Citation
Tales from Shakespeare

Material Information

Title:
Tales from Shakespeare
Creator:
Lamb, Charles, 1775-1834
Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616
Lamb, Mary, 1764-1847 ( Author )
Henry Altemus Company ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
Philadelphia
Publisher:
Henry Altemus Company, c1895.
Language:
English
Physical Description:
[3], 429, [4] p., [10] leaves of plates : ill. ; 21 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1895 ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1895 ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1895
Genre:
Children's stories ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements ( rbgenr )
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Publisher's advertisements follow text.
Statement of Responsibility:
by Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb ; with one hundred and fifty-five illustrations.

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:
026839323 ( ALEPH )
ALH3116 ( NOTIS )
227210063 ( OCLC )

Downloads

This item has the following downloads:

UF00082948_00001.pdf

UF00082948_00001.txt

00265.txt

00199.txt

00399.txt

00409.txt

00206.txt

00026.txt

00047.txt

00080.txt

00410.txt

00415.txt

00288.txt

00058.txt

00339.txt

00372.txt

00105.txt

00060.txt

00054.txt

00092.txt

00282.txt

00233.txt

00430.txt

00280.txt

00051.txt

00269.txt

00177.txt

00380.txt

00231.txt

00263.txt

00416.txt

00252.txt

00055.txt

00061.txt

00320.txt

00153.txt

00162.txt

00137.txt

00205.txt

00253.txt

00392.txt

00296.txt

00183.txt

00067.txt

00142.txt

00181.txt

00237.txt

00037.txt

00326.txt

00290.txt

00381.txt

00262.txt

00033.txt

00440.txt

00215.txt

00100.txt

00358.txt

00224.txt

00291.txt

00096.txt

00145.txt

00335.txt

00388.txt

00308.txt

00108.txt

00316.txt

00338.txt

00333.txt

00174.txt

00317.txt

00062.txt

00336.txt

00112.txt

00146.txt

00243.txt

00076.txt

00057.txt

00378.txt

00293.txt

00433.txt

00359.txt

00148.txt

00373.txt

00182.txt

00158.txt

00087.txt

00371.txt

00066.txt

00186.txt

00402.txt

00419.txt

00073.txt

00075.txt

00267.txt

00279.txt

00343.txt

00442.txt

00367.txt

00194.txt

00385.txt

00127.txt

00398.txt

00235.txt

00027.txt

00404.txt

00063.txt

00387.txt

00315.txt

00270.txt

00352.txt

00114.txt

00221.txt

00091.txt

00071.txt

00120.txt

00059.txt

00223.txt

00136.txt

00439.txt

00259.txt

00284.txt

00150.txt

00303.txt

00386.txt

00341.txt

00444.txt

00330.txt

00042.txt

00012.txt

00201.txt

00360.txt

00445.txt

00156.txt

00125.txt

00023.txt

00350.txt

00167.txt

00039.txt

00218.txt

00122.txt

00258.txt

00368.txt

00408.txt

00163.txt

00255.txt

00407.txt

00256.txt

00133.txt

00210.txt

00072.txt

00426.txt

00081.txt

00382.txt

00020.txt

00318.txt

00274.txt

00038.txt

00322.txt

00268.txt

00309.txt

00213.txt

00250.txt

00356.txt

00188.txt

00179.txt

00403.txt

00379.txt

00425.txt

00193.txt

00383.txt

00390.txt

00151.txt

00429.txt

00327.txt

00447.txt

00101.txt

00011.txt

00238.txt

00277.txt

00190.txt

00285.txt

00160.txt

00034.txt

00010.txt

00083.txt

00377.txt

00311.txt

00157.txt

00422.txt

00143.txt

00024.txt

00405.txt

00110.txt

00093.txt

00354.txt

00423.txt

00117.txt

00247.txt

00234.txt

00152.txt

00310.txt

00184.txt

00022.txt

00204.txt

00119.txt

00189.txt

00168.txt

00328.txt

00111.txt

00154.txt

00248.txt

00207.txt

00019.txt

00289.txt

00203.txt

00251.txt

00126.txt

00135.txt

00283.txt

00172.txt

00421.txt

00363.txt

00191.txt

00396.txt

00170.txt

00220.txt

00246.txt

00169.txt

00299.txt

00070.txt

00032.txt

00374.txt

00337.txt

00411.txt

00138.txt

00068.txt

00342.txt

00241.txt

00323.txt

00294.txt

00437.txt

00107.txt

00217.txt

00346.txt

00428.txt

00128.txt

00140.txt

00212.txt

00355.txt

00064.txt

00035.txt

00095.txt

00200.txt

00264.txt

00271.txt

00427.txt

00090.txt

00196.txt

00312.txt

00016.txt

00222.txt

00116.txt

00118.txt

00103.txt

00304.txt

00208.txt

00166.txt

00394.txt

00301.txt

00197.txt

00017.txt

00139.txt

00178.txt

00097.txt

00321.txt

00050.txt

00397.txt

00121.txt

00085.txt

00195.txt

00018.txt

00227.txt

00307.txt

00098.txt

00209.txt

00414.txt

00113.txt

00052.txt

00375.txt

00144.txt

00434.txt

00084.txt

00347.txt

00069.txt

00245.txt

00134.txt

00239.txt

00459.txt

00417.txt

00088.txt

00187.txt

00362.txt

00240.txt

00349.txt

00292.txt

00357.txt

00393.txt

00370.txt

00286.txt

00353.txt

00287.txt

00029.txt

00257.txt

00391.txt

00175.txt

00226.txt

00272.txt

00074.txt

00254.txt

00432.txt

00438.txt

00249.txt

00132.txt

00077.txt

00300.txt

00219.txt

00041.txt

00436.txt

00236.txt

00053.txt

00340.txt

00164.txt

00198.txt

00229.txt

00332.txt

00401.txt

00104.txt

00185.txt

00115.txt

00078.txt

00149.txt

00141.txt

00324.txt

00131.txt

00021.txt

00424.txt

00028.txt

00348.txt

00216.txt

00275.txt

00331.txt

00031.txt

00230.txt

00276.txt

00295.txt

00281.txt

00046.txt

00329.txt

00298.txt

00344.txt

00278.txt

00266.txt

00366.txt

00364.txt

00384.txt

00147.txt

00297.txt

00413.txt

00376.txt

00044.txt

00228.txt

00319.txt

00412.txt

00389.txt

00001.txt

00109.txt

00225.txt

00099.txt

00345.txt

00102.txt

00180.txt

00040.txt

00361.txt

00129.txt

00313.txt

00094.txt

00159.txt

00420.txt

00302.txt

00014.txt

00086.txt

00242.txt

00232.txt

00305.txt

00130.txt

00049.txt

00079.txt

00048.txt

00165.txt

00306.txt

00431.txt

00446.txt

00211.txt

00123.txt

00334.txt

00065.txt

00261.txt

00106.txt

00214.txt

00435.txt

00365.txt

00369.txt

00015.txt

00314.txt

00056.txt

00192.txt

00045.txt

00161.txt

00171.txt

00441.txt

00176.txt

00173.txt

00202.txt

00418.txt

00351.txt

00030.txt

00325.txt

00406.txt

00244.txt

00458.txt

00458a.txt

00089.txt

00082.txt

00155.txt

00273.txt

00036.txt

00124.txt

UF00082948_00001_pdf.txt

00260.txt

00400.txt

00043.txt

00395.txt

00025.txt

00003.txt


Full Text
















No119
Fis BOOK

belongs to



If thou art borrowed by a friend,
Right welcome shall he be;
To read, to study, not to lend,
But to return towne,
Not that imparted. .u edge pee
Doth diminish leas tore;
But books, I find, if oj, 4»
_ Return to me no mor aN
1 es ee a
READ SLOWLY = PAUSE FREG
RETURN DULY
WITH THE CORNERS OF THE 1
NOT TURNED DOWN

The Baldwin Library







TALES

FROM

SHAKESPEARE

BY
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB
WITH

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS

PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY





TS
=a
eS
WN
a

: THMPEST N
SJ winter's tars
c Ww






ys -

ao PK
Wnhes |
= ph

Copyrighted 1895
BY HENRY ALTEMUS



CONTENTS.





