicated
slaughters, further than as the unintended 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 un-
natural hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies,
agreed to bury their long strife in their children’s graves;
and lord Capulet requested 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 and Montague; and say-
ing that lord Montague’s hand (in token of reconcilement)
was all he demanded for his daughter’s jointure: but lord
Montague said he would give him more, for he would

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raise her a 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.

270
KING, ‘Give me some light! a

(HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK—Act IIL Scene


HAMLET

!

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK

GERTRUDE, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by
the sudden death of King Hamlet, in less than two
months after his death married his brother Claudius,
which was noted by all people at the time for a strange
act of indiscretion, or unfeelingness, or worse: for this
Claudius did no ways resemble her late husband in the
qualities of his person or his mind, but was as contemptible
in outward appearance, as he was base and unworthy in
disposition; and suspicions did not fail to arise in the
minds of some, that he had privately made away with his
brother, the late king, with the view of marrying his
widow, and ascending the throne of Denmark, to the
exclusion of young Hamlet, the son of the buried king,
and lawful successor to the throne.

But upon no one did this unadvised action of the
queen make such impression as upon this young prince,
who loved and venerated the memory of his dead father
almost to idolatry, and being of a nice sense of honour,
and a most exquisite practiser of propriety himself, did
sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother
Gertrude: insomuch that, between grief for his father’s
death and shame for his mother’s marriage, this young
prince was overclouded with a deep melancholy, and lost
all his mirth and all his good looks; all his customary
pleasure in books forsook him, his princely exercises and
sports, proper to his youth, were no longer acceptable:

271
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

he grew weary of the world, which seemed to him an
unweeded garden, where all the wholesome flowers were
choked up, and nothing but weeds could thrive. Not
that the prospect of exclusion from the throne, his lawful
inheritance, weighed so much upon his spirits, though
that to a young and high-minded prince was a bitter
wound and a sore indignity ; but what so galled him, and
took away all his cheerful spirits, was, that his mother had
shown herself so forgetful to his father’s memory: and
such a father! who had been to her so loving and 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
dear 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 king-
doms, 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 to 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 festivities or rejoicings of that (as appeared to
him) disgraceful day.

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about
the manner of his father’s death. It was given out by
Claudius that a serpent had stung him; but young

272
HAMLET

Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself was
the serpent; in plain English, that he had murdered him
for his crown, and that the serpent who stung his father
did now sit on the throne.

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

A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet, that
an apparition, exactly resembling the dead king his father,
had been seen by the soldiers upon watch, on the platform
before the palace at midnight, for two or three nights
successively. The figure came 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 a face more of sorrow than of anger;
that its beard was grisly, and the colour a sable silvered,
as they had seen it in his lifetime: that it made no
answer when 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 shrunk 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 dis-
believe, concluded that it was his father’s ghost which
they had seen, and determined to take his watch with the
soldiers that night, that he might have a chance of seeing
it; for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance
did not come for nothing, but that the ghost had some-

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thing to impart, and though it had been silent hitherto,
yet it would speak to him. And he waited with im-
patience for the coming of night.

When night came he took his stand with Horatio,
and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon the platform,
where this apparition was accustomed to walk: and it
being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and nipping,
Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell into some
talk about the coldness of the night, which was suddenly
broken off by Horatio 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 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 besought him that he
would let them know if there was anything which they
could do to give peace to his spirit. And the ghost
beckoned to Hamlet, that he should go with him to some
more removed place, where they might be alone; and
Horatio and Marcellus would have dissuaded the young
prince from following it, for they feared lest it should be
some evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neighbour-
ing sea, or to the top of some dreadful cliff, and there put
on some horrible shape which might deprive the prince of

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his reason. But their counsels and entreaties could not
alter Hamlet’s determination, who cared too little about
life to fear the losing of it; and as to his soul, he said,
what could the spirit do to that, being a thing immortal
as itself? And he felt as hardy as a lion, and bursting
from them, who did all they could to hold him, he
followed whithersoever the spirit led him.

And when they were alone together, the spirit broke
silence, and told him that he was the ghost of Hamlet,
his father, who had been cruelly murdered, and he told
the manner of it; that it was done by his own brother
Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle, as Hamlet 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 afternoon, his 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 crustlike 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, how-
soever 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

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solemn resolution, that all he had in his memory, all that
he had ever learned by books or observation, should be
instantly forgotten by him, and nothing live in his brain
but the memory of what the ghost had told him, and
enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars
of the conversation which had passed to none but his
dear friend Horatio; and he enjoined both to him and
Marcellus the strictest 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. 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 resolution, from that time to counter-
feit 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

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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 which he fell into latterly had made him
neglect her, and from the time he conceived the project
of counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat her with
unkindness, and a sort of rudeness: but she, good lady,
rather than reproach him with being false to her, per-
suaded 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 under-
standing, impaired as they were with the deep melancholy
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
unpleasing sound.

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 extrava-
gant 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

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phrases. This letter Ophelia dutifully showed to her
father, and the old man thought himself bound to com-
municate 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 accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a
sin, and a violation of his father’s commands. Yet how
to compass the death of the king, surrounded as he
constantly was with his guards, was no easy matter. Or
if it had been, the presence 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 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 assumed his father’s
shape only to take advantage of his weakness and his
melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so desperate a

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HAMLET

act as murder. And he determined that he would have
more certain grounds to go upon than a vision, or appari-
tion, 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 destruction 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, represented to the
life, has upon the spectator, he remembered the instance
of some murderer, who seeing a murder on the stage,
was by the mere force of the scene and resemblance of

279
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circumstances so affected, that on the spot he confessed
the crime which he had committed. And he determined
that these players should play something like the murder
of his father before his uncle, and he would watch
narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and from
his looks he would be able to gather with more certainty
if he were the murderer or not. To this effect he ordered
a play to be prepared, to the representation of which he
invited the king and queen.

The story of the play was of a murder done in Vienna
upon a duke. The duke’s name was 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 conversation 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
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 Gon-
zago 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

280
HAMLET

calling for lights to his chamber, and affecting or partly
feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the theatre.
The king being departed, the play was given over. Now
Hamlet had seen enough to be satisfied that the words
of the ghost were true, and no illusion; and in a fit of
gaiety, 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 import 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 un-
seen hear all that passed. This artifice was particularly
adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was a man
grown old in crooked maxims and policies of state,
and delighted to get at the 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

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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 hus-
band’s brother’s wife; and you are my mother: I wish
you were not what you are.’ ‘Nay, then,’ said the
queen, ‘if you show me so little respect, I will set those
to you that can speak,’ and was going to send the king
or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her go,
now he had her alone, till he had tried if his words could
not bring her to some sense of her wicked life; and,
taking her by the wrist, he held her fast, and made her
sit down. She, affrighted at his earnest manner, and
fearful lest in his lunacy he should do her a mischief,
cried out, and a voice was heard from behind the hang:
ings, ‘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 for the
body, it was not the king, but Polonius, the old officious
counsellor, that had planted himself as a spy behind the
hangings. ‘Oh me!’ exclaimed the queen, ‘ what a rash
and bloody deed have you 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
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HAMLET

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 accounted 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 on 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 whole-
some 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 bea
wife to him, who had murdered her first husband, and
got the crown by as false means as a thief——and just
as he spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he was in
his lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, entered
the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, asked what it
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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 that it was his madness, and not her
own offences, which had brought his father’s spirit again
on the earth. And he bade her feel his pulse, how tem-
perately 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
ason. 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.

The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a
pretence for sending Hamlet out of the kingdom. He
would willingly have put him to death, fearing him as
dangerous ; but he dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet,
and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted upon the
prince, her son. So this subtle king, under pretence of

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HAMLET

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 despatched letters to
the English court, which in that time was in subjec-
tion 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 treachery, 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, acquainting 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
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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 meaning 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 on the stream. To this brook she came one
day when she was unwatched, with garlands she had
been making, mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers
and weeds together; and clambering up to hang her
garland upon the boughs of the willow, a bough broke,
and precipitated this fair young maid, garland, and all
that she had gathered, into the water, where her clothes
bore her up for a while, during which she chanted scraps
of old tunes, like one insensible to her own distress, or
as if she were a creature natural to that element: but
long it was not before her garments, heavy with the wet,
pulled her in from her melodious singing to a muddy
and miserable death. It was the funeral of this fair maid
which her brother Laertes was celebrating, the king and
queen and whole court being present, when Hamlet
arrived. He knew not what all this show imported, but
stood on one side, not inclining to interrupt the cere-
mony. He saw the flowers strewed upon her grave, as
the custom was in maiden burials, which the queen her- .
self threw in; and as she threw them she said, ‘Sweets
to the sweet! I thought to have decked thy bride-bed,
sweet maid, not to have strewed thy grave. Thou
shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife.’ And he heard
her brother wish that violets might spring from her
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HAMLET

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

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death
of his father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet’s wicked
uncle, contrived destruction for Hamlet. He set on
Laertes, under cover of peace and reconciliation, to chal-
lenge 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

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extolled beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet’s success,
and wagering rich bets upon the issue: but after a few
pauses, 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 drunk out of a bowl which the king had
prepared for Hamlet, in case, that being warm in fencing,
he should call for drink: into this the 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 farther, for he was the traitor; and feeling his life go
away with the wound which Hamlet had given him, he
made confession of the treachery he had used, and how
he had fallen a victim to it: and he told Hamlet of the
envenomed point, and said that Hamlet had not half an
hour to live, for no medicine could cure him; and begging
forgiveness of Hamlet, he died, with his last words accus-
ing 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 murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his
breath fail and life departing, turned to his dear friend
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HAMLET

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 this sweet prince to
the guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving
and a gentle prince, and greatly beloved for his many
noble and princelike qualities; and if he had lived, would
no doubt have proved a most royal and complete king to
Denmark.
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

OTHELLO

BraBantio, 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 singu-
larity rather to be admired than imitated, had chosen for
the object of her affections, a Moor, a black, whom her
father loved, and often invited to his house.

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned
for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected
for her lover. Bating that Othello was black, the noble
Moor wanted nothing which might recommend him to
the affections of the greatest lady. He was a soldier, and
a brave one; and by his conduct in bloody wars against
the 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 through from his earliest
recollection; the battles, sieges, and encounters, which
he had passed through; the perils he had been exposed
to by land and by water; his hair-breadth 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

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'THELLO, ‘‘'She loved me for the dangers I had pa

(OTHELLO—Act I. Scene 3)


OTHELLO

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 wilderness 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
household 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 had
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 frank-
ness than modesty, accompanied with 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

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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 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
witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced the affections of
the fair Desdemona to marry him, without the consent of
her father, and against the obligations of hospitality.

At this juncture of time it happened that the state of
Venice had immediate need of the services of Othello,
news having arrived that the Turks with mighty pre-
paration 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 adequate to conduct the defence of
Cyprus against the Turks. So that Othello, now sum-
moned before the senate, stood in their presence at once
as a candidate for a great state employment, and as a
culprit, charged with offences which by the laws of Venice
were made capital.

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio,
commanded a most patient hearing from that grave

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assembly ; but the incensed father conducted his accusa-
tion with so much intemperance, producing likelihoods
and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was called
upon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale
of the course of his love; which he did with such an
artless eloquence, recounting the whole story of his
wooing, as we have related it above, and delivered his
speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of truth),
that the duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help
confessing that a tale so told would have won his daughter
too: and the 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 testi-
mony 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,
preferring the honour of her lord (though with danger)

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before the indulgence of those idle delights in which new-
married people usually waste their time, cheerfully con-
sented 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 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 conversa-
tion 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

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OTHELLO

to Othello, who was himself of a more serious temper:
for such tempers are observed often to delight in their
contraries, as a relief from the oppressive excess of their
own: and Desdemona and Cassio would talk and laugh
together, as in the days when he went a-courting for his
friend.

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

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

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

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the health of the black Othello, and his lady the fair
Desdemona.

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with
a charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in
drinking, that no brawl might arise, to fright the inhabi-
tants, 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 Desdemona, 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, swords
were drawn, and Montano, a worthy officer, who inter-
fered 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 dangerous
mutiny instead of a slight drunken quarrel had arisen):
the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello, who, dressing
in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, 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 Iago, 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

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manner, as while he seemed to make Cassio’s offence less,
did indeed make it appear greater than it was. The
result was, that Othello, who was a strict observer of
discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio’s place of
lieutenant from him.

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

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

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an offender, she would not be beat back, but insisted
that it should be the next night, or the morning after, or
the next morning to that at farthest. Then she showed
how penitent and humbled poor Cassio was, and that his
offence did not deserve so sharp a check. 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 oftentimes,
when I have spoken in dispraise of you, has taken your
part! I count this but a little thing to ask of you.
When I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a
weighty matter.’ Othello could deny nothing to such
a pleader, and only requesting that Desdemona would
leave the time to him, promised to receive Michael Cassio
again in 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 con-
ference which immediately took place with his lady put it
out of his head; but he remembered it afterwards. For
when Desdemona was gone, Iago, as if for mere satisfac-
tion of his thought, questioned Othello whether Michael
Cassio, when Othello was courting his lady, knew of his
love. To this the general answering in the affirmative,
and adding, that he had gone between them very often
during the courtship, Iago knitted his brow, as if he had
got fresh light on 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 Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to think
there was some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago

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OTHELLO

to be a just man, and full of love and honesty, and what
in a false knave would be tricks, in him seemed to be the
natural workings of an honest mind, big with something
too great for utterance: and Othello prayed Iago to
speak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts
words. ‘And what,’ said 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,
_Iago, 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
insinuated that Desdemona deceived her father in marry-
ing 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

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matter home to him, for if she had deceived her father,
why might she not deceive her husband ?

Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but
Othello, assuming an indifference, while he was really
shaken with inward grief at Iago’s words, begged him to
go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as if unwill-
ing 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
should 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 meanwhile 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 sickened upon him. He no

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OTHELLO

longer took delight in arms. His heart, that used to be
roused at the sight of troops, and banners, and battle-
array, and would stir and leap at the sound of a drum, or
a trumpet, or a neighing war-horse, seemed to have lost
all that pride and ambition which are a soldier’s virtue;
and his 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 to
pieces with these distracting thoughts, he once laid hold
on Jago’s throat, and demanded proof of Desdemona’s
guilt, or threatened instant death for his having belied
her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should
be taken for a vice, asked Othello, if he had not some-
times 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
handkerchief,’ said Iago, ‘did I see Michael Cassio this
day wipe his face with. ‘If it be as you say,’ said
Othello, ‘I will not rest till a wide revenge swallow them
up: and first, for a token of your fidelity, I expect that
Cassio shall be put to death within three days; and for
that fair devil (meaning his lady), I will withdraw and —
devise some swift means of death for her.’

Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong
as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife’s seen in Cassio’s
hand, was motive enough to the deluded Othello to pass
sentence of death upon them both, without once inquiring
how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never given
such a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady
have wronged her lord with doing so naughty a thing as
giving his presents to another man; both Cassio and

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Desdemona were innocent of any offence against Othello:
but the wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contriv-
ance of villany, had made his wife (a good, but a weak '
woman) steal this handkerchief from Desdemona, under
pretence of getting the work copied, but in reality to
drop it in Cassio’s way, where he might find it, and give
a handle to Iago’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
desired her to lend him her handkerchief to hold to his
temples. She didso. ‘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 her. She
dying gave it to me, and bade me, if I 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 frighted lady. ‘’Tis true,’ continued Othello; ‘it
is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that had lived in the
world two hundred years, in a fit of prophetic fury
worked it; the silkworms that furnished the silk were
hallowed, and it was dyed in a mummy of maidens’ hearts
conserved.’ Desdemona, hearing the wondrous virtues of
the handkerchief, was ready to die with fear, for she
plainly perceived she had lost it, and with it, she feared,
the affections of her husband. Then Othello started, and
looked as if he were going to do some rash thing, and still

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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 distraction
burst out of the room, and then Desdemona, though
unwillingly, began to suspect that her lord was jealous.
What cause she could have ministered to him she
knew not, and then she accused herself for accusing the
noble Othello, and thought to be sure that some untoward
news from Venice, or some state troubles had puddled
his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as formerly.
And she said, ‘Men are not gods, and we must not look
for that observance from them when they are married,
which they show us on the bridal day.’ And she be-
shrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his unkindness.
Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused
her more plainly of being unfaithful, and of loving another
man, but he did not name whom: and Othello wept, and
Desdemona said, ‘Alas! the heavy day! why do you
weep?’ And Othello told her, he could have borne all
sorts of evils with fortitude—poverty, and disease, and
disgrace ; but her infidelity had broken his heart: and he
called her a weed, that looked so fair, and smelled so
sweet, that the sense ached at it; and wished she had >
never’ been born. And when he had left her, this
innocent lady was so stupefied with wonder at her lord’s
untrue suspicion of her, that a weight-like sleep came
over her, and she only desired her attendant to make her
bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that
when people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means
and easy tasks, and Othello might have chid her so; for
in good faith she was but a child when she was chidden.

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And this was all the complaint which this gentle lady
made.

Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord
would follow her, soon fell into a slumber, the effect 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, that he must needs kiss her again: and he wept,
but he said they were cruel tears.

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she
looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under
lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was always fatal
when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for death,
and to say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul.
And this innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged
for compassion, and to know her fault, and then he named
Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he said) she had
given him; and as the guiltless lady was proceeding to
clear herself he suddenly would hear no more, but cover-
ing 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 suc-
ceeding in his attempt to kill Cassio (whom he wounded,
but not mortally), and being himself killed by Iago to
prevent discovery, in his pockets were found certain
letters, which made the guilt of Iago, and the innocence
of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; and Cassio now came
to beg pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he had

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OTHELLO

offended him, that he had employed Iago to murder
him.

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

These rash acts raised much passion of horror and
amazement in the bystanders, for Othello had borne a fair
reputation, and till he was wrought upon by the arts of
a villain, which his own noble nature never gave him
leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband.
He had loved not wisely, but 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 the
Arabian trees their gum. And when he was dead, all his
former merits and his valiant acts were remembered.
Nothing now remained for his successor but to put the
utmost censure of the law in force against Iago, who was
executed with strict tortures; and to send word to the
state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned
general.

U 395
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PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

Pericies, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile
from his dominions, to avert the dreadful calamities
which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of Greece,
threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre,
in revenge for a discovery which the prince had made
_ of a shocking deed which the emperor had done in secret ;
as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into the hidden
crimes of great ones. Leaving the government of his
people in the hands of his able and honest minister,
Helicanus, Pericles set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent
himself till the wrath of Antiochus, who was mighty,
should be appeased.

The first place which the prince directed his course
to was Tarsus, and hearing that the city of Tarsus
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 his unhoped-for succour, Cleon, the governor of
Tarsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks. Pericles
had not been here many days, before letters came from
his faithful minister, warning him that it was not safe for
him to stay at Tarsus, 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.

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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 Simonides,
commonly called the good Simonides, because of his
peaceable reign and good government. From them he
also learned that king Simonides had a fair young
daughter, and that the following day was her birthday,
when a grand tournament was to be held at court, many
princes and knights being come from all parts to try
their skill in arms for the love of Thaisa, this fair
princess. While the prince was listening to this
account, and secretly lamenting the loss of his good
armour, which disabled him from making one among
these valiant knights, another fisherman brought in a
complete suit of armour that he had taken out of the
sea with his fishing-net, which proved to be the very
armour he had lost. When Pericles beheld his own
armour, he said, ‘ Thanks, Fortune; after all my crosses
you give me somewhat to repair myself. This armour
was bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose
dear sake I have so loved it, that whithersoever I went,
I still have kept it by me, and the rough sea that
parted it from me, having now become calm, hath given
it back again, for which 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 Simonides, where
he performed wonders at the tournament, vanquishing
with ease all the brave knights and valiant princes who

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contended with him in arms for the honour of Thaisa’s
love. When brave warriors contended at court tourna-
ments 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 under-
taken, 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 passionate lover of this beauteous princess from the
first moment he beheld her.

The good Simonides so well approved of the valour
and noble qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most
accomplished gentleman, and well learned in all excellent
arts, that though he knew not the rank of this royal
stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave out that
he was a private gentleman of Tyre), yet did not
Simonides 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 Helicanus upon his vacant throne.
This news came from Helicanus 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 sur-
prise and joy to Simonides, to find that his son-in-law
(the obscure knight) was the renowned prince of

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Tyre; yet again he regretted that he was not the
private gentleman he supposed him to be, seeing that he
must now part both with his admired son-in-law and
his beloved daughter, whom he feared to trust to the
perils of the sea, because Thaisa was with child; and
Pericles himself wished her to remain with her father
till after her confinement, but the poor lady so earnestly
desired to go with her husband, that at last they con-
sented, hoping she would reach Tyre before she was
brought to bed.

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles,
for long before they reached Tyre another dreadful
tempest arose, which so terrified Thaisa that she was
taken ill, and in a short space of time her nurse Lychorida
came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, to tell
the prince the sad tidings that his wife died the moment
her little babe was born. She held the babe towards its
father, saying, ‘Here is a thing too young for such a
place. This is the child of your dead queen.’ No tongue
can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles when he heard
his wife was dead. As soon as he could speak, he said,
‘O you gods, why do you make us love your goodly
gifts, and then snatch those gifts away?’ ‘ Patience,
good sir,’ said Lychorida, ‘here is all that is left alive of
our dead queen, a little daughter, and for your child’s
sake be more manly. Patience, good sir, even for the
sake of this precious charge.’ Pericles took the new-
born infant in his arms, and he said to the little babe,
‘Now may your life be mild, for a more blusterous
birth had never babe! May your condition be mild
and gentle, for you have had the rudest welcome that
ever prince’s child did meet with! May that which
follows be happy, for you have had as chiding a nativity
as fire, air, water, earth, and heaven could make to

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herald you from the womb! Even at the first, your
loss,’ meaning in the death of her mother, ‘is more than
all the joys, which you shall find upon this earth to which
you are come a new visitor, shall be able to recompense.’

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and
the sailors having a superstition that while a dead body
remained in the ship the storm would never cease, they
came to Pericles to demand that his queen should be
thrown overboard; and they said, ‘What courage, sir?
God save you!’ ‘Courage enough,’ said the sorrowing
prince: ‘I do not fear the storm; it has done to me its
worst ; yet for the love of this poor infant, this fresh new
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 unhappy prince went to take a last view of his dear
wife, and as he looked on his Thaisa, he said, ‘ A terrible
childbed hast thou had, my dear; no light, no fire; the
unfriendly elements forget 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

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he placed rich jewels, and a written paper, telling who
she was, and praying if haply any one should find the
chest which contained the body of his wife, they would
give her burial; and then with his own hands he cast the
chest into the sea. When the storm was over, Pericles
ordered the sailors to make for Tarsus. ‘For,’ said
Pericles, ‘ the babe cannot hold out till we come to Tyre.
At Tarsus 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. ‘I 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 farther, 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 pitying the husband who had lost this
sweet lady, he said, ‘ If you are living, Pericles, you have
a heart that even cracks with woe.’ Then observing
attentively Thaisa’s face, he saw how fresh and unlike
death her looks were, and he said, ‘ They were too hasty
that threw you into the sea’: for he did not believe her
to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and proper
cordials to be brought, and soft music to be played,
which might help to calm her amazed spirits if she
should revive; and he said to those who crowded round

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her, wondering at what they saw, ‘I pray you, gentlemen,
give her air; this queen will live; she has not been en-
tranced above five hours ; and see, she begins to blow into
life again; she is alive; behold, her eyelids move; this
fair creature will live to make us weep to hear her fate.’
Thaisa had never died, but after the birth of her little
baby had fallen into a deep swoon, which made all that
saw her conclude her to be dead; and now by the care of
this kind gentleman she once more revived to light and
life; and opening her eyes, she said, ‘Where am I?
Where is my lord? What world is this?’ By gentle
degrees Cerimon let her understand what had befallen
her; and when he thought she was enough recovered to
bear the sight, he showed her the paper written by her
husband, and the jewels; and she looked on the paper and
said, ‘It is my lord’s writing. That I was shipped at sea,
I well remember, but whether there delivered of my
babe, by the holy gods I cannot rightly say; but since my
wedded lord I never shall see again, I will put on a vestal
livery, and never more have joy.’ ‘ Madam,’ said Cerimon,
‘if you purpose as you speak, the temple of Diana is not
far distant from hence; there you may abide as a vestal.
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine shall there attend
you.’ This proposal was accepted with thanks by Thaisa;
and when she was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed
her in the temple of Diana, where she became a vestal or
priestess of that goddess, and passed her days in sorrowing
for her husband’s 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 Tarsus, 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

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motherless daughter. When Cleon saw prince Pericles,
and heard of the great loss which had befallen him, he
said, ‘O your sweet queen, that it had pleased Heaven
you could have brought her hither to have blessed my
eyes with the sight of her!’ Pericles replied, ‘We must
obey the powers above us. Should I rage and roar as the
sea does in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end must be as
itis. 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 bringing 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 ser-
vices, 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 pro-
tection of Cleon and his wife Dionysia, and with her he
left the nurse Lychorida. When he went away, the little
Marina knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept sadly at
parting with her royal master. ‘O, no tears, Lychorida,’
said 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

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manner suitable to her high birth. He gave her the
most careful education, so that by the time Marina at-
tained 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
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, Diony-
sia, 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 per-
fection wherein Marina excelled: and finding that all
praise was bestowed on Marina, whilst her daughter, who
was of the same age, and had been educated with the
same care as Marina, though not with the same success,
was in comparison disregarded, she formed a project to
remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagining that
her untoward daughter would be more respected when
Marina was no more seen. To encompass this she em-
ployed 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 to do this bad deed, though he was
a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to under-
take it, so had Marina won all hearts to love her. He
said, ‘She is a goodly creature!’ ‘The fitter then the
gods should have her,’ replied her merciless enemy : ‘ here
she comes weeping for the death of her nurse Lychorida:
are you resolved to obey me?’ Leonine, fearing to dis-

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obey 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 unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my mother
died. This world to me is like a lasting storm, hurrying
me from my friends.’ ‘ How now, Marina,’ said the dis-
sembling Dionysia, ‘do you weep alone? How does it
chance my daughter is not with you? Do not sorrow for
Lychorida, you have a nurse in me. Your beauty is
quite changed with this unprofitable 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, ‘I
love the prince, your father, and I love you. We every
day expect your father here; and when he comes, and
finds you so changed by grief from the paragon of beauty
we reported you, he will think we have taken no care of
you. Go,I pray you, walk, and be cheerful once again.
Be careful of that excellent complexion, which stole the
hearts of old and young.’ Marina, being thus importuned,
said, ‘ Well, I will go, but yet I have no desire to it.’ As
Dionysia walked away, she said to Leonine, ‘ Remember
what I have said!’—shocking words, for their meaning
was that he should remember to kill Marina.

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and
_ said, ‘Is the wind westerly that blows?’ ‘South-west,’

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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 masts, he endured a sea that almost split
the deck.’ ‘ When was this?’ said Leonine. ‘When I
was born,’ replied Marina: ‘never were wind and waves
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 hapless birth, that these things seemed
ever present to herimagination. But here Leonine inter-
rupted 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 J am sworn todo 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 commis-
sion 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

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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 needleworks, and the money she got by
her scholars she gave to her master and mistress; and the
fame of her learning and her great industry came to the
knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was
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 indus-
trious 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 excel-
lent 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 Tarsus, 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
Helicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to Tarsus, on pur-
' pose 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 thought 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,

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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 en-
tombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from Tarsus.
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 Tarsus 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 to the side of the ship, to satisfy
his curiosity. Helicanus 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 Helicanus, ‘who has not spoken to any one these
three months, nor taken any sustenance, but just to pro-
long 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 be-
thought 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 Helicanus 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.’ Jysimachus was
well pleased to hear their commendations, and he said,
‘She is such a one, that were I well assured she came of

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noble birth, I would wish no better choice, and think me
rarely blessed in a wife.’ And then he addressed her in
courtly terms, as if the lowly-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 sorrows; but her reason for so doing was,
that she knew nothing more wins the attention of the
unfortunate than the recital of some sad calamity to
match their own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused
the drooping prifice; 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 awak-
ened 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 wand-like 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

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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 be-
seech you. Come, sit by me.” How was Pericles sur-
prised 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: ‘O, 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, 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 where-
fore called Marina?’ She replied, ‘I was called Marina
because I was born at sea. My mother was the daughter
of a king; she died the minute I was born, as my good
nurse Lychorida has often told me weeping. The king,
my father, left me at Tarsus, till the cruel wife of Cleon
sought to murder me. A crew of pirates came and res-
cued me, and brought me here to Mitylene. But, good
sir, why do ‘you weep? It may be, you think me an im-
postor. But indeed, sir, I am the daughter to king
Pericles, if good king Pericles be living.’ Then Pericles,
terrified as he seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubt-
ful 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 Helicanus, ‘O Helicanus, strike me, give
me a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of
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joysrushing upon me, overbear the shores of my mortality.
O, come hither, thou that wast born at sea, buried at
Tarsus, and found at sea again. O Helicanus, down on
your knees, thank the holy gods! This is Marina. Now
blessings on thee, my child! Give me fresh garments,
mine own Helicanus! She is not dead at Tarsus 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 Helicanus, ‘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 is that ?’—for now,
either sent by some kind god, or by his own delighted
fancy deceived, he seemed to hear soft music. ‘My lord,
I hear none,’ replied Helicanus. ‘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 injunction, he should meet with some
2 Se es : = 321
TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

rare felicity. When he awoke, being miraculously re.
freshed, 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 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 con-
dition, 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 approached the altar and began to
speak, she remembered his voice, and listened to his words
with wonder and a joyful amazement. And these were
the words that Pericles spoke before the altar: ‘ Hail,
Diana! to perform thy just commands, I here confess
myself the prince of Tyre, who, frighted from my country,
at Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa: she died at sea in
childbed, but brought forth a maid-child called Marina.

322
PERICLES

She at Tarsus 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 re-
membrance she made herself known to be my daughter.’

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his words
had raised in her, cried out, ‘You are, you are, O royal
Pericles ’ and fainted. ‘What means this woman?’
said Pericles: ‘she dies! gentlemen, help.’—‘ Sir,’ said
Cerimon, ‘if you have told Diana’s altar true, this is your
wife.’ ‘Reverend gentleman, no,’ said Pericles: ‘I threw
her overboard with these very arms.’ Cerimon then re-
counted how, early one tempestuous morning, this lady was
thrown upon the Ephesian shore ; how, opening the coffin,
he found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how, 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 replied, ‘supposed dead and
drowned.’ ‘O true Diana!’ exclaimed Pericles, in a
passion of devout astonishment. ‘And now,’ said Thaisa,
‘I know you better. Such a ring as I see on your finger
did the king my father give you, when we with tears
parted from him at Pentapolis.’ ‘Enough, you gods!’
cried Pericles, ‘your present kindness makes my past
miseries sport. O come, Thaisa, be buried a second time
within these arms.’

And Marina said, ‘ My heart leaps to be gone into my
mother’s bosom.’ Then did Pericles show his daughter to
her mother, saying, ‘Look who kneels here, flesh of thy
flesh, thy burthen 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,

323


“TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE

_ Pericles knelt before the altar, saying, ‘Pure Diana, bless
thee for thy vision. For this, I will offer oblations nightly
to thee. And then and there did Pericles, with the
consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their daughter, the
virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving Lysimachus in
marriage.