Page.
Romeo and Juliet ...........06 saseeees Teeacstesaesssteeescwvsecsseeescerteresscesses 1
King Lear....ccccccccssccsesresrnsessessesresrasessscssensaseccccesananseueaseseesnseee 30
Othello ......0.cececsscccscncesseeecnsnsseeeeeseseeeeeeeneeeenee sense eee sree eeeneenee ene 56
Timon of Athens.......ccsscssccsscescesceeescneseseeaeeeeseeeeeessesessenseanseeeeee 78
Machet).......ccceccecsccceccccesecescnsneecessereseeceeeeeeesseeeenses essen see eeeeeeees 99
The Merchant of Venice. .......cscessccecccsccescccscsenceseseseteensessaeenseeeeee 118
The Comedy of Errors......:s:ccceesesssssccesseceenenaseeeesensetcanceseesesssaeaes
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
The Tempest. ....-.---ssssseseeeeeeseneeseeeeeens
AS Your Like It.......ccccccsceccsecceencceesesseescecceseeseeeses
Much Ado About Nothing........-.:ssccssecsccsscsecnssenseesesrseseeneeneseees
A Midsummer Night’s Dream..........ssssessseseeeeeseesseeeeeeeneseeseeseeenns
Measure for Measure.......cssccssseseresccsceeseeeceeseasecseeeseeeceeeeeserssensees
The Taming of the Shrew....
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will..........ssseesseeeseeesserrnseeseetenees 306
Pericles, Prince of ‘Tyre.....s..sesseseseeeseeeesseesessnsstsseneneeaeaaenaeeaeeaaeees 324
The Winter’s Tale......ccccccsscssecescesseeeccssessnesccaseencessesensceeeeaeeeesees 347
AlDs Well That Ends Well.........:scsscsecssscceeesecscscssesesseseesareescssnes 367
Two Gentlemen of Verona......ccssccessscessccensseensceesscrsescaseseeseses senses 308

Cymbeline.......+-.+sssccesseccessesrssesceccnsceseeeaesnssenseasecsnaeeecessesseacee ees 406



TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

ROMEO AND JULIET.

HE two chief families in Verona were the rich Capu-
lets 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 follow-
ers 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 estate.

Old Lord Capulet made a great supper, to which
many fair ladies and many noble guests were invited.
All the admired beauties of Verona were present, and all
comers were made welcome if they were not of the house ,
of 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 dis-



2 Tales from Shakespeare.

guise of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and
seeing her, compare her with some choice beauties of Ve-
rona, who (he said) would made him think his swan a
crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio’s words; nev-.
ertheless, for the love of -Rosaline, he was persuaded to
go. For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and
one that lost his sleep for love, and fled society to be
alone, thinking on Rosaline, who disdained him, and never
requited his love with the least show of courtesy or affec-
tion; 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 ex-
ceeding beauty of a lady that danced there, who seemed
to him to teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty
to show by night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor :
beauty 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 compan-
ions. 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 ‘iord Capulet, would not suf-
fer him to do any injury at thas 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
te be a virtuous and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced





THE RIVAL RETAINERS, 3



4 Tales from Shakespeare.

to be patient against his will, restrained himself, but swore
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 favor 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 proefaned by touching
it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atone-
ment. ‘Good pilgrim,” answered the lady, ‘‘ your devo-
tion 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.’ ‘Oh! then, my dear saint,” said Romeo, “ hear
my prayer and grant it, lest J despair.’’ In such like al-
lusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the
lady was called away to her mother. And Romeo inquir-
ing 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 unknowingly
engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it
could not.dissuade him from loving. As little rest had
Juliet, when she found that the gentleman that she had
been talking with was Romeo and a Montague, for she
had been suddenly smit with the same hasty and in-
considerate passion for Romeo which he had conceived
for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed to her,
that she must love her enemy, and that her affections
should settle there, where family considerations should
induce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions de-
parted; but they soon missed him, for unable to stay
away from the house where he had left his heart, he
leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back of
Juliet’s house. Here he had not remained long, rumi.

















6 Tales from Shakespeare.

nating on his new love, when Juliet appeared above ata
window, through which her exceeding beauty seemed to
break like the light of the sun in the east; and the moon,
which shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared
to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief at the superior
lustre of this new sun. And she leaning her hand upon
her cheek, he passionately wished himself a glove upon
that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this
while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and ex-
claimed, ‘“‘ Ah, me!*? Romeo was enraptured to hear her
speak, and said softly, unheard by her, ‘‘ Oh ! 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 the hated name, and for that name, which was no
part of himself, he should take allherself. At this loving
word Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the
dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him per-
sonally,. and not merely in fancy, be bid her call him
Love, or by whatever other name she pleased, for he was
no longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her.
Juliet, alarmed to hear a man’s voice in the garden, did
not at first know who it was, that by favor of the night
and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery of her
secret; but when he spoke again, though her ears had
not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s uttering,



Romeo and Juliet. 7

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



JULIET.

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,’’ an-
swered Romeo: I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart



8 Tales from Shakespeare.

from me as that vast shore which is washed with the far:
thest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.”’
A. crimson blush came over the face of Juliet, 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 re-
called her words, but that was impossible ; fain would she
have stood upon form, and have kept her lover at a dis-
tance, 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 cus-
tomary arts of delay and protractive courtship. Romeo
had heard from her own tongue, when she did not dream
that he was near her, a confession of her love. So with
an honest frankness, which the novelty of her situation
excused, she confirmed the truth of what he had before
heard, and addressing him by the name of fazr Montague
(love can sweeten a sour name), she begged him not to
impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind,
but that he must lay the fault of it (if it were a fault)
upon the accident of the mind which had so strangely dis-
covered her thoughts. And she added, that though her
behavior to him might not be sufficiently prudent, meas-
ured 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 im-
pute a shadow of dishonor to such an honored lady, when
she stopped him, begged him not to swear; for- although
she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of that night’s con-
_ tract; it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But
he being urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with













































































































































ROMEO’S INTERVIEW WITH JULIET.





10 Tales from Shakespeare.

her 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 be-
stowed, for the pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty
was as infinite as the sea, and her love as deep. From
this loving conference she was called away by her nurse,
who slept with her, and thought it time for her to be in
bed, for it was near to daybreak ; but hastily returning,
she said three or four words more to Romeo, the purport
of which was, that if his love was indeed honorable, and
his purpose marriage, she would send a messenger to him
to-morrow, to appoint a time for their marriage, when she
would lay all her fortunes at his feet, and follow him as
her lord through the world. While they were settling
this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by her nurse,
and went in and returned, and went and returned again,
for she seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her as a
young girl of her bird, which she will let hop a little from
her hand, and pluck it back with a silken thread 3 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



Romeo and Juliet. 11

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 butin theireyes. But Romeo replying
that he himself had often chidden him for doting on Rosa-

WZ
ON










=

=e
nae
aN

Wy
\\

q
N\
\



ETAT

ok

See

FRIAR LAWRENCE MARRIES THE LOVERS.

line, who could not love him again, whereas Juliet both
loved and was beloved by him, the friar assented in some
measure to his reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial
alliance between young Juliet and Romeo might happily
be the means of making up the long breach between the
Capulets and the Montagues, which no one more lamented
than this good friar, who was a friend to both the families,



12 Tales from Shakespeare.

and had often interposed his mediation to make up the
quarrel without effect, partly moved by policy, and partly
by his fondness for young Romeo, to whom he could deny
nothing, the old man consented to join their hands in
marriage.

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew
his intent from a messenger which she had despatched ac-
cording 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 dissen-
sions of their families.

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened NOEL 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 be-
tween 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 merning.

That same day about noon, Romeo’s friends, Benvolio
aud Mercutio, walking through the streets of Verona,
wera met by a party of the Capulets with the impetuous
Tybelt 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 asso-
ciating with Romeo, a Montague. Mercutio, who had as
much fire and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied to
this accusation with some sharpness; and in spite of all
Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel
was beginning, when Romeo 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, be-
cause 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



. Romeo and Juliet. 13

ana 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 Ty-
balt, but looked upon his present forbearance as a sort
of calm dishonorable submission, with many disdainful
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 endeavoring to part the com-
batants. 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
out a crowd of citizens to the spot, and among them the
old. Lords Capulet and Montague, with their wives; and
soon after arrived the prince himself, who being related
to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and having had the
peace of his government often disturbed by these brawls
of Montagues and Capulets, came determined to put the
law in strictest force against those who should be found to
be offenders. Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the
fray, was commanded by the prince to relate the origin
of it, which he did, keeping as near to the truth as he could
without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the part
which his friends took init. 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 Ben-
volio’s representation, who being Romeo’s friend, and a
Montague, spoke partially.. Thus she pleaded against her



14 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 ex-
clamations of these women, on a careful examination of
the facts, pronounced his sentence, and by that sentence
Romeo was banished from Verona.