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and
daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed by calamity
(through the sufferance of Heaven, to teach patience and
constancy to men), under the same guidance becoming
finally successful, and triumphing over chance and change.
In Helicanus 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 rightful 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; the inhabitants of Tarsus, when her cruel
attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body to
revenge the daughter of their benefactor, and setting fire
to the palace of Cleon, burnt both him and her and their
whole household: the gods seeming well pleased, that
so foul a murder, though but intentional, and never
carried into act, should be punished in a way befitting
its enormity.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT
THE PRESS OF THE PUBLISHERS. -




TCRECIACK







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PROCEDURE describe
'2011-12-29T12:48:13-05:00'
redup
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describe
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describe
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describe
WARNING CODE 'Daitss::Anomaly' Invalid character
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describe
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describe
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'2011-12-29T12:49:02-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:59:07-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:54:52-05:00'
describe
'1873' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAABB' 'sip-files00032.txt'
9e2e56f07e972cc5d64d890adfa339c5
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describe
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describe
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'2011-12-29T12:50:15-05:00'
describe
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describe
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describe
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describe
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describe
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'2011-12-29T12:57:42-05:00'
describe
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describe
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2fe7eef8916f3e51132c636645314b2a
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'2011-12-29T12:57:14-05:00'
describe
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describe
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describe
'1931' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAABN' 'sip-files00044.txt'
bc154abf423d2f044ba859bcc45eb361
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'2011-12-29T12:53:17-05:00'
describe
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336840fbf043424f11bd047c3aaef3bf
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'2011-12-29T12:51:19-05:00'
describe
'1679' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAABP' 'sip-files00046.txt'
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'2011-12-29T12:49:26-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:49:01-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:55:07-05:00'
describe
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describe
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describe
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'2011-12-29T12:49:49-05:00'
describe
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describe
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'2011-12-29T12:53:51-05:00'
describe
'1799' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAABX' 'sip-files00054.txt'
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'2011-12-29T12:55:40-05:00'
describe
'1770' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAABY' 'sip-files00055.txt'
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describe
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'2011-12-29T12:54:29-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:54:40-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:50:12-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:57:58-05:00'
describe
'1745' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACD' 'sip-files00060.txt'
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'2011-12-29T12:50:32-05:00'
describe
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'2011-12-29T12:58:47-05:00'
describe
'1379' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACF' 'sip-files00062.txt'
f282188b5922be2e9fcddb363801edf1
680a7b94aa96db6561359983726bdcb57e9c7cb3
'2011-12-29T12:49:13-05:00'
describe
'314' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACG' 'sip-files00063.txt'
82f108339bbc3bdc67493da22c19be2f
0e5fc1e8c787e34cb19b5e166fbe8fcec6f77de7
'2011-12-29T12:57:40-05:00'
describe
'1959' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACH' 'sip-files00065.txt'
d6ce21b7bb2122994f06ce267d1b6558
a1f8a331925449b3d4443148cbdce6f7f2e71975
'2011-12-29T12:53:36-05:00'
describe
'1949' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACI' 'sip-files00066.txt'
f0e58e23476ce39ae8ba12e21465e5a4
e9a3c941cf9cd50ef223be0af97101e757e5cb06
'2011-12-29T12:49:46-05:00'
describe
'1914' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACJ' 'sip-files00067.txt'
d30a185e43a3df21af723ec513802bd2
a9cb8b5c58278c5e02249ce28ed23ee36450f4b4
'2011-12-29T12:55:34-05:00'
describe
'1922' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACK' 'sip-files00068.txt'
5df3f4c561feaaff923ac5ec3816e5db
6a7288408cd07033aa55151629f2fe2450918672
'2011-12-29T12:49:08-05:00'
describe
'1913' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACL' 'sip-files00069.txt'
239533005535c404e49b1df9b4f5564d
d75c824d353a1ec70f88305edd54f82771dc44c7
'2011-12-29T12:53:31-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACM' 'sip-files00070.txt'
5b625b95a20a49a90b9a80a7cc7fedc8
af3c5928789ed5bee5922e88c16561783d3a596e
'2011-12-29T12:57:33-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACN' 'sip-files00071.txt'
ec96c49f958feeb499310c05e73e4855
d14006d12ef3e69d0e6c9768ed56d589ada50355
'2011-12-29T12:56:52-05:00'
describe
'1806' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACO' 'sip-files00072.txt'
7bdd65342312e03ebddefce61a10ce66
44d0a704aae73002f6d4db4cfacd29dc99e49a94
'2011-12-29T12:54:16-05:00'
describe
'1961' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACP' 'sip-files00073.txt'
6f4da20673ad80b2a5e9f2b8ad4cd8c9
b44fc4c49c978961468f82f301e8fb72e0284b05
'2011-12-29T12:55:01-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACQ' 'sip-files00074.txt'
6a40a80df63b10c82826bff0fd93eedc
26908d7c9ed646dc8480ac319bb51fff580d8915
'2011-12-29T12:50:07-05:00'
describe
'1957' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACR' 'sip-files00075.txt'
a4674b96ab5b044809cadc6cf97649db
1af7cdeb328953c41d0327018805797d99d1b6e0
'2011-12-29T12:53:01-05:00'
describe
'1854' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACS' 'sip-files00076.txt'
c4f8244cede334d5c4d729be653bedb0
45c441d2a6b5faa08f4f5ab12a7679f0415fbc1d
'2011-12-29T12:52:40-05:00'
describe
'1919' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACT' 'sip-files00077.txt'
07181345b980e1ef1485dfce8dd864ac
ffc0f5f2dc2c2895b40f2771cdb4e9f147040847
'2011-12-29T12:50:27-05:00'
describe
'1195' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACU' 'sip-files00078.txt'
40e5126b5cb69adb11367980567e18b0
ba5e6a959f9748aad721a70181d34d355d5db0fb
describe
'253' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACV' 'sip-files00079.txt'
2786fc12e154dfe5645bf07e028efb63
90c61b548f776eca02db43bcb035791f0692d13f
'2011-12-29T12:53:30-05:00'
describe
'1573' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACW' 'sip-files00081.txt'
f8f037dbda82adf8a753bbc9b7de3abb
064a896f1624c15e7c209b2bfd749a95ab4d65e1
'2011-12-29T12:55:02-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACX' 'sip-files00082.txt'
a11a4a3af36610cd048b1543a395be5b
d4cb8c01ec05dd396b378d1c24628b40808f4e5b
'2011-12-29T12:55:43-05:00'
describe
'1975' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACY' 'sip-files00083.txt'
3e99b99b5d2b01b6383581f510b3cf55
3d7a63d3abc94755fa16c0f4a84a0e1c4bde8fc0
'2011-12-29T12:52:38-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAACZ' 'sip-files00084.txt'
42c45ccecd4aa20e9796313053ff4aca
bfd305210c129b9533cad800f547ef05ae3b5c91
describe
'1965' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADA' 'sip-files00085.txt'
a383934a3572fc93276489598d777ed0
fa865f6c14fe94bafb83524d4c9a34c73f665d95
'2011-12-29T12:54:34-05:00'
describe
'1852' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADB' 'sip-files00086.txt'
8d6f5909a5069f41cd71a091caa77dc3
d721f6b766e16850f58e4fd10dfa03edf47a8f20
'2011-12-29T12:48:22-05:00'
describe
'1973' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADC' 'sip-files00087.txt'
30f3773e86140a3e81a9f09a5e7b905c
221615fcf0bca5d83c087a40653f433e07ecde0c
'2011-12-29T12:52:57-05:00'
describe
'1883' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADD' 'sip-files00088.txt'
746e87198749edca881d391d3a904609
5327f288e0c186fb17874c1448a0ea02f9dd6697
'2011-12-29T12:49:54-05:00'
describe
'1864' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADE' 'sip-files00089.txt'
3fe1d1e5c7a9a13bce649c8b876ca97d
34e674bc256e68b15c96003b1ba21d1359406847
'2011-12-29T12:50:01-05:00'
describe
'1915' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADF' 'sip-files00090.txt'
e9cc9f4523f650ed0f327be44902aba5
1a2340a98d87873c547fb6e5ee7cf6348b564f15
'2011-12-29T12:54:09-05:00'
describe
'1924' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADG' 'sip-files00091.txt'
ec493725fef7948179f33764a8bc1f42
510967198e9c1f7e96042711158f7a451c0bee3b
'2011-12-29T12:52:21-05:00'
describe
'1885' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADH' 'sip-files00092.txt'
c929f85939875e71abe4bebff9ac2970
49a098aa5df7056494d8ec79209408b60661654e
'2011-12-29T12:53:25-05:00'
describe
'1939' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADI' 'sip-files00093.txt'
5028d2fb9eba940cc0b0521cf4707e02
8726463a2a1ebf5db69545ef8dfd421ce7f2921f
'2011-12-29T12:51:52-05:00'
describe
'1895' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADJ' 'sip-files00094.txt'
6ef41237eecdd173477614d499090ace
6a1ae45cc0c3b32fb7b57052e84c5289d9923d71
'2011-12-29T12:51:14-05:00'
describe
'1960' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADK' 'sip-files00095.txt'
5ffc60f76ad3f932b817ba690a3dc2b6
ded80568209754d1c9ed23fb6562249e7f6eb276
'2011-12-29T12:53:18-05:00'
describe
'1794' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADL' 'sip-files00096.txt'
f002dbe79a7a1c33eb205c3a8ef4d6ae
988c05008608a421657ba02f05ed61092a4be174
'2011-12-29T12:56:40-05:00'
describe
'1803' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADM' 'sip-files00097.txt'
a3667c880d33612e9bfa5282c64bbc56
9ace3320e9fdd3ec4c055f40c68ff8708de5a5c9
'2011-12-29T12:54:11-05:00'
describe
'1892' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADN' 'sip-files00098.txt'
776e21edbc68e1d48a67d913aa70acd7
1afbd62eb1f466b7791c58f04f27d80b20f01d7a
'2011-12-29T12:48:57-05:00'
describe
'1435' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADO' 'sip-files00099.txt'
2f399c5c90b833201bc98f5f390c6b98
748e7c2b126f15e24f5f43353c8a1fbb9e50010b
'2011-12-29T12:54:49-05:00'
describe
'1510' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADP' 'sip-files00100.txt'
604b14212b51ce6dbe5747594d87e12f
1c37684b1c2635b30c9f43d5e7b2be8c82583003
'2011-12-29T12:50:02-05:00'
describe
'267' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADQ' 'sip-files00101.txt'
1675788c555ddac1fd9cc16793528f37
ed5b912494c37a5bbb147a265e3d290748c5af04
'2011-12-29T12:58:58-05:00'
describe
'1902' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADR' 'sip-files00103.txt'
2cdb6f51216651671999f684e73dddb1
7e4d3bee79e56502ac62c27fee57b09f231e6a47
'2011-12-29T12:53:52-05:00'
describe
'1700' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADS' 'sip-files00104.txt'
acc93749819db4af7e64e9292e8a4411
4d2e020f65cc9a435c9603726f55c1101d95ee77
'2011-12-29T12:56:00-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADT' 'sip-files00105.txt'
763f07d8b8e42caa707c62836d6d70f1
4cdd2b6351428532c01f92219eca3d01bf91db08
describe
'1827' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADU' 'sip-files00106.txt'
851d7f97fdda76a6398bf9450f03fb02
7d3743e88eb8d1553409b5e14f90684600749aee
'2011-12-29T12:57:53-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADV' 'sip-files00107.txt'
6f180a0b077bafe3452a8fb8d9fdad00
3cdee700575a39128f58038680d8cc2eb6ebd53d
'2011-12-29T12:53:34-05:00'
describe
'1847' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADW' 'sip-files00108.txt'
938c0750b023c0bdc1086c20ebd04e58
722da80b12e6e179c49aa61467221e75d1a24347
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADX' 'sip-files00109.txt'
ca6421d6150940931c5da405788788ad
c6e252de61eb19f64342a80b8558cdb371550e59
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADY' 'sip-files00110.txt'
2d891421ec6232afef10db6182dd610e
426ecad9dbb07546336664771ee455650c4579ca
'2011-12-29T12:51:06-05:00'
describe
'1874' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAADZ' 'sip-files00111.txt'
6d2addbae3bf5886682078dee63c3266
53ab4c10b28c20f1b0903cfaa683f056407dea11
'2011-12-29T12:57:15-05:00'
describe
'1938' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEA' 'sip-files00112.txt'
db876241c0564428e908ed2193e429a4
a4e12e64cb4f3edd125386437024e893a2897f2a
'2011-12-29T12:54:50-05:00'
describe
'1779' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEB' 'sip-files00113.txt'
d0760f7e090fe70482b9c7804f7ce43c
5f7df02f5216e4cd82d964234a473dcb3f170712
'2011-12-29T12:48:48-05:00'
describe
'1952' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEC' 'sip-files00114.txt'
a2c21b98ef71f99ea8b23150f43100fc
c812e0979a5ca0a80970eb129286ef4236daf9a0
'2011-12-29T12:49:55-05:00'
describe
'1998' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAED' 'sip-files00115.txt'
1ddd929902af2119be28e5fc2a943e36
16bea9487f615be2dfae2d957e5fe5720a548009
describe
'1936' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEE' 'sip-files00116.txt'
b3fc7bf843cddfcbfc5032a20a92f472
4ebf3cdb3ce79437d3601f9d9c61ef27e56de49e
'2011-12-29T12:53:41-05:00'
describe
'369' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEF' 'sip-files00117.txt'
88d64e084679fd53f078daba437ff06e
fc9a73e281d643d082de4f914f577180d9fc0975
'2011-12-29T12:53:09-05:00'
describe
'1466' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEG' 'sip-files00118.txt'
4ae13ebca2291307ea110e48e8e32087
1186c94a0b505d62c52421a9f36fb010b31ccd14
'2011-12-29T12:57:01-05:00'
describe
'1901' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEH' 'sip-files00119.txt'
984c2c45033336538ffa8c069bcfc321
4c46c2b8c8a21d25685671336c871c1efcc3eeb0
'2011-12-29T12:49:29-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEI' 'sip-files00120.txt'
4d18aa692a0b1a2a6cb92a5b5757bceb
7bf76a24fb84b8bba28cc8db5f16686b955f6809
'2011-12-29T12:56:02-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEJ' 'sip-files00121.txt'
fd7f185820e09e29c84b7d5ffb725b31
dd7077bc006e860117fed8a7c321dd217e20fff3
'2011-12-29T12:50:51-05:00'
describe
'1746' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEK' 'sip-files00122.txt'
0bb245f0b00250eb49b664aa9603435a
ff0abd266a5ee23a7b3217655c35cd7b12bf4745
'2011-12-29T12:52:41-05:00'
describe
'2014' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEL' 'sip-files00123.txt'
ff893e98fc5412e6eb1712343e7e0c7e
cdbfe46cf0d37fe08f9f08ae0945abb6b5e4f268
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEM' 'sip-files00124.txt'
fd5caa797146c3ebe15727f71446fba5
b389d62b2167948e12e9749727538166e9589a8a
'2011-12-29T12:54:06-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEN' 'sip-files00125.txt'
3b0b18a71c323987f97a1010d4ede078
c69f285606ac71799d6ae4c56ed16cd003f8f6f8
'2011-12-29T12:59:58-05:00'
describe
'1947' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEO' 'sip-files00126.txt'
62c2963a9a25c431d3eed1398c14ab4a
cda1a91687f535765c8a6f5e8161dcb8d103cdac
describe
'1920' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEP' 'sip-files00127.txt'
4607a3f7731ef236e8ab21f77da95a38
ddb9247985bc3859f22466dc1af9cb0ead99240d
'2011-12-29T12:55:17-05:00'
describe
'1870' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEQ' 'sip-files00128.txt'
e7e21c56438a5bc97e08023514525010
899091a5e75b77229ca7b77975421f2bd1c2ebb5
'2011-12-29T12:58:52-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAER' 'sip-files00129.txt'
3b2857da3719fb8b88bf09b5aa2b004a
0dbc724560aaaa8e30af9acb4104a021d72a3333
'2011-12-29T12:57:12-05:00'
describe
'1927' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAES' 'sip-files00130.txt'
4f2df1414b21e3bb77172317db320851
549ab339990383cf5270385575518565a62057a9
'2011-12-29T12:48:34-05:00'
describe
'1977' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAET' 'sip-files00131.txt'
231102ef110c78f89be174a092abecc4
d444555a8ba104110785c368972a1b1032b3a904
describe
'1756' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEU' 'sip-files00132.txt'
94ead672e4815573e78f0b52e3cad25c
d5e2048d22dde64842c421beadf29f8fc5a5a50f
'2011-12-29T12:49:42-05:00'
describe
'627' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEV' 'sip-files00133.txt'
dd380e52ec6d02de2515c6cb2b196ce6
2811f64cc0fb92f3d93448e20baf9cd49c4d0aac
'2011-12-29T12:55:00-05:00'
describe
'1361' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEW' 'sip-files00134.txt'
2f7fcb0f78df5af2c742df9a6998374f
288779d95dc98b2260c631cd367f2318c38a7092
'2011-12-29T12:53:24-05:00'
describe
'231' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEX' 'sip-files00135.txt'
a06ee947a1ba7f6601cd1d5c46dd8847
532efa8ffeb1a92f7f37361fd8500e30e08f6c84
'2011-12-29T12:58:26-05:00'
describe
'1835' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEY' 'sip-files00137.txt'
90b506e5f906fa72d293e06e888cc718
4808cbd1f4636f64db924d81eb08d36c210e97f9
'2011-12-29T12:48:38-05:00'
describe
'1843' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAEZ' 'sip-files00138.txt'
6982061a2abf6cb055f973fd738c3f68
48fe0342404d85f976ad0957f1054ba493770406
'2011-12-29T12:53:55-05:00'
describe
'1848' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFA' 'sip-files00139.txt'
43edd7f6eaab83bd16653de89a489f8f
ff85f85a55da4224a9da81f0abd73d79dad87c12
'2011-12-29T12:50:36-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFB' 'sip-files00140.txt'
35cfdacfba0d7cb9d4a110cda7b0118f
3c6a1863d46a0b27a38d8efe6d0abf83ac011911
'2011-12-29T12:58:55-05:00'
describe
'1900' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFC' 'sip-files00141.txt'
160c6e95e86e714f73c26a4143597059
a84a5cc9c80c82d8bf52b4786cc7964d15c0b455
'2011-12-29T12:59:37-05:00'
describe
'1849' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFD' 'sip-files00142.txt'
c41fad71e9d1e15f78f33c460529ab77
243a9807e3e52258bdc074e0fec82f56febdb7af
'2011-12-29T12:48:49-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFE' 'sip-files00143.txt'
8ab11db9a81ae8c6474b6a41de721e8a
d171fe16a02077b6abea4141ac0a3754af9911f0
'2011-12-29T12:49:33-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFF' 'sip-files00144.txt'
bc74b0e68ca09e177a14ad8bce8d9d94
23f009a202f1b6046fa6ba703a429c6fdc5565ec
describe
'1918' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFG' 'sip-files00145.txt'
7c61578eb233a5325357eea6cf837b5f
cbcab456557644eb7e9878006df7cfa32e8f9085
'2011-12-29T12:52:07-05:00'
describe
'1812' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFH' 'sip-files00146.txt'
d0fb2b8c632fee694c8c7e2299fe032c
bcd8d416946bb8eb6e360f64d00ff9d81f9ef90f
'2011-12-29T12:54:26-05:00'
describe
'1802' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFI' 'sip-files00147.txt'
8eddb46dc8e5348d206d0ba01706b84f
9f8ad7f664703c9fe901d1c4cf7ab0e024cccba1
describe
'1820' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFJ' 'sip-files00148.txt'
548b09777aff59e264c9f025b4aa0ed0
2994bde985b9bad9bd7e2c3456f9403b372fe9a3
'2011-12-29T12:58:33-05:00'
describe
'1815' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFK' 'sip-files00149.txt'
b53281fc920dd07a5b3626471661ee87
2ccb4fd3675650c067131ab97d1aaaf9d5589c5a
'2011-12-29T12:51:50-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFL' 'sip-files00150.txt'
a0a7483f8498861bbf649fb4ef785e45
96fc2a9d77e1734184a4e7bd4b44a74c248aec0a
'2011-12-29T12:54:19-05:00'
describe
'657' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFM' 'sip-files00151.txt'
0b8d57bc71d0edd4c98e7223c24ab4ca
c95312dece3f05afbef5c5fd9e4ddd7a4545fb0a
'2011-12-29T12:54:07-05:00'
describe
'1486' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFN' 'sip-files00152.txt'
c10c5f94df5d4fddca96889443604e47
a3013a7a5979c4b3a3f9715a57557fa901952c2a
'2011-12-29T12:56:10-05:00'
describe
'152' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFO' 'sip-files00153.txt'
619099ea3afaf313319ad90de482dafb
242286767ee56d9f9d17af84b38698ede9826520
describe
'1979' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFP' 'sip-files00155.txt'
340ec8c9cbda1d9dd7dcb17a81cc2de0
77851fdc8db0221fbdef85136ca95004baad5554
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFQ' 'sip-files00156.txt'
ae634b5eeae42d30bef6b34c66878dab
9f846632999eace3f38c6d2cc5539437d3977699
'2011-12-29T12:58:32-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFR' 'sip-files00157.txt'
b2bd08be207c739f51edfb421ed5d45e
8b2998aecfa86ef167c204b782f235a1e145456b
'2011-12-29T12:53:59-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFS' 'sip-files00158.txt'
8b151f244122efd44da946312d6ab9ab
43842fe5e0c911404b3298d3a82e29bb46b5170f
'2011-12-29T12:51:34-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFT' 'sip-files00159.txt'
31f88d43b7006190ddeeaaca9fafdb48
f932aade4baa4be9fe2783124ff8705b9dbb9726
'2011-12-29T12:52:44-05:00'
describe
'1923' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFU' 'sip-files00160.txt'
f87207ae4314ffcf6a138c18659ec924
25339b9ff9fdf858d76ba29e86b782b276184635
'2011-12-29T12:52:11-05:00'
describe
'1841' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFV' 'sip-files00161.txt'
bc1f13497a17db0ac68e0d7973575a41
61ffbb391cdea7e212620b113e5deccac42788cb
describe
'1956' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFW' 'sip-files00162.txt'
1de3ea127866800c40f400ad7eb45170
0e58860d1934893bbbd4ac5da2ad063d79e4b021
'2011-12-29T12:58:07-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFX' 'sip-files00163.txt'
e3820695ea2d21f9373be72659ef3c32
4e76d9bb8ec430e5aa4167f999dcb5e794103243
'2011-12-29T12:54:04-05:00'
describe
'1930' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFY' 'sip-files00164.txt'
aec1133aef709b6cb2b6f01c130170cb
3d4855549d0f0a131fe4199602be204c84c84494
'2011-12-29T12:54:57-05:00'
describe
'2002' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAFZ' 'sip-files00165.txt'
4149822fc8debc4ac40670f076db1866
c4d72f06ba95adb6dfc03557eac5a36776ca0103
'2011-12-29T12:48:21-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGA' 'sip-files00166.txt'
2b35e49cc65b81d3e5503134d7600c56
675391dc10b3be5e4793b05933218de696276187
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGB' 'sip-files00167.txt'
70e7accc351a54b358f3afffae5c4f90
969f64cefe4161f8d2f30a8592817c309160595c
'2011-12-29T12:50:46-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGC' 'sip-files00168.txt'
2d5404891ccd42df747f5b511be0fb2c
bb4ce7ccf8950a0e48878c32a858a040c33db103
describe
'1951' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGD' 'sip-files00169.txt'
c62c2b50cc383b522ea292938c474a8d
d36347fbf0ca141c3cf69be9255c8b0dc1b6ee86
'2011-12-29T12:52:35-05:00'
describe
'1917' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGE' 'sip-files00170.txt'
5f11086dcf9693ef5b8e143995e0d768
8340626a06647ffdc0c04433969c8c17585647b9
describe
'1016' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGF' 'sip-files00171.txt'
576a549907323ec83eedd4d2fb24c08b
43107221c33dc4eb1834ad8703162049f75fc48a
'2011-12-29T12:56:33-05:00'
describe
'1539' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGG' 'sip-files00172.txt'
66c49530561216064c58295e9ed9e6d7
0343339d30cd3cd1c599a8c8af186773802083a0
'2011-12-29T12:56:08-05:00'
describe
'209' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGH' 'sip-files00173.txt'
d8e81fbd1e7b4b2d856685db95240393
82b2306607ae32eb3f9afbfb0ce1639e99b175a5
describe
'1772' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGI' 'sip-files00175.txt'
5331e570ebeb085e4c54cc453a64b092
e63ecd84be9095c3815eb8e69e72071dbc194522
describe
'1878' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGJ' 'sip-files00176.txt'
ef0de5c4222345ae8754986c716b753d
625502e382b3dd5f791168afb375e87e5d0416be
'2011-12-29T12:55:37-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGK' 'sip-files00177.txt'
02d2493cdc20fdde0cacce9e90c7d9b6
d66a64a72b08442c173ada197f0b339875d9fd1d
'2011-12-29T12:55:03-05:00'
describe
'1911' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGL' 'sip-files00178.txt'
6488ac4a3de8dbd70548e88ff823c026
e19ac6d32677e935ec131e8b5225e8dd18118998
'2011-12-29T12:53:22-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGM' 'sip-files00179.txt'
b882b6c0fccc618b5fc68c4323c9077e
ac3a49dda13a416681c91d1651c508c6701bef3e
'2011-12-29T12:53:38-05:00'
describe
'1868' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGN' 'sip-files00180.txt'
e3b4234562f0053e9c5c71b090b8845f
92bc812373061839be35e3ea925bbd4de04bdd7c
'2011-12-29T12:52:25-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGO' 'sip-files00181.txt'
65a8140daaab39803404d4a16e359af7
a28f81835792314f977f0d4cb2825bea3e51d979
'2011-12-29T12:49:57-05:00'
describe
'1877' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGP' 'sip-files00182.txt'
e54477ca013f0a18280fd103e26c86a3
2f209b5a23641190b5e1a98d6854492cd3ce8114
'2011-12-29T12:48:28-05:00'
describe
'1904' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGQ' 'sip-files00183.txt'
dad69ca2bf6403b8e6e8ef3408b0bced
322cacfec7bd0c0bdb7be18d054dd42b238483ed
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGR' 'sip-files00184.txt'
88873c37946ccb8dee706a5d3506960b
d9a81040a951fc8eebea0ffc0d7864e641afab53
describe
'1958' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGS' 'sip-files00185.txt'
e255da541b9cc9a29277006923d992cf
dd55715fc82b90d230e005280630a3afc1dfd999
'2011-12-29T12:57:27-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGT' 'sip-files00186.txt'
535af682dce15dbcc641624265c36aa4
6c674fc5e8cd066b19f9af40318048c1cf91f92d
'2011-12-29T12:56:37-05:00'
describe
'269' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGU' 'sip-files00187.txt'
6f861163c971a0336f0f60c11c8f61cd
739a3fc14d343dc57cb2d07f543153271c581c9e
'2011-12-29T12:56:19-05:00'
describe
'1549' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGV' 'sip-files00189.txt'
af5e73f53945ab9a8a6ab922f81e780b
345e69aa8ab2e2dc142d550e38469e70d945c637
'2011-12-29T12:54:59-05:00'
describe
'1810' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGW' 'sip-files00190.txt'
909310b6cce2b0da52a5ba820318df20
5640c5bbce0891eb23534ef973b8efc0069c007b
'2011-12-29T12:50:34-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGX' 'sip-files00191.txt'
4099eef12b20c73d55dcd5756d22c003
9f298dea3cd768a3f53495c059d08c783546a082
'2011-12-29T12:48:42-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGY' 'sip-files00192.txt'
b5ce735ee461ec21f5e70410c1282648
69cf3703a1a0e8f3c8a6c8309eb36db549f581d6
'2011-12-29T12:50:44-05:00'
describe
'1966' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAGZ' 'sip-files00193.txt'
4a84c24745d48b48c46490838629cffc
1cffc737911a196233fe660fe31eb93fdd68b8b9
'2011-12-29T12:50:26-05:00'
describe
'1942' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHA' 'sip-files00194.txt'
7c450e6f9d91de24574a2aaacb557e9c
84dddc886e43478cbdb928a147c34281d1bdd9e1
'2011-12-29T12:52:56-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHB' 'sip-files00195.txt'
03c4aa851e061c1975da13a1da5dfdd0
ac157dbc1c5d5d722fc5a681f978875e2edf0e68
'2011-12-29T12:54:42-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHC' 'sip-files00196.txt'
f4c22713489694048e581f3e906e03b1
1f11ac24e828638f14387c8ce6d00520acd3af2c
'2011-12-29T12:55:48-05:00'
describe
'1945' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHD' 'sip-files00197.txt'
bec18867413039db92dac18572c20ef3
2bce23fa085ed4ae69334183877ec6cb46e874f7
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHE' 'sip-files00198.txt'
804a33e704bb7a8a0f12fb47da825e34
0a3e9d4427ba0c1f0828fe0169125bc08d3439ef
describe
'1912' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHF' 'sip-files00199.txt'
9ec860e2f0756da15b6ce81155e69c3c
e1b76ab58198d18ffb8305cca43091b6a019927e
'2011-12-29T12:49:35-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHG' 'sip-files00200.txt'
828dde31053367ea4f44c520b4432ddb
04de03d1e52e2efb8d49abd2cdc364d7d1a2c627
'2011-12-29T12:53:35-05:00'
describe
'1995' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHH' 'sip-files00201.txt'
5bb580332c2f1707cd8198a4f66e4a91
b2a9d0a0bcfa3c31afb8ac382a5c4061f414acec
'2011-12-29T12:55:21-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHI' 'sip-files00202.txt'
cd0c1de842c173128e53a10cf112f190
bd6a40de4abaa90e4af540104466864c48680cae
'2011-12-29T12:52:28-05:00'
describe
'1229' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHJ' 'sip-files00203.txt'
cae2d8a0fe2d5601b50acbf176f9db9a
7e28fc2faa6b339427c093afcfc605bfa6855177
'2011-12-29T12:56:12-05:00'
describe
'1457' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHK' 'sip-files00204.txt'
e2a2db671a9cd55f7138cd24f3ec1a2b
1f237d8c05ff6eaaa85e5368035a34106235b2d5
'2011-12-29T12:50:50-05:00'
describe
'373' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHL' 'sip-files00205.txt'
c0f6c568caf4e0f7e94cb6de11aed87a
08a691b33ea4d398766f5c46909f262210e97c51
'2011-12-29T12:53:29-05:00'
describe
Invalid character
'1937' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHM' 'sip-files00207.txt'
62c7283cbc4e02d102d9f22c643db7e4
840ad6f5f0b2fbc433ce54dbcd8591c667a32ce8
'2011-12-29T12:54:15-05:00'
describe
'1863' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHN' 'sip-files00208.txt'
16660ca95cff96852939e2848dc9c482
e0892bc1f30cff0a032254be6d00a70b8b26e27f