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

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in Friar Law-
rence’s cell, where he was first made acquainted with the
prince’s sentence, which seemed to him far more terrible
than death. To him it appeared there was no world out
of Verona’s walls, no living out of the sight of Juliet.
Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and all beyond was
purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would have ap-
plied the consolation of philosophy to his griefs; but this
frantic young man would hear of none, but like a mad-
man 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



Romeo and Juliet. 15

frum his dear lady, which a little revived him, and then
the friar took the advantage to expostulate with him on
the unmanly weakness which he had shown. He had slain
Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady
who lived but in his life? The noble form of man, he
said, was but a shape of wax, when it wanted the courage
which should keep it firm. The law had been lenient to
him, that instead of death, which he had incurred, had
pronounced by the prince’s mouth only banishment. He
had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him: there
was a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and (be-
yond 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 misbe-
haved wench. And the friar bid him beware, for such
as despaired (he said) died miserable. Then when Romeo
was a little calmed, he counselled him that’he should go
that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, and thence
proceed straightways to Mantua, at which place he should
sojourn, till the friar found a fit occasion to publish his
marriage, which might be a joyful means of reconciling
their families ; and then he did not doubt but the prince
would be moved to pardon him, and he would return with
twenty times more joy than he went forth with grief.
Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the friar,
and took his leave to go and seek his lady, purposing
to stay with her that night, and by daybreak pursue his
journey alone to Mantua; to which place the good friar
promised to send him letters from time to time, acquaint-
Ing 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



16 Lales from Shakespeare.

day. The unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon,
and when Juliet heard the morning song of the lark, she
would fain have persuaded herself that it was the night-
ingale, 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 atomb. Romeo’s
mind misgave him in like manner; but now he was forced
hastily to depart, for it was death to him to be found
within the walls of Verona after daybreak.

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair
of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone many
days, before the old Lord Capulet proposed a match for
Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, not dream-
ing 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 solem-
nities 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,





1%

: THE PARTING.

ULIET

J

ROMEO AND



18 Tales from Shakespeare.

_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
then gave her, the effect of which would be, that for
two-and-forty hours after drinking it she should appear
cold and lifeless; that when the bridegroom came to fetch
her in the morning, he would find her to appearance dead ;
that then she should be borne, as the manner in that
country was, uncovered, on a bier, to be buried in the
family vault; thatif 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 advent-
ure; 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. Itseemed 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 wit-
nessed.





























SS i a & 4 EZ z $s
f Z x eS

Sass ft, 7 £ oa = s ae
= = = ac $ SSS

19































NED DEATH,

"S FEIG

JULIET



20 Tales from Shakespeare.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion.
She had many misgivings, lest the friar, to avoid the
blame which might be imputed to him for marrying’ her
to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he was always
known for a holy man: then lest she should awake before
the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the
terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets’ bones,
and where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud,
would not be enough to drive her distracted: again she
thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits haunt-
ing 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 mourn-
ings of the old Lord and Lady Capulet, who having but
this one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel
death had snatched her from their sight, just as these
careful parents were on the point of seeing her advanced
(as they thought) by a promising and advantageous match.
Now all things that were ordained for the festival were
turned from their properties to do the office of a black
funeral. The wedding cheer-served for a sad burial feast,
the bridal hymns were changed to sullen dirges, the
sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, and the flowers
that should have been strewed in the bride’s path now
served but to strew her corse. Now instead of a priest to
marry her, a priest was needed to bury her ; and she was
borne to church mdeed not to augment the cheerful hopes
of the living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.



Romeo and Juliet. 21

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now
brought the dismal story of his Juliet’s death to Romeo
at Mantua, before the messenger could arrive who was
sent from Friar Lawrence to apprise him that these were
mock funerals only, and but the shadow and representa-
tion of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb
but for a short while, expecting when Romeo should come
to release her from that dreary mansion. Just before,
Romeo had been unusually joyful and 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 emper-
or! And now that a messenger came from Verona, he
thought surely it was to confirm some good news which
his dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to this
flattering vision appeared, and that it was his lady who ~
was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by any kisses,
he ordered horses to be got ready, for he determined that
night to visit Verona, and to see his lady inher tomb. And
as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate
men, he called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop
in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beggarly
appearance of the man who seemed famished, and the
wretched show in his shop of empty boxes ranged on
dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme wretchedness,
he had said at the time (perhaps having some misgivings
that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a con-
clusion 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 apothe-
cary, who, after some pretended scruples, Romeo offer-
ing him gold which his poverty could not resist, sold him
a poison, which, if he swallowed, he told hii, if he had
the strength of twenty men, would quickly despatch him.

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight



22 Tales from Shakespeare.

of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning when he had satis-
fied 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 intercs: Romeo had in the dead, but knowing
him to be a Montague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe
to all the -anulets, he judged that he was come by night
to do som: ~7.uanous shams: uc the dead bodies; therefore
in angry tone ae 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 Tybait, 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 ina
triumphal grave, weaning in Juliet’s grave, which he now
opened: and Snere say his lady, as one whom death had no
rors: upon to change a feature or complexion in her
1 abChls8¢ beauty, or as if Death were amorous, and the
can abaorred. mons.er xept her there for his delight; for
she ay yep fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep
wet she swallowed that benumbing potion: and near







































































































28

ROMEO AND THE APOTHECARY,



24 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 hima
favor 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 nis 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 sur-
prised 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 greater power than they could con-
tradict had thwarted their intents; and being frighted
by the noise of people coming, he fled ; but when Juliet saw
the cup closed in her true love’s hands, she guessed that
poison had been the cause of his end, and she would have
swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed
his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon
them: then hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she
quickly unsheathed a dagger which she wore, and stab-
bing herself, died by her true Romeo?s side.













THE TOMB OF ta CAPULETS,



26 . Tales from Shakespeare.

The watch by this time had come up to the place.
A page belonging to Count Paris, who had witnessed the
fight between his master and Romeo, had given the alarm,
which had spread among the citizens, who went up and
down the streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, ‘‘A
Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet,’’ as the rumor had imperfectly
reached them, till the uproar brought Lord Montague
and Lord Capulet out of their beds, with the prince, to
inquire into the cause of the disturbance. The friar had
been apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the
churchyard, trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspi-
cious manner. A great multitude being assembled at
the Capulets’ monument, the friar was demanded by the
prince to deliver what he knew of these strange and dis-
astrous accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old Lords Montague
and Capulet, he faithfully related the story of their chil-
dren’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 op-
portunity to divulge their marriage, another match was
projected for Juliet, who to avoid the crime of a second
marriage swallowed the sleeping draught (as he advised),
and all thought her dead: how meantime he wrote to
Romeo, to come and take her thence when the force of
the potion should cease, and by what unfortunate mis-
carriage of the messenger the letters never reached
Romeo. Further than this the friar could not follow the
story, nor knew more than that, coming himself to deliver
Juliet from that place of death, he found the Count Paris
and Romeo slain. The remainder of the transactions was
supplied by the narration of the page who had seen Paris
and Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with
Romeo from Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given
letters te be delivered to his father in the event of his























































































ROMEO’S DEATH.



28 Tales from Shakespeare.

death, which made good the friar’s words, confessing
his marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of his
parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of the
poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monu-
ment, to die, and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances
agreed together to clear the friar from any hand he







Z

(“ww iH

Vd

Uys
i742. anit
Vi ais
2



JULIET’S DEATH.

evild be supposed to have had in these complicated
linghters, further than as the unintended consequences
of his own well-meant, yet too artificial and subtle con-
trivances.

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



Romeo and Juliet. 29

Jaid upon such offences, that it had found means even
through the love of their children to punish their unnat-
ural 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 mar-
riage of the young Capulet and Montague; and saying
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
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 outdo each other in mutual courte-
sies: while so deadly had been their rage and enmity in
past times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their
children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions)
could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the nobie
families.



KING LEAR.

EAR, king of Britain, had three daughters: Gon-

eril, 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 the duke of Burgundy

were joint suitors, and were at this time making stay for
that purpose in the court of Lear.

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

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

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded
what she had to say. Regan, who was made of the same
hollow metal as her sister, was not a whit behind in her
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



King Lear. 31

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



‘“ WE HAVE DIVIDED IN THREE OUR KINGDOM.”

of his kingdom upon her and her husband, equal in size tio
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



32 Tales from Shakespeare.

than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and
favored by him above either of them. But Cordelia, dis-
gusted 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 favorite 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 love, that she re-
turned those duties back as was for her most fit, and did
obey him, love him, and most honor him. But that she
could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her
sisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the
world. Why had her sisters husbands, if (as they said)
they had no love for anything but their father? If she
should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom she gave
her hand would want half her love, half of her care and
duty ; she should never marry like her sisters, to love her
father all.

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





@ LEAR

N

CORDELIa AND KI



34 ales from Shakespeare.

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 re-
served 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 coro-
net between them, invested them jointly with all the power,
revenue, and execution of government, only retaining to
himself the name of king; all the rest of royalty he re-
signed: with this reservation, that himself, with a hun-
dred knights for his attendants, was to be maintained by
monthly course in each of his daughters’ palaces in turn.