'2011-12-29T12:50:53-05:00'
describe
'1876' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHO' 'sip-files00209.txt'
1e13f016b7cc183d4f44b59fccec171a
905b8a4ba3e835a80fdbe913c342ded1980fb109
'2011-12-29T12:58:50-05:00'
describe
'1862' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHP' 'sip-files00210.txt'
f34b69edbadc46e11cf756eeb30d061b
de198e5ee5f983fe17b86adbc8ac5d27347f630b
'2011-12-29T12:57:41-05:00'
describe
'1887' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHQ' 'sip-files00211.txt'
560fef1f8b8fd68d4a4654de9f60d11b
77580d8f8e83f085c1f08c2c14af0ef1c39336a3
describe
'1908' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHR' 'sip-files00212.txt'
f59566d46831c31976e1549e5700a035
360fad83dec9c7b094ddca93802351f00934d632
'2011-12-29T12:53:47-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHS' 'sip-files00213.txt'
24e1329b7cc82390f7fbf8c46f438006
cf7738e1b91fd0082dcd337225ef0cc18bed82be
'2011-12-29T12:58:37-05:00'
describe
'1994' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHT' 'sip-files00214.txt'
4d531c20a26a7c58cd80b218975bbeb2
61fe2f24bfdbd7f36ca139ad8a24079974296d33
'2011-12-29T12:58:51-05:00'
describe
'1932' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHU' 'sip-files00215.txt'
51ab35dc810d32d885ca1977e613854b
adc6171bf8561672e541e10119323717ecf3adc0
'2011-12-29T12:58:05-05:00'
describe
'1907' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHV' 'sip-files00216.txt'
138ccb1eab0032170926d276c2478ce9
6d685b5dd0da63176a4575151eaa932a9ad09b1d
'2011-12-29T12:54:23-05:00'
describe
'2011' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHW' 'sip-files00217.txt'
83550a088df0dc63eec5ffeb920ae491
379d5732e6798bee0eca9f03b667661dd0259915
describe
'1154' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHX' 'sip-files00218.txt'
4c6729ec5f25b82f4d659846a0042fe0
565a5abcecf0ac5fcc247e0c938648ca480fc32e
describe
'251' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHY' 'sip-files00219.txt'
3b87b952aef2778b9cf3fd4887e70440
96435af5da5c006ea4162680c22bfbdf0615dd89
'2011-12-29T12:55:39-05:00'
describe
Invalid character
'1451' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAHZ' 'sip-files00221.txt'
30af968aa8f1b1e4dc2df90381596803
23597ce3507b77676c98d5df8d7f925d59022a4d
'2011-12-29T12:56:47-05:00'
describe
'1898' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIA' 'sip-files00222.txt'
02d1b33eb275eecc0cd85e1a27101232
164cac21691b555e0a1a5ef38b8d33aa39c4c4ee
'2011-12-29T12:54:00-05:00'
describe
'1925' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIB' 'sip-files00223.txt'
f752977f90f0cbd2df5cd5bb63b94b8c
726d60dd131126e43f92e371bf7a57730c1c2a0f
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIC' 'sip-files00224.txt'
c7ebe32db47b68245565e88eb62213de
317cbccc861aae1c9a9c1e81541949e5be747607
describe
Invalid character
'1871' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAID' 'sip-files00225.txt'
678fc67df6ab18aaf6c7904e44fd2d3f
eab3cff49f69748b69c9f7d07331fdcc40e2cb55
'2011-12-29T12:55:13-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIE' 'sip-files00226.txt'
ab842f614a590d2b2546ce3739bbb2f2
c34001a6e3242817ba2db823e8483c9e7e828680
'2011-12-29T12:50:25-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIF' 'sip-files00227.txt'
d48e5340d143ec2b4c3968fadcfa63b8
e900bfa976a0b7d5feeedeb37b69a3798140a8e8
'2011-12-29T12:56:18-05:00'
describe
'1888' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIG' 'sip-files00228.txt'
6170457e4d87e8e51e1504098dbc1496
f522e91987c9ff79a259b010c4aa844f9718806c
'2011-12-29T12:57:51-05:00'
describe
'1941' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIH' 'sip-files00229.txt'
84ffb8369a6aa98db5daf565f7e9c565
6716dd2a4675573d58c7aca9791cdaa77b9d2a9c
'2011-12-29T12:56:29-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAII' 'sip-files00230.txt'
38030af363df4b1f938dde6a24757b75
85e5409da924b96abd8a7e6becda6aabf636b43d
'2011-12-29T12:55:42-05:00'
describe
'1985' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIJ' 'sip-files00231.txt'
eccb732fd0975d2a02f75f98d5d35d9f
a8400afca02d2e72f818a44217cb6e8bda0b31f4
'2011-12-29T12:52:53-05:00'
describe
'1893' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIK' 'sip-files00232.txt'
01f19c332b2954f05afad4fe7ca37093
aa7e4e36c47d9712038635f63237edda815b1b9d
'2011-12-29T12:59:38-05:00'
describe
'1950' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIL' 'sip-files00233.txt'
ec3c5e501157e56073c353e0f79df7cf
7b52b11a8a839bdecf81c05a83f90d885ddca657
'2011-12-29T12:52:46-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIM' 'sip-files00234.txt'
edf438a788ad63b926f1da3b22ccdd45
0972af22120d56e5e2b872ad3d98d95d1fed28ee
'2011-12-29T12:57:52-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIN' 'sip-files00235.txt'
48e3a3c584cadada6511c08edf820ddc
302437120ff1a20d5fe5e42fc6156caa8bdc9231
'2011-12-29T12:51:45-05:00'
describe
'1856' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIO' 'sip-files00236.txt'
c8b1c2fb071042d744898c392bf4e018
ea8524d9f2b5c42849efaeab3c608c474a8cc03a
describe
'884' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIP' 'sip-files00237.txt'
5772d041b2cd58ffa9514528f14c95a0
e2e8f15a32740b425f16e93e2e8ffabecf890a89
describe
'1442' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIQ' 'sip-files00238.txt'
9f4f90326668828af3796a3747ebe430
e66205eb2372840109dce4ad6134c5504bf64d3b
'2011-12-29T12:49:32-05:00'
describe
'272' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIR' 'sip-files00239.txt'
2cad91194c36c3f6b5743cd1b474be38
972b477aa2e203cd04a3cf5bc00c0f3e29e24fa8
'2011-12-29T12:48:41-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIS' 'sip-files00241.txt'
25b6c8f164f1a9d881841862ea06eed2
741ec6eb6512a3ca32361b39169974fcb0130424
'2011-12-29T12:51:36-05:00'
describe
'1976' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIT' 'sip-files00242.txt'
de4d0ffaf2b5124000d03d68fd946bdf
cf269d33c6c2daa5dc41ac6a1917e9353f15804e
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIU' 'sip-files00243.txt'
cb026ba3438dc9db08eed5b788055965
e84e4590a6f8aaf097945c20ffc1e76b9f18b323
'2011-12-29T12:54:37-05:00'
describe
'1967' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIV' 'sip-files00244.txt'
ae2ca119013690eb43fcb08d632dee4a
fad8cbf1eaae35c4816fd7ac85370c8ff52e2629
'2011-12-29T12:58:22-05:00'
describe
'1981' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIW' 'sip-files00245.txt'
43fa24435a6dac8f82d159042ee16253
1a81130278bd46ef4ccb23e589b229962a874963
describe
'1940' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIX' 'sip-files00246.txt'
59bd76e1dec8f59e55f9ba26052ca6f3
61026b2eea3cffc1ff0b782dfca68ea53d7489de
'2011-12-29T12:53:53-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIY' 'sip-files00247.txt'
e96ccef71719fc44b9ff5ef8013b309d
6e482b13c9eb7b0943fe96b6a845b62b5cce0dee
'2011-12-29T12:58:03-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAIZ' 'sip-files00248.txt'
f5508ee54f92b2eed1050ee5dc671978
abce3664d16353136f1b403d27f508d21d8cfbc8
'2011-12-29T12:55:32-05:00'
describe
'1987' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJA' 'sip-files00249.txt'
269b8bc88985fe3be72d684d1f5c2a1d
1d26db2775422acf653620537ebc58e6eeb670a2
'2011-12-29T12:50:10-05:00'
describe
'1909' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJB' 'sip-files00250.txt'
f0424de9a579fd4b7438e60bf67a922e
94e4f1aac231c95596e96aa41a1f71c0f8c582ae
'2011-12-29T12:58:12-05:00'
describe
'1948' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJC' 'sip-files00251.txt'
3f6e3143ae584a12780fe2dbcb6a8253
e994f9bdb0f3a745d9845a0d70e0318733191d04
'2011-12-29T12:52:36-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJD' 'sip-files00252.txt'
560500b301f16da4de6e28d4b4027781
ab96c1f1b2128ea833949a2e0e0dc4fb3e9c4154
'2011-12-29T12:58:21-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJE' 'sip-files00253.txt'
a444253b7e40da0ef1ecdb7697e89477
0703d832047f0f0de863d687d3dafc74e2102387
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJF' 'sip-files00254.txt'
15b5c44d0118e69d746d6762d3f95387
09bd83ac311c268f429a2129a638ba4542fc2fb4
'2011-12-29T12:48:29-05:00'
describe
'2032' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJG' 'sip-files00255.txt'
10188eac7b93188a2175712dd39129af
247508fea2dec082f3a33a16d0f587f75f9ff92c
'2011-12-29T12:51:44-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJH' 'sip-files00256.txt'
ea2b24c177230fb2db7e764c80f079fc
fe309e8581e6c81c362c3d24caf4eecb0b81cab2
'2011-12-29T12:48:24-05:00'
describe
'428' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJI' 'sip-files00257.txt'
7c1141d5a7ec6c129ccb5acca90d7c44
1da92b33e7e765ac8370f1241136bcb80bcc2897
'2011-12-29T12:56:23-05:00'
describe
'1564' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJJ' 'sip-files00258.txt'
f5533ff4cacb01b297a0e9dbe1ebea2d
4a69682fee134a435ff0e242ec2dcba07c6072a5
'2011-12-29T12:59:11-05:00'
describe
'165' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJK' 'sip-files00259.txt'
e33fca1859bfc6bc3746f1c3db8d772d
0e1f5bf546561658617c75eab502722899aef3f8
describe
'2029' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJL' 'sip-files00261.txt'
64c39ca28464baba0b198c120344822f
dd3ea3f6f7aeca66ece0bf020f7cf6b52bc5d65d
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJM' 'sip-files00262.txt'
fb3ef516210bb390a76236aacf44fb90
add0ebbb090a86772e2ac762bea92c92792a32ee
'2011-12-29T12:55:19-05:00'
describe
'2010' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJN' 'sip-files00263.txt'
bd18fec0760b5e2000eab7bc8fbf6b55
c89e989e0a496ae32b88f4a631a50eea48f1d93c
'2011-12-29T12:57:13-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJO' 'sip-files00264.txt'
eb21002fa3f40ea8a2c894382c8e6fc0
d2499cceb76bc7bbc30e5eb650df0e6083a783d6
'2011-12-29T12:56:45-05:00'
describe
'2003' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJP' 'sip-files00265.txt'
bc13d7825bdfc632e64c8dcd387fc3c2
2643abd8ad27528dbabe1b11ba9d2c3751096940
'2011-12-29T12:54:05-05:00'
describe
'1962' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJQ' 'sip-files00266.txt'
7e9970a83f0ae1ae6f0ef7f7e59d5791
5e2879df3e2bd8be3c8e56b664d9da490111a8c2
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJR' 'sip-files00267.txt'
95d0682700f824d40b742e2769171c44
f677e5d71f063ed581627d0e9ae264043e5b777b
'2011-12-29T12:49:16-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJS' 'sip-files00268.txt'
f691e8ca5762c5c628275c7d494f93cf
b67f39c23b395bb1d441ac4f23eecfd11105895a
'2011-12-29T12:54:33-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJT' 'sip-files00269.txt'
c59b6e27805d3decfc11b1c3f680781d
603dfe1e29ac21b89a4a078b037f811a5c66a542
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJU' 'sip-files00270.txt'
4670abab74b0b29064b01e00bc2251e8
2ee4fedc579debf062b79ac0fa62776230c1ecc7
'2011-12-29T12:55:44-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJV' 'sip-files00271.txt'
191941dbcc79f9c3e3200811b18b8561
55a88a6a9cf90db927eb49fcdcfb5c88b96e8089
'2011-12-29T12:57:25-05:00'
describe
'1929' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJW' 'sip-files00272.txt'
47b372eca83ea29fb16f89ef920adc52
150e639de7411845ac3fd5b438aa34f6dcffb81f
'2011-12-29T12:52:29-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJX' 'sip-files00273.txt'
cd0fe38f91475a2a481bff1da3f48f71
d5cae03ecc4a1f78fe4b5b461aecd69e0822634e
'2011-12-29T12:48:27-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJY' 'sip-files00274.txt'
1472682cdb3457a647aeb82876df4768
abc197e30290bee1af2b53d4a9ba36d6129961af
describe
'682' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAJZ' 'sip-files00275.txt'
828285d0cfdc379dd97595e8bbf9efa1
17e9b2e99cdcea23ad097d43ff88a0b266d59b49
'2011-12-29T12:49:07-05:00'
describe
'1494' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKA' 'sip-files00276.txt'
dc153dbb2ef6fde461ec9b70a3d2833e
f9531935275141c8adebe61a2be57e14aaf0d1da
'2011-12-29T12:54:21-05:00'
describe
'1944' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKB' 'sip-files00277.txt'
153ac7b2b87198b00cc4568b1bcbf970
4274d8422a53462bd20df207216b5da01f0f3efa
'2011-12-29T12:56:44-05:00'
describe
'1921' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKC' 'sip-files00278.txt'
7ea4a779654e7ba6d86bcce999f95baa
c4e7a4a631cfbe02096bf59bdeedd041bfabe3ea
'2011-12-29T12:49:04-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKD' 'sip-files00279.txt'
5df1e67414dee3fe089200196694f8dc
2c4d7b5bb522b0b590cf0ac93a5244608799470c
describe
'1972' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKE' 'sip-files00280.txt'
845d47b24bd2d33059d72de78273336e
5bd6037ee77dcc50d21cb8da7fc617fe59d4884b
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKF' 'sip-files00281.txt'
dfc8e1c2b3beb66d5d06a908d211bf6f
c592b4bb69381f10000fdf2d7f440586597cbb37
'2011-12-29T12:51:03-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKG' 'sip-files00282.txt'
361b0125989bfb8f010e230778dfaf89
25ca4d07b0b127047603b7092c87795ea4a68000
'2011-12-29T12:58:46-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKH' 'sip-files00283.txt'
a92d005fcf6fe63224237aad936261df
cd3138653257a7f9f5445c1253e791699560803f
describe
'1969' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKI' 'sip-files00284.txt'
2f1e10d508cab5885459854889a04c5a
c83af289c69e4712f0c2b57b98e4d371615c60c0
describe
'1986' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKJ' 'sip-files00285.txt'
40fcedcaba205cc9abc5ae835c32ad40
3f6851c9560d0b92d5013bffd34100b5a2321adf
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKK' 'sip-files00286.txt'
79e9b2255bd6f0c1b6c9f27564a30534
2c91418337365c5aa4fd38c1a990efe7496bbe67
describe
'2005' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKL' 'sip-files00287.txt'
09eb1f7c198d13271621288bdebac837
cdf3a79f24242e283658338c32b73d843b2dbd76
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKM' 'sip-files00288.txt'
839f13b4e4f1a4845424e42ab6ac535d
0830531b7ff3d1e66b790c076415e5b1a1e41ee6
'2011-12-29T12:51:29-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKN' 'sip-files00289.txt'
24cb5563e34d2592565e57baa9e4e506
cc86a22972220d14d53fd26c9af2337fafaf1122
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKO' 'sip-files00290.txt'
44e1f647c806769acd5279eae9e11d1a
5e6703b9e24291ba77caf8e00c5b27bc63856512
'2011-12-29T12:49:36-05:00'
describe
'444' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKP' 'sip-files00291.txt'
ef4e05193019a9ef1f85c80823e19d7a
d84e66bd05410bbd9691dbe34f1cac6f317b7df7
'2011-12-29T12:49:50-05:00'
describe
'1467' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKQ' 'sip-files00292.txt'
028e0380ea7673154603b8094c7a1466
2a7aed797fbe29cc190f5d8eec01c4c55c752edb
describe
'148' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKR' 'sip-files00293.txt'
a73ca3d5893f9f45a4af842ddd836cf5
9f5164d84c04181b00d6da90d1a3b67e61a71f39
'2011-12-29T12:51:12-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKS' 'sip-files00295.txt'
f9c783943d6a83ebdd3326c64d0941a0
c60ff7124bd8d20b3a25b33008025e20cc722cf0
describe
'1880' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKT' 'sip-files00296.txt'
a772df5a9cb383ae754cc52101dee8d0
cfa76c933eaf40b168cdd306f605846ace03224c
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKU' 'sip-files00297.txt'