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little
guided by reason, and so much by passion, filled all his
courtiers with astonishment and sorrow ; but none of them
had the courage to interpose between this incensed king
and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was begin-
ning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the pas-
sionate 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 honored as a king, loved
as a father, followed asa master: and had never esteemed
his life further than as a pawn to wage against his royal
master’s enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear’s safety
was the motive: nor now that Lear was most his own
enemy, did this faithful servant of the king forget his old
principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do Lear good ;
and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He
had been a most faithful counsellor, in times past, to the
king, and he besought him now, that he would see with
his eyes (as he had done in many weighty matters) and go









SISTERS.

ER

CORDELIA’S FAREWELL TO H

\ Xi




\\
aN



36 Tales from Shakespeare.

by his advice still; and in his best consideration :evall
this hideous rashness: for he would answer with his life,
his judgment that Lear’s youngest daughter did not love
him least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound
gave no token of hollowness. When power bowed to
flattery, honor was bound to plainness. For Lear’s
threats, what could he do to him, whose life was already
at his service? That should not hinder duty from
speaking. -

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only
stirred up the king’s wrath the more, and like a frantic
patient who kills his physician, and loves his mortal
disease, he banished this true servant, and allotted him
but five days to make his preparations for departure ; but
if on the sixth his hated person was found within. the
realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And
Kent bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he
chose to show himself in such fashion, it was but 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 per-
_ sist 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 de-
clined 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



King Lear. 37

kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her sisters, and
of her father, though he had been unkind; and she should
go with him, and be queen of him and of fair France, and
reign over fairer possessions than her sisters: and he
called the duke of Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke,
because his love for this young maid had in a moment run
all away like water.

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sis-
ters, 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 disposi-
tions of her sisters began to show themselves in their true
colors. Even before the expiration of the first month,
which Lear was to spend by agreement with his eldest
daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out the dif-
ference between promises and performances. This wretch
having got from her father all that he had to bestow, even
to the giving away of the crown from off his head, began
to grudge even those small remnants of royalty which the
old man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy with
the idea of being still a king. She could not bear to see
him and his hundred knights. Every time she met her
father she put on a frowning countenance; and when the
old man wanted to speak with her, she would feign sickness,
or anything, to be rid of the sight of him; for it was plain
that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and his
attendants an unnecessary expense; not only she herself
slackened in her expressions of duty to the king, but by
her example, and (it is to be feared) not without her pri-
vate instructions, her very servants affected to treat him
with neglect, and would either refuse to obey his orde:s,





38 Tales from Shakespeare.

or still more contemptuously pretend not to hear them.
Lear could not but perceive this alteration in the behavior
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.























KENT DISGUISED AS A RETAINER,

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by
all. than falseness and hollow-heartedness can be con-
ciliated by good usage. This eminently appears in 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



King Lear. 39

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 greatnessand pomp laid
aside, this good earl proffered his services to the king,
who, not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but
pleased witha 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 favorite,
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 giv-
ing him saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was
secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius not en-
during to hear so open an affront put upon majesty, made
no more ado but presently tripped up his heels, and laid
the unmannerly slave in the kennel; for which friendly
service Lear became more and more attached to him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree,
and so 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 business: this poor
fool clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and
by his witty sayings would keep up his good humor,
though he could not refrain sometimes from jeering at his
master, for his imprudence in uncrowning himself, and
giving all away to his daughters: at which time, as he
rhymingly expressed it, these daughters



~ 40 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

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

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

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had
begun to perceive were not all which this foolish, fond
father was to suffer from his unworthy daughter; she
now plainly told him that his staying in her palace was
inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up an
establishment of a hundred knights: that this establish-
ment was useless and expensive, and only served to fill
her court with riot and feastings; and she prayed him
that he would lessen their number, and keep none but old
men about him, such as 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 had spoke
an untruth; and so indeed she did, for the hundred
knights were all men of choice behavior and sobriety of
manners, men skilled in all particulars of duty, and not









E FOOL.

ENT AND TH

K

LEAR,































42 Tales from Shakespeare.

given to rioting and feasting as she said. And he bid his
horses to be prepared, for he would go to his other
daughter, Regan, he and his hundred knights: and he
spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted
devil, and showed more hideous in a child than the sea-
monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so
as was terrible to hear; praying that she might never
have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return
that scorn and contempt upon her which she had shown
to him : that she might feel how sharper than a serpent’s
tooth it was to have a thankless child. And Goneril’s
husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself
for any share which Lear might suppose he had in the
unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a rage
ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out with his
followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter.
And Lear thought to himself how small the fault of Cor-
delia (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 de-
spatched 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 humors, 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’ old enemy the steward, whom he had
formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behavior to
Lear. Caius not.liking the fellow’s look, and suspecting
what he came for, began to revile him, and challenged him
to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of

















Yih ap

wMibiusttlid lille

























































Ls

=

i

‘BLASTS AND FOGS UPON THEE!”

“il.]

Tv Gone?

L



44 * Tales from Shakespeare.

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 char.
acter demanded the highest respect: so that the first
thing the king saw when he entered the castle was hig
faithful servant Caius sitting in that disgraceful situa:
tion.

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

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to
see Regan take her by the hand; and he asked Goneril if
she was not ashamed to look upon his old white beard.
And Regan advised him to go home again with Goneril
and itve with her peaceably, dismissing half of his attend-
ants, 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 down
on his knees and beg of his own daughter for food and
raiment, and he argued against such an unnatural depend-
ence, declaring his resolution never to return with her,
but to stay where he was with Regan, heand 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 Gonem:, with half
his train cut off, he would go over to France, and get a



King Lear. ot)

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 behavior, she
declared that she thought fifty knights too many to wait

i

aE

sas

BP.

EZ

LMM



Za
Lhe

a

“OQ REGAN, WILT THOU TAKE HER BY THE HAND?”

upon him: that five-and-twenty wereenough. 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



46 Tales from Shakespeare.

might be waited upon by her servants or her sister’s ser-
vants? 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 old king to the
heart: insomuch, that with this double ill usage, and vex-
ation for having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his
wits began to be unsettled, and while he said he knew not
what, he vowed revenge against those unnatural hags,
and to make examples of them that should be a terror to
the earth!

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm
could never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of
thunder and lightning with rain; and his daughters still
persisting in their resolution not to admit his followers, he
called for his horses, and chose rather to encounter the ut-
most fury of the storm abroad, than stay under the same
roof with these ungrateful daughters; and they, saying
that the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves
are their just punishment, suffered him to go in that con-
dition, 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 the
sea, or swell the waves of the sea, till they drowned the



|

>
Yi

Y



KING LEAR AND THE FOOL.



48 Tales from Shakespeare.

earth, that no token might remain of any such ungrateful
animalas man. The old king was now left with no other
companion than the poor fool, who still abided with him,
with his merry conceits striving to outjest misfortune,
saying, it was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly
the king had better go in and ask his daughters’ blessing:

But he that has a little tiny wit,
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain !
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day:

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady’s
pride.

Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch was
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 na-
ture 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 in-
gratitude, and said it was all .one as if the mouth should
tear the hand for lifting food to it; for parents were hands
and food and everything to children.

But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that
the king would not stay out in the open air, at last per-
suaded him to enter a little wretched hovel which stood
upon the heath, where the fool first entering, suddenly ran
back terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit. But upon
examination this spirit proved to be nothing more than a
poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted



King Lear. . 49

:ovel for shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted

e fool, one of those poor lunatics who are either mad, or
ion to be so, the better to extort charity from the com-
passionate country people, who go about the country call-
ing 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 wretch-
edness 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’ il-usage had
really made him go mad. And now the loyalty of this
worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essential ser-
vices than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform.
For with the assistance of some of the king’s attendants
who remained loyal, he had the person of his royal master
removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover, where his own
friends and influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay; and him-
self embarking for France, hastened to the court of Cor-
delia, and ‘did there in such moving terms represent the
pitiful condition of her royal father, and set out in such
lively colors the inhumanity of her sisters, that this good

and loving child with many tears besought the king her
husband, that he would give her leave to embark for Eng-
land ae a sufficient power to subdue these daughters
and their husbands, and restore the king her father to his
threne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a
royal army landed at Dover.

b
th
fe








50 Tales from Shakespeare.

Lear, having by chance escaped from the guardians
which the good earl of Kent had put over him to take care
of him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia’s
train, wandering about the fields near Dover, ina pitiable
condition, stark mad and singing aloud to himself, with a
crown upon his head which he had made of straw and





























— —
air



a

nu ‘ * \ \\ pwentworrifl te =

THE MAD KING.

nettles and other wild weeds that he had picked up in the
corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia,
though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was pre-
vailed upon to put off the meeting, till, by sleep and the
operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be re-
stored to greater composure. By the aid of these skilful





















































































































































































































LEAR RECOGNIZING CORDELIA.



52 Tales from Shakespeare.

physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her g ui and
jewels for the recovery-of the old king, Lear was soon ina
condition to see his daughter.