2c4a17866ed1ec9fc005c53f4b72e451
6af881e505f3f22ace4af7aa07ecf2f6569c4974
'2011-12-29T12:54:54-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKV' 'sip-files00298.txt'
bf8259fd470131c72ef9011fd6958354
233cb8c6c8faed29688f88404cb04b6109618b3f
'2011-12-29T12:55:31-05:00'
describe
'1983' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKW' 'sip-files00299.txt'
4d3ce9e5a0b812a73e76886aa87a5be8
aa88d6a8f5be2c538ca789958a2e0e81cde3ed2e
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKX' 'sip-files00300.txt'
ea0ec4cda260be6d63f6c484d2370356
620bebb82686c2ccdf475a2133c9a510d4cba185
describe
'1903' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKY' 'sip-files00301.txt'
52252d0681e890df3559acd8f71e2490
36ba8178aa05ad6e758d4e1337e222c065513369
describe
'1943' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAKZ' 'sip-files00302.txt'
6c2b872cf2ee0c45cd9803c5a57607c6
b89b627d09601e7f1409ef18c1176980409ee2e8
'2011-12-29T12:57:16-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALA' 'sip-files00303.txt'
85f75740b3bbdf1f0eb7bd22223da16f
bb66439967abf893b8d32e9a63423153d72f0b1f
describe
'1897' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALB' 'sip-files00304.txt'
a1b0b0356422a0ec4a4b9e4e32ccf532
1512c726701935843fb07a28887e468ad216c541
'2011-12-29T12:56:34-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALC' 'sip-files00305.txt'
3a6cc7b3dfb4ac4f4312f1df9e9b60fc
89e1eca6ea9357008b24c2eb72e817b5bc0cbf64
'2011-12-29T12:56:16-05:00'
describe
'1955' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALD' 'sip-files00306.txt'
f4a03cc85d1e87f4cf7f927b09d2bab9
6082f92c271aaf25b11733734b128a37bfc99f37
'2011-12-29T12:56:35-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALE' 'sip-files00307.txt'
07203cb05839adb765e295ce7f961eff
a1b953f83422126d7744dada8ce653c4b045388b
describe
'1905' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALF' 'sip-files00308.txt'
73a2c13b2a73af243f9f9be2c4ad5090
e0cf151162539193afd676a6094e561242ab870d
'2011-12-29T12:50:37-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALG' 'sip-files00309.txt'
3f61079d27c2371d04bdaa6ec68ac518
da967203ba5296b3c1b35ef4e0c25a3324838fe6
describe
'2001' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALH' 'sip-files00310.txt'
9e69bae42e8e4ce36fddd254c391bb32
f7c3ea7975723c44b3eda47569c4183dcd09828d
'2011-12-29T12:48:55-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALI' 'sip-files00311.txt'
3ef7fae7850f2116e174eed6b9938c1b
b84654fce2220fd491453973d0e98018ae2a0d7e
'2011-12-29T12:49:38-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALJ' 'sip-files00312.txt'
55d6a7c8ea73e7625d6fa8933cb35b1a
562fcc7b7dfbccb07bc5b205209ca8de2cd4eb69
'2011-12-29T12:51:48-05:00'
describe
'1971' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALK' 'sip-files00313.txt'
19c488f0c32d619f09d970b97c5e9b68
db5ba56b6301b619f19e14b2e91a246fd1762533
'2011-12-29T12:51:00-05:00'
describe
'650' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALL' 'sip-files00314.txt'
f30b0707aa311437359609e84ff9a722
574236ead84521f079bea8cb6639d7a7f49764f0
'2011-12-29T12:48:33-05:00'
describe
'201' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALM' 'sip-files00315.txt'
edc1f7f20ebe53ee2f65d7a177767daf
bf76bc203223a754e2b96b213ea3f6b530cefa4d
'2011-12-29T12:52:31-05:00'
describe
'1535' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALN' 'sip-files00317.txt'
f2416a265aab3bb5d58b7aa1cc7232e7
a8939217691049ce9eeee438f2031b08ee336d69
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALO' 'sip-files00318.txt'
d193df404d13d7a8ab377f3f1068155b
a65d40598cb4410ae53c230098cadddf554d45a3
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALP' 'sip-files00319.txt'
f5b92216fd70fec2fa89656906c2eaa3
843a1175fe5b15e3b56da4ca41b89f2584864cbb
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALQ' 'sip-files00320.txt'
928b306be4a4b9c541f33f19b37ba105
4dc2eedea5ca703d357aab9a3c2da6d794aef24d
'2011-12-29T12:48:31-05:00'
describe
'1953' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALR' 'sip-files00321.txt'
03832fbe79088488301e7330587548d1
39343865449265b1827ee1824e6c67816a92e16c
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALS' 'sip-files00322.txt'
a2a1836f14090ad064d9a8edde2681cc
332f290864b61b9fcf2667d7614e87559b538c82
describe
'1984' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALT' 'sip-files00323.txt'
85cb1e66decd185dcced9f15480c738b
4e4452f51927c6a2d48a438fcfa9ffa0cb98a345
'2011-12-29T12:57:17-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALU' 'sip-files00324.txt'
1dde0b4ad1d0ea1d73ee2649a5681359
80291fa3ce9b4ab037cac45b7eeb231234a92de1
'2011-12-29T12:59:57-05:00'
describe
'1954' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALV' 'sip-files00325.txt'
1127d34d8ffe7e7b2b84ed46bae6f456
e31ea9ae30da61ecc8b04fa535b85fd7cc754222
'2011-12-29T12:57:26-05:00'
describe
'1869' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALW' 'sip-files00326.txt'
96a8f221f0d68f49f38387c7656c2ad4
f07ef9f6f909118468e53142fa419c012cc71cb4
'2011-12-29T12:52:52-05:00'
describe
'1934' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALX' 'sip-files00327.txt'
c98fc099f73f48365358c68c0103215a
c4b77cb6df27ef9f125cea11c3c40ff0577b7b94
'2011-12-29T12:59:39-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALY' 'sip-files00328.txt'
c5a8f42359bbbc7daeef982006804cf7
480eaaaf9bdfb3e7f43975ba7b9dd6c3cc6d2605
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAALZ' 'sip-files00329.txt'
1b5d2c5cedfbf3452bf50b240fefa2e0
404065017cc5a6b76a1b29f366beb5874ccc4155
'2011-12-29T12:49:19-05:00'
describe
'1881' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMA' 'sip-files00330.txt'
3e93de1dc7a1d05659933b576d372403
442d87a7e6506e826b70f4b0b215009b9ee8e02a
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMB' 'sip-files00331.txt'
135812861069cc7a4471724d76b15f98
98d01309d4f06b9626ccd41cabb9d33d0a41de19
'2011-12-29T12:50:31-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMC' 'sip-files00332.txt'
d19fdcd192ce07e6135dd07ea3896b0b
196399808ae3ebc0b9e82f8b107cd3324c787bd5
describe
'2021' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMD' 'sip-files00333.txt'
ce9bba5b1a45d15bfedacaf86b79a167
d256db980377f1fb723f8527f0a24ba97ba0b323
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAME' 'sip-files00334.txt'
57e441491a683e2cfcb51ee4f925e9df
75de77ecdb5930a4755e383d8087a54fcdc4a828
describe
'778' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMF' 'sip-files00335.txt'
944dc47baea0a87b3f329a69fd0786eb
e9edce0d135639b3830cb3554d6b8d4531ae13fe
'2011-12-29T12:59:49-05:00'
describe
'1518' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMG' 'sip-files00336.txt'
b955a0d9c4fbad0bc0b42d7b1b4a8463
ed524d60e6ce0335ea73261e7bf762e8d0b9b0a1
'2011-12-29T12:52:06-05:00'
describe
'255' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMH' 'sip-files00337.txt'
67c8e777b3d90a4bf7f62912d90bebbd
d0330599e5bcb0726b6ac74716e017c06f6f43dc
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMI' 'sip-files00339.txt'
19c2b9873f847a06c2dafe332e07b25b
d7307c0b6e8b7193bb1bff6afabc4e2ffa64369d
'2011-12-29T12:55:04-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMJ' 'sip-files00340.txt'
c9b4297467269bbc7e2218cd7426777e
76c6823ac132a273b4bfaff6a9346805f4d66400
'2011-12-29T12:56:55-05:00'
describe
'2007' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMK' 'sip-files00341.txt'
9af6aec8b671d71edec207edf59d3f1a
aa5d361174836021bdfa44166ad00e3fca6ba2a7
'2011-12-29T12:51:32-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAML' 'sip-files00342.txt'
26a8e8072d24d7f7e0d8f966bd2d6045
4fc9c2753c34138089d264d98084572c28d94756
'2011-12-29T12:52:14-05:00'
describe
'1861' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMM' 'sip-files00343.txt'
5bb8b03f7df8b586b62d2011688089df
0ca951993672de1058f116c6c0ee042ad185a229
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMN' 'sip-files00344.txt'
069b2a3a85fd471854e693b2e2929878
0ca258f98cec71a1188eae789c9c1db8f550ce63
'2011-12-29T12:49:39-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMO' 'sip-files00345.txt'
3249723f860a4d68b498de292d41644f
03f5736f43540877493c8427417c90d1f6f5ad1d
describe
'1910' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMP' 'sip-files00346.txt'
7d9e25ab17ae095644366d85fea2eb6d
c84fbcb4fb24c0f009c65dedff7329eb0fa9303d
describe
'2039' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMQ' 'sip-files00347.txt'
0f446a64cffa65438a393504dedb1bdf
a488f21b89e0f30ace7dffbbe96435e40dcbec9c
'2011-12-29T12:50:19-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMR' 'sip-files00348.txt'
31ad7b98be9f44e26505252f77316ba7
82d1215fc4ed8c498e89c109d7ba742274fb4784
'2011-12-29T12:53:37-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMS' 'sip-files00349.txt'
53e6f224c5a77730b9ed12d9aa9261fb
042feb80151a9245afb63cf3ca431cb4f6db8b25
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMT' 'sip-files00350.txt'
1e87516874cd95590c5837843539affc
ea8a3ce78138134247baa74a2a566538997386a3
'2011-12-29T12:59:48-05:00'
describe
'1997' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMU' 'sip-files00351.txt'
14369009ceb92fa1f4503798491949ee
46dbdb936f49109e477b191dfcfe7431521e381b
'2011-12-29T12:52:12-05:00'
describe
'1891' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMV' 'sip-files00352.txt'
9f6c255ac03a89bf404a64426f0892b7
bbec96b8fddd671852daf6e5ea392fcf73e7bdc8
'2011-12-29T12:49:11-05:00'
describe
'1246' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMW' 'sip-files00353.txt'
60cd2f59cc3adc6c189ac5e4196fd34e
91b86f54d7a51bef0bccf34583b9b6d5bb1b94c9
describe
'1530' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMX' 'sip-files00354.txt'
fcd48af28a166aec949dd0c84a4f7ec5
eeb4a7773103977b0cfe723896c00e2052249ebc
'2011-12-29T12:57:05-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMY' 'sip-files00355.txt'
5f6db22199bd67a1077a3afbeaecd6bb
bc22d6dd33225a6323c60258edd5ed2db2be6e07
describe
'1890' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAMZ' 'sip-files00356.txt'
80f1fe34762949f3cc5e605d63103507
1a65575f05ad927c7c39e318cfa2f2a5198b1b30
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANA' 'sip-files00357.txt'
ba7570eca798fb18a927b252aba307be
be4582ae83f587bf3a8b8895c074de72ec7e3fb7
'2011-12-29T12:59:03-05:00'
describe
'1963' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANB' 'sip-files00358.txt'
325cb61777ecd5fa004a5082c608f3e5
f4666eddf76570835d4f09f7a7bf43b3c0c5db55
'2011-12-29T12:58:13-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANC' 'sip-files00359.txt'
b381b4b28d95f0a28eb3ef833d3816af
787ea05c281d47a15cb82260af51ec122016de1d
'2011-12-29T12:51:31-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAND' 'sip-files00360.txt'
92185f387fad66da36f7a31360fa9648
455d309091148bf12f5960ddc01284d01e272407
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANE' 'sip-files00361.txt'
b6f1f0cfa3b7e30a033dbe8bf8607e88
d8f1de14c60044c453b9261966b7003a21424e06
'2011-12-29T12:54:17-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANF' 'sip-files00362.txt'
849cadeb1063dc670f5312874ea0b40a
b7b4baed45104311f679d15a12fc2be429c0dead
describe
'1982' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANG' 'sip-files00363.txt'
819004851cbe7923be83015f7470e542
011fdd1856a8a2b05f315dcabcc55dd3013cdb38
'2011-12-29T12:54:55-05:00'
describe
'2006' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANH' 'sip-files00364.txt'
124a57623c5835fcabb169c8fce22f4e
088d5d2db14cab0e53bfa129f65d8a6a115d453a
'2011-12-29T12:48:56-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANI' 'sip-files00365.txt'
98781122dfe500a8578402512e465a64
1e1afc8da6bd8f264f3dece40cfe34dbf669c1c8
'2011-12-29T12:53:05-05:00'
describe
'2013' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANJ' 'sip-files00366.txt'
e7e03dc99b88ff24ef2b5624049f98ea
9896868d5da8e2be6a3dc0d419139948a04d3a1e
describe
'2075' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANK' 'sip-files00367.txt'
b110ea7ca60118c2c26eaadfaa0c0ba0
8b26062727dda2469b9093f25352904c8a87055e
'2011-12-29T12:50:04-05:00'
describe
'2000' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANL' 'sip-files00368.txt'
5e2ae18333d83332270f310776234dfa
1e9ce3fb2f1ae04e6c3b742329d241c4e969997a
'2011-12-29T12:53:42-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANM' 'sip-files00369.txt'
6f04e695f5eb706bfaeece4baede2a4e
0bf1d06fc92b3f3c1c9647407df9d8efa3ccc2c5
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANN' 'sip-files00370.txt'
0aaed8b87b602aaf5286812c5fef6dde
0896d61bc2680a1e50482accf052a873cfda10bf
describe
'2051' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANO' 'sip-files00371.txt'
df3a660ec743b96c1f7fe5cffe88ea64
c2213a9568c5ac0687d47c15abbb13d7bd3fe489
describe
'1611' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANP' 'sip-files00372.txt'
452fcf8dee9cfae19caf0a2662b5ad45
56715320dd667cb4e0b68851075893adf9b5435e
'2011-12-29T12:51:17-05:00'
describe
'215' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANQ' 'sip-files00001.pro'
29eb74252e403c0a86a1d75319866828
b7975f4a8062747dbb6012eaba83b715dd2e2b50
describe
'1374' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANR' 'sip-files00002.pro'
80bd8c8522cb48f281cedd76a6ef7990
84a8566854adeab6d34c0602f6e034c75aca4328
describe
'614' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANS' 'sip-files00003.pro'
b7e7fccebecaf84218e66e4ca733739f
28023e46dccaaa9c4834ef72cb2c1a8945ed5277
'2011-12-29T12:50:11-05:00'
describe
'813' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANT' 'sip-files00005.pro'
113130cde7319a3f9f48e631e89caeab
9b49f1830d9ea9ce19366ba84ef1b6192e5d968c
'2011-12-29T12:55:30-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANU' 'sip-files00008.pro'
02713281764bc5f16500b59c6ce43f90
bffa0188c38a31a8b28ad870488b22d0fcfbe0b0
'2011-12-29T12:58:01-05:00'
describe
'3432' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANV' 'sip-files00009.pro'
b9c554d7d07b29f2aab2a70c944712d9
4491d15459d9e283d8f10f765fd80a8f2e7de3be
describe
'29800' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANW' 'sip-files00011.pro'
0cebbd7da8a08bfff0c2e6c3d0859bd2
e4972487c6e8c56354cf03056c209dd5b7f1da98
describe
'41619' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANX' 'sip-files00012.pro'
1487bd2879040387e4cb1d24104fb42c
e6ffea5280756b990d7a28b1f43c53b234204b8a
'2011-12-29T12:58:08-05:00'
describe
'40557' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANY' 'sip-files00013.pro'
503e2bb423fb35a376cd3df62fb25aa0
3b489a530396c82dfaf25713f4f6c85ec9f0be77
describe
'18626' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAANZ' 'sip-files00014.pro'
4f9d15b7b998d8cb674238fb55b9cfdb
3cf1dee2a7a11d06dae1a16249d5ca4c610cb753
describe
'17427' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOA' 'sip-files00015.pro'
06015f9c84024bbc750c888ba1f41896
c4ac19c27b29f16758d550224ce27fba4b8af547
describe
'21859' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOB' 'sip-files00017.pro'
544881adf82f854b8d69007e4393d5b2
c54c0a6eb8f3020e1f866ad047e654d88d56d56f
describe
'10209' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOC' 'sip-files00018.pro'
5d684f6a40bdb180bd524380bb75ba3b
bb2d14d41ef32c56e60e8f8424ad1cb32ca7e56a
describe
'36677' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOD' 'sip-files00019.pro'
2ce9fff3f509d361f527dbb96b098b6a
6f31146c99699bd8198780847072034ee2f7441f
'2011-12-29T12:52:34-05:00'
describe
'47362' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOE' 'sip-files00020.pro'
951f47805dcffa02864ceb74769eb1db
7357fac893aacbcedc8cc2c755b1c19c5dbbc396
'2011-12-29T12:50:09-05:00'
describe
'43628' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOF' 'sip-files00021.pro'
658a81b49c6bb5fde6a9e7a3581f2d7a
83b7c7192e105e50122de92dfc8daf8856edcdef
'2011-12-29T12:54:43-05:00'
describe
'44258' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOG' 'sip-files00022.pro'
45ce983cbe7066c2939b5080d6d2fbc3
a17d7f9123b555221800463dbec354d3c6df5675
'2011-12-29T12:59:04-05:00'
describe
'43846' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOH' 'sip-files00023.pro'
4e2e159e0ab84c08bf6c9e9f57ada18c
6d1966696ab8e0f5beb3c2658ff045c16b02c4a8
'2011-12-29T12:55:20-05:00'
describe
'41470' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOI' 'sip-files00024.pro'
19def1e5cf0f89bcd25871869a1c0da6
e1779fed78718d16344f12217617f538edba14f3
'2011-12-29T12:57:19-05:00'
describe
'44202' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOJ' 'sip-files00025.pro'
69c46bd199fcf2ab6d47c355748ed91f
dc0453a27bf9cb40630cb2393f00b30f95bef932
'2011-12-29T12:56:09-05:00'
describe
'44121' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOK' 'sip-files00026.pro'
47c1407b51a3ba506b9ee18f5acb1039
84c889d6c8671c596bf858f4ba54111034e260c8
'2011-12-29T12:56:24-05:00'
describe
'45269' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOL' 'sip-files00027.pro'
eab0bee067954914bb4d98538d2ff96f
0f3c7b58cafda52f837a2891f6ecc7346c9d2543
describe
'45985' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOM' 'sip-files00028.pro'
9e5a5dc5f7d75cb4f4d94eb324ccf25f
429ba2000083f951531cf64a0be9aaae6722ed54
describe
'1635' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAON' 'sip-files00029.pro'
676b9cb59cff7a6f6eba50ef1234e23f
9ed9cb14211500fe5f06b908f88fa688c7244efe
'2011-12-29T12:53:43-05:00'
describe
'44546' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOO' 'sip-files00031.pro'
ca2198ce27a4069530153b15f4bc5b91
ef76b222b4b1eeac9255118b01f6d38ce8645bc2
'2011-12-29T12:55:18-05:00'
describe
'46991' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOP' 'sip-files00032.pro'
83bedd78b6fb1fb89cac73e36bc0cb30
b5d0e19fa17dc3d7bc6f5335b97943217c21c1c2
describe
'43037' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOQ' 'sip-files00033.pro'
03b4f40b6b0adc40479c88f8f2f818c2
28f8d2f0f81ae648490686be65946e9c45de8633
describe
'11168' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOR' 'sip-files00034.pro'
e76a532a7d022f61b791538b97ab6204
872f11d2e0e6c49e671ea655015113d6047eb5be
'2011-12-29T12:57:50-05:00'
describe
'37695' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOS' 'sip-files00035.pro'
6863427e384243bc797a33ab00a05d3f
57c6ce8fc16d73083e1e1f3a67c663d17476a1b9
describe
'45909' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOT' 'sip-files00036.pro'
29bf4ace61a1d5b286d0c9f68f59ae43
9f1c0334a8846827635b718b78cb16a681114f6f
describe
'43475' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOU' 'sip-files00037.pro'
600c033e0005488c50545a951bb1ae92
0939ec3bea55bce6762cfb9a365f8e6e1b7e2e74
describe
'48309' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOV' 'sip-files00038.pro'
5e2f934a2a2ebfe3e3137d43f626cdde
5b470b45b0b3eb7291783784f344ef39783054d6
'2011-12-29T12:50:57-05:00'
describe
'47649' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOW' 'sip-files00039.pro'
1febaab9b488f75a8b17118e8fcd22ec
494f516bd612171ba9c33b7f2c7c1e1cb7942000
'2011-12-29T12:55:23-05:00'
describe
'42928' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOX' 'sip-files00040.pro'
b57179730e71462ff01179c76a87d70b
687a849ec54818fce5207c138f465e8b702420a3
'2011-12-29T12:49:24-05:00'
describe
'47507' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOY' 'sip-files00041.pro'
02aa5202baaab9a87d7ea44cb4f380c6
1bc637ba18a7c39eb4313c1ad4ebda3e3244f139
'2011-12-29T12:55:53-05:00'
describe
'45621' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAOZ' 'sip-files00042.pro'
5c95224c6ef377d0a1206163d1fdf248
e060ec090e610e77e29a552cf421c6c0741dd8a3
'2011-12-29T12:59:31-05:00'
describe
'44359' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPA' 'sip-files00043.pro'
b87fe94e615dea1f7dc26eed38e87a79
f26c7f889ffa69790dc0c9796caaf20a9fc5a051
describe
'48753' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPB' 'sip-files00044.pro'
bf19ad8581f97e994e2954f40810d64f
e414fb50c5a253eb6f6eef173ac42e514769cc3f
'2011-12-29T12:58:15-05:00'
describe
'40402' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPC' 'sip-files00045.pro'
988b1611c4fa84da0ddf8a603703e407
d29cdec4ce1fb63156d85ed86018f56cbfba1c83
describe
'41627' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPD' 'sip-files00046.pro'
9c79e5e1f1d2bd7cab92a79d1fd4657e
79d6377e6eb4780135d801aca73c09657aa46b3c
describe
'46180' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPE' 'sip-files00047.pro'
7965b46cc69f6e158867f80c3baf536c
baab076f429ed7eeed6065bc4baffcdadd6b9298
'2011-12-29T12:49:28-05:00'
describe
'36650' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPF' 'sip-files00048.pro'
58799844c9550ff9e58ae24252e1cd3a
b0660fb47e78b4fe6c61b17edf4b5064c84dbcef
describe
'35658' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPG' 'sip-files00049.pro'
e77afdd86b5cfab51ab0020114523957
5299553954cc84011be94e10076974cbcf3fc1a9
'2011-12-29T12:58:00-05:00'
describe
'47342' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPH' 'sip-files00050.pro'
4ff529da9f8e08b899842ecb6d2ed44c
3ab96522b22ff1bec96f8d2385f8c604054edc45
describe
'47234' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPI' 'sip-files00051.pro'
eb758d86665ab85a676c9ae70c6ea1c1
82f6690c7efdde6afd07373194a313c70e7af360
describe
'46804' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPJ' 'sip-files00052.pro'
6996a74931d5eace7b82d36016cdc7bd
4f0429b315e62e6a1aacc7e84b4377543c15b6a5
'2011-12-29T12:53:13-05:00'
describe
'46475' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPK' 'sip-files00053.pro'
2e529e2684bb13c36b06337d4ef8fb88
1a6e820d2d6e3200ba6c3ea8f77c3b862ad46c67
'2011-12-29T12:54:01-05:00'
describe
'45338' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPL' 'sip-files00054.pro'
899809649e09e52ad4012aee1d4758a5
c83263d6e6a693d394e88557b08410b9df20dc36
'2011-12-29T12:54:12-05:00'
describe
'43737' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPM' 'sip-files00055.pro'
20de8fcf39d55d20ad3694fb414af75a
72a590fcbd2886c6ed262eeade4f97f94e638741
describe
'47064' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPN' 'sip-files00056.pro'
e369df09770d847945323534584cb5c7
1afe6cf6547ec5a3b3453b8306b1162414f647ea
describe
'45718' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPO' 'sip-files00057.pro'
7b7f2b884bc4efb87ac33c57af5c3b42
dcada2e1ff393cfe3a98ba1327a646702e31a389
describe
'47188' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPP' 'sip-files00058.pro'
6c6f610a44e927031c958c2a664bb97c
7aeb75046e2964559fb581a4ec4156133acddbd2
'2011-12-29T12:55:10-05:00'
describe
'46523' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPQ' 'sip-files00059.pro'
56873940befbc376f8b4d2bc2473047a
c9670ae67338ad1dfd6cc5d7761a941b04cb30bc
describe
'43127' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPR' 'sip-files00060.pro'
cefa34b3b98fdde607ac305bcbac5bb6
8bca7bf44258eb8ab5eeb9e5a82a319107f75820
'2011-12-29T12:50:54-05:00'
describe
'44830' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPS' 'sip-files00061.pro'
11bd213df20fc5b705abbf5057520e27
9642c842a2a46f21c9d175f55c330eb9a1373d0b
'2011-12-29T12:54:31-05:00'
describe
'34566' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPT' 'sip-files00062.pro'
6c8e58e9c091a0d1e3419528704add7e
dfc71b3f296a2e580794cf4a1dd2f96e7063b889
'2011-12-29T12:58:23-05:00'
describe
'3905' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPU' 'sip-files00063.pro'
b19fdb9d703663620b02723735333c04
47488a990db678a6644da7073df9eace166bf29e
describe
'49626' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPV' 'sip-files00065.pro'
a4a1de6c0a0b28d70135e31a65b88658
758569d13abc8e5bb9d721b475d47313ba736afe
'2011-12-29T12:56:49-05:00'
describe
'49158' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPW' 'sip-files00066.pro'
b18cfec0c29883144ce55bfcc5b27b7e
d3442555127f09ef634da26d2353b18c2a655d7b
'2011-12-29T12:58:10-05:00'
describe
'48359' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPX' 'sip-files00067.pro'
4e0db40366357f53dca3ecb0f6cde46a
f2251fc78c9b8189e796f4bc461e59fe201e2ca9
'2011-12-29T12:48:23-05:00'
describe
'48565' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPY' 'sip-files00068.pro'
0888b0dd1c56f1390f3af6b1cb7fa320
5d925eb5df932e7e0482ecf6ccb54415be5f58cf
'2011-12-29T12:54:35-05:00'
describe
'46955' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAPZ' 'sip-files00069.pro'
4e2a13d8b501c45ef200bbb99d877b45
98a4728876a9b89d938ef8acb3c9dfae3b3221dc
describe
'46958' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQA' 'sip-files00070.pro'
e0b7952792c6a2495ed51ff5b027e8d9
7ae2e29111d5379a677953d70ae8b4577477f7b1
'2011-12-29T12:54:41-05:00'
describe
'47613' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQB' 'sip-files00071.pro'
73698d70aba9f4714b962ce0bde0f1fa
9ef15dc473a58aa5fed0bc8065dc2d70b4dc273a
describe
'45395' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQC' 'sip-files00072.pro'
886307f7970d0f550ba1d33dab8dd054
c8882f0d7e7eeb70c331a46d308f9f919a06c91a
'2011-12-29T12:55:59-05:00'
describe
'48190' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQD' 'sip-files00073.pro'
ca941de15d3c4741070fc328b7209e53
812380773d7d00e385cc210d79893a7b14b724f2
'2011-12-29T12:52:45-05:00'
describe
'48350' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQE' 'sip-files00074.pro'
3eee043c43cdce08b0c7f03f1b3afc68
fcd7f0bb0aa8e70b479e67be778cb2bbc25fe0b7
'2011-12-29T12:53:02-05:00'
describe
'48273' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQF' 'sip-files00075.pro'
cf6a4d37b1cec37686a08e4086809f19
1b21c4e328965a1ff6c324ef0ac0f728c8e3cc9e
describe
'46842' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQG' 'sip-files00076.pro'
7a4c806a011a4fead7d3012b7201ed55
d5aaa5f98695b343ca735532401195b878615c41
'2011-12-29T12:50:55-05:00'
describe
'47294' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQH' 'sip-files00077.pro'
dccf11f29874de77e6243e2c19dc4c13
e862015fc9f47bb521499f6d5853464fd1690888
describe
'30271' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQI' 'sip-files00078.pro'
3a5e7cfe9171a4fcada161dc459532b2
6215bc186a145118b9b0922333a549d8439d238a
describe
'2134' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQJ' 'sip-files00079.pro'
1c98bf44beb4556cf8086c4b58fb3f83
02e0724abbdf5bf4257e43935109658682868ba9
'2011-12-29T12:51:42-05:00'
describe
'38464' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQK' 'sip-files00081.pro'
c5bf874182f4c0267eb1c8d498f83a4e
438fb54776726ad1b2e89bc4a928c413dc001635
'2011-12-29T12:52:43-05:00'
describe
'46145' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQL' 'sip-files00082.pro'
a645041616d88c65fcecf007e764cd33
420cf622c264c8286369614a04c53745b50cb34a
'2011-12-29T12:50:22-05:00'
describe
'48139' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQM' 'sip-files00083.pro'
e34fca3640d97d899759783f71e2de9b
9f22c290e7e10015feb6c691cb386aa8ec8be4fc
describe
'46039' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQN' 'sip-files00084.pro'
4cc9f0888c2bad8ee0ae7ddc7d6d4660
16ca80dc78f614baab59ff86c68ab13366af75f4
'2011-12-29T12:48:51-05:00'
describe
'47709' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQO' 'sip-files00085.pro'
a3f690de1e6b498fd20a1e279fdab1b0
f2af69d1dc1cd2e2e8a7457e59ed1f4c7f7a79f7
'2011-12-29T12:48:47-05:00'
describe
'46680' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQP' 'sip-files00086.pro'
9dbed698518fce3edfdb70221f26b690
f4ba0ed149410a4cc5aa18689a30e2805a84c3ae
'2011-12-29T12:55:56-05:00'
describe
'47727' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQQ' 'sip-files00087.pro'
0747fffca8e06fb6659a1969b1ef06d8
fbe84dcd0ba915ef35bf751615d5ebaf1abc447f
describe
'47626' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQR' 'sip-files00088.pro'
775cad2ceffc94e029869c31834c1214
72d847aaddaade0be8a5f4bdd9d9a636cab3243b
describe
'47063' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQS' 'sip-files00089.pro'
d1139465518bcf94e86129792f77435b
abeab62b4acdaf8d54d9b8f5e87fe7f4d1f75661
describe
'48162' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQT' 'sip-files00090.pro'
bd56e2458c89af05c16c33e20a4b2b32
8ee4d7c271223f914fd9993cecc4415971629fe4
'2011-12-29T12:48:25-05:00'
describe
'48667' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQU' 'sip-files00091.pro'
16efbce715ee0cc161ee65e1c6059c4e
24628a1283d57c227f55b4bebe8ddffe2ab72fcf
'2011-12-29T12:51:15-05:00'
describe
'47300' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQV' 'sip-files00092.pro'
e5d897a47031a11001c65d5e743a958c
dbe1f26f7adb13acab20603b5dcb688f95f2f74b
describe
'47369' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQW' 'sip-files00093.pro'
82e2f1d5e9a11e377ba5cb58a01ea670
af6799585f1f7690a950f7815a32129887ffac2d
'2011-12-29T12:56:17-05:00'
describe
'47798' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQX' 'sip-files00094.pro'
e391249636c05a415766cd4b150b1141
b5211dd880f0c38b3d89713e46ce5bdc9e5edfd1
'2011-12-29T12:51:58-05:00'
describe
'48101' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQY' 'sip-files00095.pro'
00a839c203cb1a907398b85183e44f73
a548933d039aa1e2204a50b86b4dbd2ba34e2f3b
'2011-12-29T12:50:29-05:00'
describe
'44986' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAQZ' 'sip-files00096.pro'
adb031c07e41f93d610d3af12b3c13ce
1020e0e250a19cedd49bac868818058abfb7c8ef
describe
'43868' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARA' 'sip-files00097.pro'
097917d822981d106ab910c08bae2d12
a2a192b92d2bc59fcf3dfb04e1f961fb1e591f58
describe
'47828' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARB' 'sip-files00098.pro'
a09e3aadae71d2aecae0656d6b75c878
9c7f49da2918281c79702398ea6f5c2c01f3cc1b
describe
'35892' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARC' 'sip-files00099.pro'
b3eab42c1a75096a54c3c354d1440864
7d68c3c572cb5032a3e40928e9816b207cd38e06
'2011-12-29T12:53:48-05:00'
describe
'38254' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARD' 'sip-files00100.pro'
34cbcc941e463d826269f171c2608f55
f34112f2b9d8686cff458c81b34d9d1d67554837
describe
'2619' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARE' 'sip-files00101.pro'
62d7a91be8163bb49a0c6d1b3a012f73
3b8abea3f6d25cead2fb98ec5a0a49c22ea8056a
'2011-12-29T12:51:05-05:00'
describe
'46791' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARF' 'sip-files00103.pro'
d97e235dcb67a6b95800521ec6b25621
71aa1259064d65a145c7657cd1871ffbe68874fc
'2011-12-29T12:48:52-05:00'
describe
'42041' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARG' 'sip-files00104.pro'