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this
father and daughter : to see the struggles between the joy
of this poor old king at beholding again his once darling
child, and the shame at receiving such filial kindness from
her whom he had cast off for so small a fault in his dis-
pleasure; both these passions struggling with the remains
of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain sometimes
made him that he scarce remembered where he was, or
who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke to him :
and then he would beg the standers-by not to laugh at
him if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his
daughter Cordelia! And then to see him fall on his knees
to beg pardon of his child; and she, good lady, kneeling
all the while to ask a blessing of him, and telling him that
it did not become him to kneel, but it was her duty, for
she was his child, his true and very child, Cordelia! And
she kissed him (as she said) to kiss away all her sisters’
unkindness, and said that they might be ashamed of
themselves, to turn their old kind father with his white
beard out into the cold air, when her enemy’s dog, though
it had bit her (as she prettily expressed it), should have
stayed by her fire such a night as that, and warmed him-
self. And she told her father how she had come from
France with purpose to bring him assistance ; and hesaid
that she must forget and forgive, for he was old and fool-
ish, and did not know what he did; but that to besure she
had great cause not to love him, but her sisters had none.
And Cordelia said that she had no cause, no more than
they had.

So we will leave this old king in the protection of this
dutiful and loving child, where, by the help of sleep and
medicine, she and her physicians at length succeeded in
winding up the untuned and jarring senses which the





I MIGHT HAVE SAVED HER!’

“6



54 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 own father, could not be expected to prove more
faithful to their own husbands. They soon grew tired of
paying even the appearance of duty and affection, and in
an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon an-
other. It happened the object of their guilty loves was
the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl
of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had succeeded in
disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from his
- earldom, and by his wicked practices was now earl him-
self: 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 hus-
band, died, Regan immediately declared her intention of
wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the jeal-
ousy of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan this
wicked earl had at sundry times professed love, Goneril
found means to make away with her sister by poison:
but being detected in her practices, and imprisoned by her
husband the duke of Albany for this deed, and for her
guilty passion for the earl which had come to his ears,
she, in a fit of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an
end to her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last
overtook these wicked daughters.

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admir-
ing the justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the
same Syes were suddenly taken off from this sight to ad-
mire 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





King Lear. 55

under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester were
victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked
earl, who did not lke that any should stand between him
and the throne, ended her life in prison. Thus Heaven
took this innocent lady to itself in her young: years, after
showing her to the world an illustrious example of filial
duty. Lear did not long survive this kind child.

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still
attended his old master’s steps from the first of his
daughters’ ill usage to this sad period of his decay, tried
to make him understand that it was he who had followed
him under the name of Caius; but Lear’s care-crazed
brain at that time could not comprehend how that could
be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same person: so
Kent thought it needless to trouble him with explanations
at such a time; and Lear soon after expiring, this faith-
ful servant to the king, between age and grief for his old
master’s vexations, soon followed.him to the grave.

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of
Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, and himself
slain in single combat with his brother the lawful earl;
and how Goneril’s husband, the duke of Albany, who was
innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never encour-
aged 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’.



OTHELLO.

RABANTIO, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair
daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought
to by divers suitors, both on account of her many virtuous
qualities and for her rich expectations. But among the
suitors of her own clime and complexion she saw none
whom she could affect : for this noble lady, who regarded
the mind more than the features of men, with a 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 affee-
tions of the greatest lady. He was a soldier, anda 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 hairbreadth escapes when he had
entered a breach or marched up to the mouth of a cannon;
and how he had been taken prisoner by the insolent enemy
and sold to slavery; how he demeaned himself in that
state and how he escaped : all these accounts added to the
narration of the strange things he had seen in foreign
countries, the vast wildernesses and romantic caverns, the
quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads are in the





FE

OF HIS LI

NG THE STORY

OTHELLO RELATL



58 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 her attention, 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 inuch, but only by parts: to which he
consented, and beguiled her of many a tear, when he spuke
of some distressful stroke which his youth suffered.

His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world
of sighs ; she swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing
strange, and pitiful, wondrous pitiful: she wished (she
said) she had not heard it, yet she wished that Heaven
had made her such a man; and then she thanked him, and
told him if he had a friend who loved her, he had only to
teach him how to tell his story, and that woulda woo her.
Upon this hint, delivered not with more frankness than
modesty, accompanied with a certain bewitching pretti-
ness and blushes which Othello could not but understand,
he spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden oppor-
tunity gained the consent of the generous Lady Desde-
mona privately to marry him.

Neither Othello’s color nor his fortune was such that
it could be hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-
in-law. He had left his daughter-free; but he did expect
that, as the manner of noble Venetian ladies was, she
would choose erelong a husband of senatorial rank or ex-
pectations: butin 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 color, which to all
but this discerning lady would have proved an insur-
mountable objection, was by her esteemed above all the





ny
t

mi
}

a i i i





















































59



60 Tales from Shakespeare.

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
witcheraft (he maintained) had seduced the affections of
the fair Desdemona to marry him, without the consent of
her father, and against the obligations of hospitality.

At this juncture of time it happened that the state of
Venice had immediate need of the services of Othello, news
having arrived that the Turks with mighty preparation
had fitted out a fleet, which was bending its course to the
island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that strong post
froin 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 summoned before the
senate, stood in their presence at once as a candidate for
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 com-
manded. a most patient hearing from that grave assem-
bly; but the incensed father conducted his accusation
with so much intemperance, producing likelihoods and
allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was calied 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 elo-
quence, 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.













AR OTHELLO!”

E

“MY D



62 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 lite and edu-
cation, 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 behavior
of Desdemona would have taught him to be a tyrant, and
hang clogs on them for her desertion.

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

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus,
than news arrived that a desperate tempest had dispersed
the Turkish fleet, and thus the island was secure from any
immediateapprehension of an attack. But the war which
Othello was to suffer was now beginning ; and the enemies
which malice stirred up against this 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, favorite 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



Othello. 63

as he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting, as of do-
ing a base action. He had employed this Cassio in his.
love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sortot.
go-between in his suit; for Othello, fearing that himself
had not those soft parts of conversation which please
ladies, and finding these qualities in his friend, would often
depute Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a-courting for him;
such innocent simplicity being an honor rather than a
blemish to the character of the valiant Moor. So that no
wonder if next to Othello himself (but at far distance, as
beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle Desdemona loved and
trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this couple
made any difference in their behavior to Michael Cassio.
He frequented their house, and his free and rattling talk
was no unpleasing variety to Othello, who was himself of
a more serious temper; for such tempers are observed
often to delight in their contraries, as a relief from the op:
pressive 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 lieutenant,
a place of trust, and nearest to the general’s person.
This promotion gave great offence to Iago, an older
officer, who thought he had a better claim than Cassio,
and would often ridicule Cassio, as a fellow fit only for the
company of ladies, and one that knew no more of the art
of war, or how to set an army in array for battle, than a
girl. Jago hated Cassio, and he hated Othello as well for
favoring 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 prov-
ocations the plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid
scheme of revenge, which should involve both Cassio, the
Moor and Desdemona in one common ruin.

Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply,
and he knew that of all the torments which afflict the
mind of man (and far beyond bodily torture), the pains of



64 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 re-
venge, 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, meet-
ing with the news of the dispersion of ihe enemy’s fleet,
made a sort of holiday in the island. Everybody gave
themselves up to feasting and making merry. Wine
flowed in abundance and cups went round to the health of
the black Othello and his lady, the fai Desdemona.

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, witha
charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in
drinking, that no brawl might arise, to fright the inhahbi-
tants, or disgust them with the new landed férces. That
night Iago began his deep-laid plans of mischief; under
color of loyalty and love to the general, he enticed Cassio
to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault in
an officer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he
could not long hold out against the honest freedom which
Jago knew how to put on, but kept swallowing glass after
glass (as Iago still plied him with drink and encouraging
songs), and Cassio’s tongue ran over in praise of the lady
Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, 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 felow whom
Jago had, set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a
worthy officer who interfered to appease the dispute, was
wounded in the scuffle. The riot now began to be general,
and Jago, who had set on foot the mischief, was foreniost
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



; Othello. 65

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
cut his own share in it, which Cassio was too far gone to
remember) in such a manner, as while he seemed to make
Cassio’s offence less, did indeed make it appear greater
than it was. The result was that Othello, who was a strict
observer of discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio’s
place of lieutenant from him.

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

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered,
new 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. Jago, 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 bar-
gain; 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 favor; 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 would
be his solicitor with her lord, and rather die than give up
his cause. This she immediately set about in so earnest
and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was mortally of-



66 Tales from Shakespeare.

fended with Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded
delay, and that it was too soon to pardon such an of-
fender, 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 pen-
itent 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, had taken your part? I count
this but a little thing to ask of you. When I mean totry
your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty matter.’ Othello
could deny nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting
that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised to
receive Michael Cassio again into favor.