2ae25d45c00ac69978a7c54d92e1d8a7
feeb0d66efa9875127abd4aa68ca10b36acd36b2
'2011-12-29T12:56:32-05:00'
describe
'46694' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARH' 'sip-files00105.pro'
51daa1421a0e78cc63d993234e8c731a
7bd1201ea2f0985b48b8300e75a74d310e463a1c
'2011-12-29T12:55:16-05:00'
describe
'45841' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARI' 'sip-files00106.pro'
9697a7d7199cadb99faada27d9b03edd
404bdbed001c95f2655569a39c455bc481cbbc98
describe
'48576' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARJ' 'sip-files00107.pro'
961c9b04f5e3f848b822cc8f66eb8401
fd581bf8ba9734c43dad063782343865aa7239e7
'2011-12-29T12:51:46-05:00'
describe
'46347' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARK' 'sip-files00108.pro'
57d790d2695d4dca06abf8e74c498446
f98c0701d6fe0fb6ca0f0147cb2b380817fa8c6e
'2011-12-29T12:49:00-05:00'
describe
'44184' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARL' 'sip-files00109.pro'
79ea1527d5b7de2145fce4056d9b2234
74e61b488af687a8a58b3d77769150c6014222ac
describe
'44039' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARM' 'sip-files00110.pro'
90cf44f0d8e3111011fe55389381c9b2
b63ad38752868776c0323bd8cf38b53e7118f626
describe
'45848' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARN' 'sip-files00111.pro'
867787e1a7100b1fe261c671ed8eb856
53fa9b316a3c02f62bb41f3fd090bc69a58b5ea0
'2011-12-29T12:52:18-05:00'
describe
'48859' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARO' 'sip-files00112.pro'
4f5158645b097eb97fe6db27b3bccf56
4a3719e757013af6424bd4f474ad9bae12e0f78c
'2011-12-29T12:52:49-05:00'
describe
'43496' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARP' 'sip-files00113.pro'
d51f63300dc4a88f48848b3c84b88566
ba41ed4ad9d8896cf80a83bb7d694ed7ad9cc6f3
'2011-12-29T12:48:39-05:00'
describe
'49182' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARQ' 'sip-files00114.pro'
383c2b213425d0d18468b7cc446d7e1b
5cd12e5ace59881d25f500d2e1889b8b7b0d7698
'2011-12-29T12:49:05-05:00'
describe
'49482' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARR' 'sip-files00115.pro'
2d8ddd575c7c61e27cd9250e9872f439
80291c96211d12a8ae48449230df7aa731961f04
describe
'48792' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARS' 'sip-files00116.pro'
5fd2854ae4ba69530a40cf196e13f7f2
cefc4cc29af9523116e88c8e78fb878ca8b75e35
'2011-12-29T12:50:28-05:00'
describe
'9148' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAART' 'sip-files00117.pro'
ef9a6612c17a3c71205ae458122de95b
a6130f27880507cf7f9fc8713ea2782c6f4508ef
'2011-12-29T12:56:01-05:00'
describe
'37215' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARU' 'sip-files00118.pro'
231e9c6ceca6890de1b920fb9d88a287
0812aa9497a9a6a50ecb24dbf58442db9b5c2d1c
describe
'48025' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARV' 'sip-files00119.pro'
9b7b73cbd3fc5a11c37e30cd64edb897
64462b8db391d56ea588345ed9b2fa4ac7700197
describe
'49269' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARW' 'sip-files00120.pro'
613cf3d1f51a618fd4d04886d54878c2
1fb55955d1dea33f178df9bbac9ba64d8f9768b3
describe
'47385' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARX' 'sip-files00121.pro'
3360d59ec2e42694e373621790f4c736
29ab2a2d530600753a974e4377871563e5bbca13
describe
'43716' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARY' 'sip-files00122.pro'
b902bc2d3b023ba12a13450277bb9caf
616b0d701e9e8978af0136fa7b671dd38b7bde5e
'2011-12-29T12:53:54-05:00'
describe
'50353' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAARZ' 'sip-files00123.pro'
8f37be5f87e0f31d8d8807f510ba4afd
a6b9ce8080ed39b667ae1e24a5d8a03526aa0fd6
describe
'47918' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASA' 'sip-files00124.pro'
81570f5a6760db3cdc5e325677fb61f2
cae4f9fa526c03adbc0ff2506f87980376dc1bf7
'2011-12-29T12:59:51-05:00'
describe
'47133' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASB' 'sip-files00125.pro'
fe25f61daecdecb325340ba5b95310c6
98eba2584a4859885c36d093a1062f3c72ff5421
'2011-12-29T12:48:58-05:00'
describe
'49253' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASC' 'sip-files00126.pro'
fbe07a45574c7db692a7e1e23b68362f
d5ff0ebe691026809e02c20968d7a98919b62dd9
'2011-12-29T12:54:51-05:00'
describe
'47273' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASD' 'sip-files00127.pro'
020f053cae2daccfc8a59d2004263a33
9766a3e982df477635979efeef6d596bb24b334f
describe
'47104' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASE' 'sip-files00128.pro'
0096a96c8e5325dcb83e60b46ad58f1c
ed60c76145e357fca54a1010816385a1e819cc47
'2011-12-29T12:48:26-05:00'
describe
'46538' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASF' 'sip-files00129.pro'
af709f9bbfc29e1171601626dab6c8d2
1f69c3b9ecf2cb353716a71c25586ceeb5f25e2f
'2011-12-29T12:58:31-05:00'
describe
'48589' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASG' 'sip-files00130.pro'
61044eac42bea44f7b204d7d25eab720
0dde0a54234a39b64c785ccc5b011272318331b2
describe
'48873' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASH' 'sip-files00131.pro'
b64bcb13b34728a8bf3adfc066a60fc6
bc065f8cfe9ebc020764c960e6f1df9c895af928
describe
'44005' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASI' 'sip-files00132.pro'
c0a83124053c208de7418cb613d26006
f6bf3aed87f3dac07fabea9253957b5d7880dac7
'2011-12-29T12:52:13-05:00'
describe
'15122' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASJ' 'sip-files00133.pro'
9cc2a1e3e5e83296bd88dd22442bcc74
0fc574b5b7e17e9cfb57869a4108f2135baeffb0
'2011-12-29T12:58:57-05:00'
describe
'33851' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASK' 'sip-files00134.pro'
7eb83818601b430c0fddd28ae99cfa36
103b19c80c083eb2ccefed819ac1a7ca10cae33b
'2011-12-29T12:55:12-05:00'
describe
'2086' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASL' 'sip-files00135.pro'
1a6241c7251a701ab04f20a0e9e60f97
4b456410e0453ceef45ac50cf29beb7fe7f4f27a
'2011-12-29T12:49:59-05:00'
describe
'44633' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASM' 'sip-files00137.pro'
5b78328e136d1be0baee8ee3cf779cfe
3b4374982b344add867a9fd327282368cf579f25
describe
'46423' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASN' 'sip-files00138.pro'
d9dd850b02ef6debc4d0c93bf0936e6f
0e84ea66422848c36f0300f0cd7c305a3bcbe7f9
describe
'45001' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASO' 'sip-files00139.pro'
5366743a49f709f282c802e20fe0f399
08890415a1005db6fa48bcc83b00e4a23a42c360
describe
'45716' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASP' 'sip-files00140.pro'
1b1762d0624d7b79aedccd7ff6d1fc2c
fff22a97a219ec97dd9843ae2795d72e445d3a42
'2011-12-29T12:54:24-05:00'
describe
'46834' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASQ' 'sip-files00141.pro'
bf49b033b39819beffc9f34251f4df44
b5d52c0d45edb3280f785445af6b33d017002a6f
'2011-12-29T12:58:48-05:00'
describe
'46900' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASR' 'sip-files00142.pro'
ec0e8338555ffebb24e49b23dd9e4a10
8b6c3868f2b99140d573b4f9aea7504fcdb0ab16
'2011-12-29T12:52:02-05:00'
describe
'45504' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASS' 'sip-files00143.pro'
98eba618c5eaaac65db5b5fa1b5d1626
845db9f44916fd249a6c62a31b0fa1c262bbf153
describe
'47978' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAST' 'sip-files00144.pro'
6dd3493cb4df4e1b8f32dcaf1f9a53a9
ab4ee352c9ebd0d4ceb78d0e130ca60040c580ca
'2011-12-29T12:51:33-05:00'
describe
'46599' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASU' 'sip-files00145.pro'
485936214e25adf2e2b104e2e4a2ef17
a7c7b62289302a580ac130e10783f62f464312d3
'2011-12-29T12:59:45-05:00'
describe
'45527' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASV' 'sip-files00146.pro'
36147b2cca689b444e885e8fd119208b
92113b3d69525b9ed9add4f96f2d3143f239b66a
'2011-12-29T12:59:23-05:00'
describe
'43930' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASW' 'sip-files00147.pro'
2c75521a89adc5c139232cac91c1d9c9
d1b41a98dff75cce2201cb8dee3b60e8533be869
'2011-12-29T12:53:19-05:00'
describe
'45597' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASX' 'sip-files00148.pro'
20c8b752641325bb1fe07087850e9f2b
2a71c26eee161bb199cd2652589f2205bc385e7c
describe
'45303' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASY' 'sip-files00149.pro'
0624d357e35ad6a8009821cc0466f545
cde4ac5ceeaea80a504d46e39bc86b7e4096a8f7
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAASZ' 'sip-files00150.pro'
644a4b320f3f480ddee410802557ce32
7eb22e12d36197625cec6fdf27c71a55fd3e2743
'2011-12-29T12:50:33-05:00'
describe
'16058' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATA' 'sip-files00151.pro'
59562056f5a25c41633ba093f9d223ec
a30278783806f637e31bd4b6d8e31fe7275ba6bd
describe
'37189' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATB' 'sip-files00152.pro'
aad49f78e504eea8cb805441f9565f06
6f4466660b7f6fa1aad7b63a752f7b7937d275a8
'2011-12-29T12:57:20-05:00'
describe
'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATC' 'sip-files00153.pro'
3fe26a17fa048914024b1f3879f0c0de
1fba37f7bd868cd2d74cd1be9501952403625da9
describe
'47855' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATD' 'sip-files00155.pro'
87ec2c8fb055a9231e70e883eb5616bf
d60653ad9de1e07956f9bd91fe3f97efcce20684
describe
'47628' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATE' 'sip-files00156.pro'
78a82589675d058a724faf55718ae73b
fd8161ccee4b843375459328ec722b9578eddcdb
describe
'47286' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATF' 'sip-files00157.pro'
acd622b4578ecb3f067a0940b3efd3ca
022c6c4e01584e2cc613b0401629fffb161c5675
'2011-12-29T12:50:05-05:00'
describe
'48449' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATG' 'sip-files00158.pro'
4aad423358d745f983fd35a9569c0d31
47a2757e7ccca33715433fc8c49c583ab1aca7d5
'2011-12-29T12:56:46-05:00'
describe
'48286' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATH' 'sip-files00159.pro'
07eb03a2235f84dcdc4af1856429d0e9
0cae3947f6197c3cc04d6718798f4c5b5aecf228
'2011-12-29T12:55:50-05:00'
describe
'48624' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATI' 'sip-files00160.pro'
c996bf1b0ddc3b59f1f4d4cee086c393
5837d3b9cdb59c3d3b5ccbcc66cd316504dfbbc0
'2011-12-29T12:58:44-05:00'
describe
'43254' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATJ' 'sip-files00161.pro'
39f6c55317a80d265bb51d5a0b1b21ce
9c8023856256464cdd7e6e789ce840839f875982
'2011-12-29T12:53:57-05:00'
describe
'49660' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATK' 'sip-files00162.pro'
1a2c26e8bc6bcd849171a24b31a95701
0ac14c2c9a612b8a744a6f5d6a34ad9eb01846eb
describe
'48608' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATL' 'sip-files00163.pro'
10851ba78493cc55342486d5dc6f9cd0
cfea40824afc4bcb6d384ae3b634d440bdfa1d30
'2011-12-29T12:57:23-05:00'
describe
'48729' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATM' 'sip-files00164.pro'
86a9c6eaa04c8e2653c96fbe81ab32ad
57e2c768c3898ca2a5c5314940899001590ee8a7
describe
'48809' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATN' 'sip-files00165.pro'
d5f739c3bd7c1923ddc9ad3418554372
c8aad9536e05378dc37e2c84dd6aecd459a13576
describe
'47200' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATO' 'sip-files00166.pro'
287136f5176fd23182660ea92fdb37d7
04bbbc2042441ebd8eb6523cbfbd9a7c4a0449f2
'2011-12-29T12:59:08-05:00'
describe
'48249' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATP' 'sip-files00167.pro'
635e45e2f07825cc3426f4778feb228d
76457814f955b2a45fb02d582b346d207424721c
describe
'48599' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATQ' 'sip-files00168.pro'
d7e0eeff050d7ecee3d4cdb7cc1e3774
323c4eca95b1dff700287f40a53de3dde2033e25
describe
'47914' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATR' 'sip-files00169.pro'
19177e69d5284e8c14b5a7557c8153fb
d4de0a368875ba3d80e1ae25786ee82604cf056a
'2011-12-29T12:56:26-05:00'
describe
'48399' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATS' 'sip-files00170.pro'
01f4272f22b6b088f40a7d37c7a01af4
d6b4b010591776cda5da374f420bf2daf18548ea
'2011-12-29T12:56:36-05:00'
describe
'25198' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATT' 'sip-files00171.pro'
7d977a3c7cd8b4a69c318a63e62e0bac
a42cb27cf412225f386dee4053009b0cd1bba57f
'2011-12-29T12:59:41-05:00'
describe
'38678' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATU' 'sip-files00172.pro'
43fd08644f5eddf283dbd90c2d86ed1f
7360cee0dbc41ad1a7ff2778b4fcfbfac0663ad8
describe
'1357' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATV' 'sip-files00173.pro'
ff4d1e6b4ca2aad10c49dd7459495012
101e094fa9dbc9e82fbcc18590b7c1a4ba6e97be
'2011-12-29T12:54:48-05:00'
describe
'44261' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATW' 'sip-files00175.pro'
efff9f3bf93f67d915597ba62461552d
a750d7526e20bb41cf9dcff40e0ff15848719423
'2011-12-29T12:59:35-05:00'
describe
'47169' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATX' 'sip-files00176.pro'
c7118b85a18103982b1d2fd233cfa6a0
fefce54bcc65d45f4b5d169419c648ffc91f01b4
'2011-12-29T12:52:58-05:00'
describe
'49163' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATY' 'sip-files00177.pro'
66d9c46714543dbbce68b03c166b968b
22c653c5fbe73ee05b3d1a94db1469a97eb26e9d
describe
'48285' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAATZ' 'sip-files00178.pro'
c2cb3ed437a5d4053c4eb53d86d78997
e67ef561311bb341bae204e4e87e346db58f4dc6
'2011-12-29T12:52:23-05:00'
describe
'47486' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUA' 'sip-files00179.pro'
6bf2da7ea55cfc858bcef94f7911830c
762abb4b0d5f3c7eb523aff45e6a0cb21cc61d8d
'2011-12-29T12:53:46-05:00'
describe
'47175' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUB' 'sip-files00180.pro'
ad572c08e4858e8a2b6e7dc9db7112aa
221984aa5ab73f73221b8215be3c99d70742be52
'2011-12-29T12:50:00-05:00'
describe
'48455' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUC' 'sip-files00181.pro'
da902cca0576766e6cbc7d60fcaedbc8
ed97bd27b85e40dd97e4eecb2c40c1a8d2be948e
describe
'47274' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUD' 'sip-files00182.pro'
1f00b8de1d1b1b71d196ae1583fd0519
55d9dc4f33fe9acf4f644c5f4a4e03f84d160522
'2011-12-29T12:59:40-05:00'
describe
'46692' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUE' 'sip-files00183.pro'
d2b2e4b6fc853f96e9ac57bd2fc25cb7
1369adc0664aba682e28a7c2dbacce0f9d064b07
describe
'48174' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUF' 'sip-files00184.pro'
0a15aea20f9670ed8826561386ad2201
6d09ebc5d3ee6d129baee6fc1d80aa5e08e2d95c
describe
'47997' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUG' 'sip-files00185.pro'
70f6306edb20d141ed2610a13122893a
34f9426a7fdeb2edd4ec88b12b0bf28b4697debc
describe
'44928' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUH' 'sip-files00186.pro'
0cc28ed57986ad75ecdbee579ff5a11e
e8f92f010a0948b5d6159510d67cb326ced1e160
describe
'2832' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUI' 'sip-files00187.pro'
9854da4b0a3587ecbc08daa44a7a1c78
487aa2890572a2f8a07936bb6d812960c2efc0e7
'2011-12-29T12:53:16-05:00'
describe
'39240' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF20081203_AAAAUJ' 'sip-files00189.pro'
47925f41fbcad2b3c66011c4cafd00b1
7f3b80897e4ffc0a5ae4d8dbf0b996e00797ef9e
'2011-12-29T12:59:43-05:00'
describe
'45548' 'info:fdaE20081201_AAAABPfileF2008