It happened that Othello and Jago 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, took no great notice of what he said ; indeed, the confer-
ence 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 of some terrible matter, and cried, ‘‘In-
deed!”? This brought into Othello’s mind the words
which Iago had let fall upon entering the room and
seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to think
there was some meaning in all this: for he deemed lago
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



Othello. 67

natural workings of an honest mind, big with something
too great for utterance: and Othello prayed lago to speak
what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words,
“And what,” said Jago, ‘if some thoughts very vile
should have intruded into my breast, as where is the pal-
ace into which foul things do not enter?’’ Then Iago



DESDEMONA AND MICHAEL CASSIO.

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, be-



68 Tales from Shakespeare.

sougnt 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 sus-
picion. ‘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 behavior 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 marrying with
Othello, and carried it so closely, that the poor old man
thought that witchcraft had been used. Othello was
much moved with this argument, which brought the mat-
ter 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 Othel-
lo, assuming an indifference, while he was really shaken
with inward grief at Iago’s words, begged him to go
on, which Jago 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 re-
minded Othello how Desdemona had refused many suita-
ble matches of her own clime and complexicy, and had
married him, a Moor, which showed unnatural in her, and _
proved her to have a headstrong will: and when her bet-
ter 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 recon-
cilement with Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile
to note with what earnestness Desdeinona should inter-















OTHELLO AND IAGO. 69



70 Tales from Shakespeare.

cede 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 good-
ness 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 lago’s begging Othello to
account his wife innocent until he had more decisive proof ;
and Othello promised to be patient; but from that mo-
ment 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 oc-
cupation sickened upon him. He no longer took delight
inarms. 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 neigh-
ing war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride and am-
bition which are a soldier’s virtue; and his military
ardor and all his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he
thought his wife honest, and at times he thought her not
so; sometimes he thought Iago just, and at times he
thought him not so; then he would wish that he had
never known of it; he was not the worse for her loving
Cassio, so long as he knew it not: torn in pieces with
these distracting thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago’s
throat, and demanded proof of Desdemona’s guilt, or
threatened instant death for his having belied her. Iago, |
feigning indignation that his honesty should be taken for
a vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a hand-
kerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife’s hand.
Othello answered, that he had given her such a one, and
that it was his first gift. ‘That same 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,



Othello. 71

for a token of your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be
pat to death within three days; and for that fair devil
(meaning his lady), I will withdraw and devise some swift
means of death for her.”

Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong
as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife’s seen in Cassio’s
hand was motive enough to the deluded Othello to pass
sentence of death upon them both, without once inquiring
how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never given such
a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady have
wronged her lord with doing so naughty a thing as giving
his presents to another man; both Cassio and Desdemona

_were innocent of any offence against Othello; but the
wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance of
villany, had made his wife (a good, but a meek 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 lago’s suggestion that it was Desdemona’s present.

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he
had a headache (as he might indeed with truth), and de-
sired her to lend him her handkerchief to hold his temples.
Shedidso. ‘‘Notthis,’’ said Othello, ‘‘ but that handker-
chief 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 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 16 possible?’’ said the frighted lady. ‘‘’Tis
true; continued Othello; ‘itis a magical handkerchief ;
a Sibyl that had lived in the world two hundred years, ina



02 Tales from Shakespeare.

fit of prophetic fury worked it; the silkworms that fur-
nished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in mummy
of maidens’ hearts conserved.’’ Desdemona, hearing the
wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was ready to die
with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and with
it, she feared, the affections of her husband. Then Othello
started, and looked as if he were going to do some rash
thing, and still he demanded the handkerchief, which
when she could not produce, she tried to divert her hus-
band 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 Des-
demona, though unwillingly, began to suspect her lord
was jealous.

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

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?’’ 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 stupe-
fied with wonder at her Jord’s untrue suspicion of her, that,
a weight-like sleep came over her, and she only desired







Ee

Se ee







13

OTHELLO ACCUSING DESDEMONA.



74 . Tales from Shakespeare.

her attendant to make her bed, and to lay her wedding
sheets upon it, saying, that when people teach their babes,
they do it by ‘gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello
might have chid her so; for in good faith she was but a
child when she was chidden. And this was all the com-
plaint 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 shehad done him. Then he kissed her for the last
time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, he must
needs kiss her again; and he wept, but he said they were
cruel tears.

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she
looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under lip,
and roll his eyes, and she knew he was always fatal when
he looked so: and he bade her prepare for death, and to
say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. And this
innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for com-
passion, and to know her iault ; 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 covering her up in
the bedclothes stified 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 let-
ters, which made the guilt of Iago and the innocence of
Cassio clear beyond all doubt; and Cassio now came to





DEATH OF



DESDEMONA.,





























76 Tales from Shakespeare.

beg pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he had 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 faith-
ful to him ; the extreme anguish of which discovery mak-
ing life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, and throw-
ing 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 berne a fair
reputation, and till he was wrought upon by the arts ofa
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, drepped 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,





































‘THE MOOR HAS KILLED MY MISTRESS!” U7



TIMON OF ATHENS.

IMON, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a prince-
ly fortune, affected a humor of liberality which
knew no limits. His almost infinite wealth could not
flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster upon all sorts
and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of his
bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank them-
selves among his 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 combined with his free and prodigal nature
to subdue all hearts to hislove; men of all minds and dis-
positions tendered their services to Lord Timon, from the
elass-faced flatterer, whose face reflects as ina mirror the
present humor 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 recor -
mendatory introduction to the world, he had no more to
do but to dedicate it to Lord Timon, and the poem was
sure of a sale, besides a present purse from the patron,
and daily access to his house and table. Ifa painter had
a picture to dispose of he only had 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 ajeweller had a stone of price,
or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their costliness

























































































A BANQUET, "9





80 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 con-
tinually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries
in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation
as to a god, making sacred the very stirrup by which he
mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank the
free air but through his permission and bounty.

Some of these daily dependants were young men of
birth, who (their means not answering to their extrava-
gance) had been put in prison by creditors, and redeemed
thence by Lord Timon; these young prodigals thencefor-
ward fastened upon his lordship, as if by common sym-
pathy he were necessarily endeared to all such spend-
thrifts and loose livers, who, not being able to follow him
in his wealth, found it easier to copy him in prodigality
and copious spending of what was not their own. One of
these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose debts unjustly
contracted Timon but lately had paid down the sum of
five talents.

But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors,
none were more conspicuous than the makers of presents
and givers of gifts. It was fortunate for these men, if
Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse, or any piece of
cheap 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 ac-
ceptance, and apologies for the unworthiness of the gift;
and this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, did not



































































NWN AND VENTIDIUS.

TIMO:’







82 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 in-
terest. In this way Lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon
a present of four milk-white horses trapped in silver,
which this cunning lord had observed Timon upon some
occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus, had
bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free gift
a brace of greyhounds whose make and fleetness Timon
had been heard to admire: these presents the easy-hearted
lord accepted without suspicion of the dishonest views of
the presenters; and the givers of course were rewarded
with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty
times the value of their false and mercenary donation.

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more
direct way, and with gross and palpable artifice, which
yet the credulous Timon was too blind to see, would affect
to admire and praise something that Timon possessed, a
bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase, which
was sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted lord
a gift of the thing commended, for no service in the world
done for it but the easy expense of a little cheap and ob-
vious 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 those 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



Timon of Athens. 83

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, commanding one another’s fortunes (though
it was his own fortune which paid all the costs), and with
joy they would run over at the spectacle of such, as it ap-
peared 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 with-
out care to 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 condi-
tion, 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, be-
seeching him with tears, to look into the state of his
affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the dis-
course to something else ; for nothing is sc deaf to remon-



84 Tales from Shakespeare.

strance as riches turned to poverty, nothing 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
vinter-showers these flies would disappear.

But now the time was come that Timon could shut his
ears no longer to the representations of this faithful stew-
ard. 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 endeavored at several times be-
fore to make hin listen to, that most of his land was al-
ready sold or forfeited, and that all he possessed at pres-
ent was not enough to pay the one-half of what he owed.
Struck with wonder at this representation, Timon hastily
replied, ‘‘ My lands extended from Athens to Lacedemon.”’
*“O my good lord,’ said Flavius, “the world is but a
world, and has bounds ; were it all yours to give it in a
breath, how quickly were it gone! ”’

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



Timon of Athens. 85

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 Sem-
pronius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts in past
times without measure or moderation ; and to Ventidius,















FLAVIUS AND THE ACCOUNTS,

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 these noble lords the loan of fifty talents ; noth-



86 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had
been dreaming overnight of a silver basin and cup, and
when Timon’s servant was announced, his sordid mind
suggested to him that this was surely a making out of his
dream, and that Timon had sent him such a present; but
when he understood the truth of the matter, and that
Timon wauted 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
bvibe, 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 foun-
tain of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first could
hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected
great regret that he should not have it in his power to
serve Lord Timon, for unfortunately (which was a base
falsehood) he had made a great purchase the day before,
which had quite disfurnished him of the means at present,
the more beast he, he called himself, to put it out of his
power to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of
his greatest afflictions that his ability should fail him to
pleasure such an honorable gentleman.





































































TIMON PURSUED BY HIS CREDITORS, 87



88 Lales. from Shakespeare.

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 laborers who had sweat to build the fine
houses which Lucius’ pride had made necessary to him;
yet—oh! the monster which man makes himself when he
proves 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 re-
deemed and now rich Ventidius, refused to assist him with
the loan of those five talents which Timon had not lent,
but generously given him in his distress.

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as he
had been courted and resorted to in his riches. Now the
same tongues which had been loudest in his praises, ex-
tolling him as bountiful, liberal and open-handed, were not
ashamed to censure that very bounty as folly, that liber-
ality 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 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 sel]



Timon of Athens. 89

cut 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 frash and running? They came dissem-
bling, 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 honorable 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 re-
fuse their presence at this new blaze of his returning pros-
perity. For the swallow follows not summer more willing-
ly than men of these dispositions follow the good fortunes
of the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these
shrink from the first appearance of a reverse: such
summer birds are men. But now with music and state
the banquet of smoking dishes was served up; and when
the guests had a little done admiring whence the bankrupt
Timon could find means to furnish so costly a feast, some
doubting whether the scene 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,

D’



90 Tales from Shakespeare.

that. Timon’s epicurean table in past times had so liber.
ally 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 in-
deed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery as
the water with which Timon welcomed his astonished
guests, bidding them, ‘“‘ Uncover, dogs, and lap ;”’ and be-
fore they could recover their surprise, sprinkling it in their
faces, that they might have enough, and throwing dishes
and all after them, who now ran huddling out, lords,
ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid
confusion, Timon pursuing them, still calling them what
they were, ‘‘ Smooth, smiling parasites, destroyers under
the mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools of
fortune, feast-friends, time-fiies.”’ They, crowding out to
avoid him, left the house more willingly than they had en-
tered it; some losing their gowns and caps and some their
jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the presence
of such a mad lord, and the ridicule of his mock banquet.

This was the last feast that ever Timon made, and in
it he took farewell of Athens and the society of men, for
aftet that he betook himself to the woods, turning his
back upon the hated city and upon all mankind, wishing
the walls of that. detestable city might sink, and their
houses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which
infest humanity, war, outrage, poverty and 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 harm-
less and friendly than man.







































TIMON ONCE MORE INVITES HIS FRIENDS.





91



92 Tales from Shakespeare.

What a change from Lord Tirnon 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
shirt on warm ? Would those stiff trees that had outlived
the eagle turn young and fairy pages to him, to skip on
his errands when he bade them? Would the cold brook,
when it was iced with winter, administer to him his warm
broths and caudles when sick of an overnight’s surfeit ?
Or would the creatures that lived in those wild woods
come and lick his hand.and flatter him ?

Here. on a day, when he was digging for roots, 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: so it lay, doing neither
good nor harm, in the bowels of the earth, its mother,
as if it had never come from thence, till the accidental
striking of Timon’s spade against it once more brought it
to light.

Here was a mass of treasure which if Timon had 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 robber-
ies, oppression, injustice, briberies, violence, and murder
among them, he had a pleasure in imagining (such a
rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that out of this
heap which in digging he had discovered, might arise
some mischief to plague mankind. And some soldiers
passing through the woods near to his cave at that
instant, which proved to be a part of the troops of the





Timon of Athens. 93

Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust
taken against the senators at, Athens (the Athenians were
ever noted to be a thankless and ungrateful people, giving
disgust to their generals and best friends), was marching
at the head of the same triumphant army which he had
formerly headed in their defence, to war against them :



TIMON IN THE WOODS.

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



94 Tales from Shakespeare.

young children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those
(he said) would live, if they grew up, to be traitors; but
to steel his eyes and ears against any sights or sounds
that might awaken compassion; and not to let the cries
of virgins, babes, or mothers hinder him from making
one universal massacre ot the city, but to confound them
allin 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 al!
mankind.

While he liveé ‘n this forlorn state, leading a life ore
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 mon-
ument 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 haa
come (so contrary to the experience he had had of man-
kind) to offer him service in extremity. And being inthe
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 shapeand 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





TIMON AND THE SENATOBR



Full Text













No119
Fis BOOK

belongs to



If thou art borrowed by a friend,
Right welcome shall he be;
To read, to study, not to lend,
But to return towne,
Not that imparted. .u edge pee
Doth diminish leas tore;
But books, I find, if oj, 4»
_ Return to me no mor aN
1 es ee a
READ SLOWLY = PAUSE FREG
RETURN DULY
WITH THE CORNERS OF THE 1
NOT TURNED DOWN

The Baldwin Library




TALES

FROM

SHAKESPEARE

BY
CHARLES AND MARY LAMB
WITH

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS

PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY


TS
=a
eS
WN
a

: THMPEST N
SJ winter's tars
c Ww






ys -

ao PK
Wnhes |
= ph

Copyrighted 1895
BY HENRY ALTEMUS
CONTENTS.





Page.
Romeo and Juliet ...........06 saseeees Teeacstesaesssteeescwvsecsseeescerteresscesses 1
King Lear....ccccccccssccsesresrnsessessesresrasessscssensaseccccesananseueaseseesnseee 30
Othello ......0.cececsscccscncesseeecnsnsseeeeeseseeeeeeeneeeenee sense eee sree eeeneenee ene 56
Timon of Athens.......ccsscssccsscescesceeescneseseeaeeeeseeeeeessesessenseanseeeeee 78
Machet).......ccceccecsccceccccesecescnsneecessereseeceeeeeeesseeeenses essen see eeeeeeees 99
The Merchant of Venice. .......cscessccecccsccescccscsenceseseseteensessaeenseeeeee 118
The Comedy of Errors......:s:ccceesesssssccesseceenenaseeeesensetcanceseesesssaeaes
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
The Tempest. ....-.---ssssseseeeeeeseneeseeeeeens
AS Your Like It.......ccccccsceccsecceencceesesseescecceseeseeeses
Much Ado About Nothing........-.:ssccssecsccsscsecnssenseesesrseseeneeneseees
A Midsummer Night’s Dream..........ssssessseseeeeeseesseeeeeeeneseeseeseeenns
Measure for Measure.......cssccssseseresccsceeseeeceeseasecseeeseeeceeeeeserssensees
The Taming of the Shrew....
Twelfth Night ; or, What You Will..........ssseesseeeseeesserrnseeseetenees 306
Pericles, Prince of ‘Tyre.....s..sesseseseeeseeeesseesessnsstsseneneeaeaaenaeeaeeaaeees 324
The Winter’s Tale......ccccccsscssecescesseeeccssessnesccaseencessesensceeeeaeeeesees 347
AlDs Well That Ends Well.........:scsscsecssscceeesecscscssesesseseesareescssnes 367
Two Gentlemen of Verona......ccssccessscessccensseensceesscrsescaseseeseses senses 308

Cymbeline.......+-.+sssccesseccessesrssesceccnsceseeeaesnssenseasecsnaeeecessesseacee ees 406
TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

ROMEO AND JULIET.

HE two chief families in Verona were the rich Capu-
lets 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 follow-
ers 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 estate.

Old Lord Capulet made a great supper, to which
many fair ladies and many noble guests were invited.
All the admired beauties of Verona were present, and all
comers were made welcome if they were not of the house ,
of 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 dis-
2 Tales from Shakespeare.

guise of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and
seeing her, compare her with some choice beauties of Ve-
rona, who (he said) would made him think his swan a
crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio’s words; nev-.
ertheless, for the love of -Rosaline, he was persuaded to
go. For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and
one that lost his sleep for love, and fled society to be
alone, thinking on Rosaline, who disdained him, and never
requited his love with the least show of courtesy or affec-
tion; 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 ex-
ceeding beauty of a lady that danced there, who seemed
to him to teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty
to show by night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor :
beauty 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 compan-
ions. 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 ‘iord Capulet, would not suf-
fer him to do any injury at thas 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
te be a virtuous and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced


THE RIVAL RETAINERS, 3
4 Tales from Shakespeare.

to be patient against his will, restrained himself, but swore
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 favor 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 proefaned by touching
it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atone-
ment. ‘Good pilgrim,” answered the lady, ‘‘ your devo-
tion 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.’ ‘Oh! then, my dear saint,” said Romeo, “ hear
my prayer and grant it, lest J despair.’’ In such like al-
lusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the
lady was called away to her mother. And Romeo inquir-
ing 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 unknowingly
engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it
could not.dissuade him from loving. As little rest had
Juliet, when she found that the gentleman that she had
been talking with was Romeo and a Montague, for she
had been suddenly smit with the same hasty and in-
considerate passion for Romeo which he had conceived
for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed to her,
that she must love her enemy, and that her affections
should settle there, where family considerations should
induce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions de-
parted; but they soon missed him, for unable to stay
away from the house where he had left his heart, he
leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back of
Juliet’s house. Here he had not remained long, rumi.











6 Tales from Shakespeare.

nating on his new love, when Juliet appeared above ata
window, through which her exceeding beauty seemed to
break like the light of the sun in the east; and the moon,
which shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared
to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief at the superior
lustre of this new sun. And she leaning her hand upon
her cheek, he passionately wished himself a glove upon
that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this
while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and ex-
claimed, ‘“‘ Ah, me!*? Romeo was enraptured to hear her
speak, and said softly, unheard by her, ‘‘ Oh ! 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 the hated name, and for that name, which was no
part of himself, he should take allherself. At this loving
word Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the
dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him per-
sonally,. and not merely in fancy, be bid her call him
Love, or by whatever other name she pleased, for he was
no longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her.
Juliet, alarmed to hear a man’s voice in the garden, did
not at first know who it was, that by favor of the night
and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery of her
secret; but when he spoke again, though her ears had
not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s uttering,
Romeo and Juliet. 7

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



JULIET.

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,’’ an-
swered Romeo: I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart
8 Tales from Shakespeare.

from me as that vast shore which is washed with the far:
thest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.”’
A. crimson blush came over the face of Juliet, 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 re-
called her words, but that was impossible ; fain would she
have stood upon form, and have kept her lover at a dis-
tance, 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 cus-
tomary arts of delay and protractive courtship. Romeo
had heard from her own tongue, when she did not dream
that he was near her, a confession of her love. So with
an honest frankness, which the novelty of her situation
excused, she confirmed the truth of what he had before
heard, and addressing him by the name of fazr Montague
(love can sweeten a sour name), she begged him not to
impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind,
but that he must lay the fault of it (if it were a fault)
upon the accident of the mind which had so strangely dis-
covered her thoughts. And she added, that though her
behavior to him might not be sufficiently prudent, meas-
ured 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 im-
pute a shadow of dishonor to such an honored lady, when
she stopped him, begged him not to swear; for- although
she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of that night’s con-
_ tract; it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But
he being urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with










































































































































ROMEO’S INTERVIEW WITH JULIET.


10 Tales from Shakespeare.

her 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 be-
stowed, for the pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty
was as infinite as the sea, and her love as deep. From
this loving conference she was called away by her nurse,
who slept with her, and thought it time for her to be in
bed, for it was near to daybreak ; but hastily returning,
she said three or four words more to Romeo, the purport
of which was, that if his love was indeed honorable, and
his purpose marriage, she would send a messenger to him
to-morrow, to appoint a time for their marriage, when she
would lay all her fortunes at his feet, and follow him as
her lord through the world. While they were settling
this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by her nurse,
and went in and returned, and went and returned again,
for she seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her as a
young girl of her bird, which she will let hop a little from
her hand, and pluck it back with a silken thread 3 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
Romeo and Juliet. 11

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 butin theireyes. But Romeo replying
that he himself had often chidden him for doting on Rosa-

WZ
ON










=

=e
nae
aN

Wy
\\

q
N\
\



ETAT

ok

See

FRIAR LAWRENCE MARRIES THE LOVERS.

line, who could not love him again, whereas Juliet both
loved and was beloved by him, the friar assented in some
measure to his reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial
alliance between young Juliet and Romeo might happily
be the means of making up the long breach between the
Capulets and the Montagues, which no one more lamented
than this good friar, who was a friend to both the families,
12 Tales from Shakespeare.

and had often interposed his mediation to make up the
quarrel without effect, partly moved by policy, and partly
by his fondness for young Romeo, to whom he could deny
nothing, the old man consented to join their hands in
marriage.

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew
his intent from a messenger which she had despatched ac-
cording 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 dissen-
sions of their families.

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened NOEL 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 be-
tween 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 merning.

That same day about noon, Romeo’s friends, Benvolio
aud Mercutio, walking through the streets of Verona,
wera met by a party of the Capulets with the impetuous
Tybelt 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 asso-
ciating with Romeo, a Montague. Mercutio, who had as
much fire and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, replied to
this accusation with some sharpness; and in spite of all
Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel
was beginning, when Romeo 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, be-
cause 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
. Romeo and Juliet. 13

ana 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 Ty-
balt, but looked upon his present forbearance as a sort
of calm dishonorable submission, with many disdainful
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 endeavoring to part the com-
batants. 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
out a crowd of citizens to the spot, and among them the
old. Lords Capulet and Montague, with their wives; and
soon after arrived the prince himself, who being related
to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and having had the
peace of his government often disturbed by these brawls
of Montagues and Capulets, came determined to put the
law in strictest force against those who should be found to
be offenders. Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the
fray, was commanded by the prince to relate the origin
of it, which he did, keeping as near to the truth as he could
without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the part
which his friends took init. 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 Ben-
volio’s representation, who being Romeo’s friend, and a
Montague, spoke partially.. Thus she pleaded against her
14 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 ex-
clamations of these women, on a careful examination of
the facts, pronounced his sentence, and by that sentence
Romeo was banished from Verona.

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

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in Friar Law-
rence’s cell, where he was first made acquainted with the
prince’s sentence, which seemed to him far more terrible
than death. To him it appeared there was no world out
of Verona’s walls, no living out of the sight of Juliet.
Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and all beyond was
purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would have ap-
plied the consolation of philosophy to his griefs; but this
frantic young man would hear of none, but like a mad-
man 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
Romeo and Juliet. 15

frum his dear lady, which a little revived him, and then
the friar took the advantage to expostulate with him on
the unmanly weakness which he had shown. He had slain
Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady
who lived but in his life? The noble form of man, he
said, was but a shape of wax, when it wanted the courage
which should keep it firm. The law had been lenient to
him, that instead of death, which he had incurred, had
pronounced by the prince’s mouth only banishment. He
had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him: there
was a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and (be-
yond 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 misbe-
haved wench. And the friar bid him beware, for such
as despaired (he said) died miserable. Then when Romeo
was a little calmed, he counselled him that’he should go
that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, and thence
proceed straightways to Mantua, at which place he should
sojourn, till the friar found a fit occasion to publish his
marriage, which might be a joyful means of reconciling
their families ; and then he did not doubt but the prince
would be moved to pardon him, and he would return with
twenty times more joy than he went forth with grief.
Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the friar,
and took his leave to go and seek his lady, purposing
to stay with her that night, and by daybreak pursue his
journey alone to Mantua; to which place the good friar
promised to send him letters from time to time, acquaint-
Ing 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
16 Lales from Shakespeare.

day. The unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon,
and when Juliet heard the morning song of the lark, she
would fain have persuaded herself that it was the night-
ingale, 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 atomb. Romeo’s
mind misgave him in like manner; but now he was forced
hastily to depart, for it was death to him to be found
within the walls of Verona after daybreak.

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair
of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone many
days, before the old Lord Capulet proposed a match for
Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, not dream-
ing 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 solem-
nities 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,


1%

: THE PARTING.

ULIET

J

ROMEO AND
18 Tales from Shakespeare.

_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
then gave her, the effect of which would be, that for
two-and-forty hours after drinking it she should appear
cold and lifeless; that when the bridegroom came to fetch
her in the morning, he would find her to appearance dead ;
that then she should be borne, as the manner in that
country was, uncovered, on a bier, to be buried in the
family vault; thatif 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 advent-
ure; 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. Itseemed 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 wit-
nessed.


























SS i a & 4 EZ z $s
f Z x eS

Sass ft, 7 £ oa = s ae
= = = ac $ SSS

19































NED DEATH,

"S FEIG

JULIET
20 Tales from Shakespeare.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion.
She had many misgivings, lest the friar, to avoid the
blame which might be imputed to him for marrying’ her
to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he was always
known for a holy man: then lest she should awake before
the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the
terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets’ bones,
and where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud,
would not be enough to drive her distracted: again she
thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits haunt-
ing 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 mourn-
ings of the old Lord and Lady Capulet, who having but
this one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel
death had snatched her from their sight, just as these
careful parents were on the point of seeing her advanced
(as they thought) by a promising and advantageous match.
Now all things that were ordained for the festival were
turned from their properties to do the office of a black
funeral. The wedding cheer-served for a sad burial feast,
the bridal hymns were changed to sullen dirges, the
sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, and the flowers
that should have been strewed in the bride’s path now
served but to strew her corse. Now instead of a priest to
marry her, a priest was needed to bury her ; and she was
borne to church mdeed not to augment the cheerful hopes
of the living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.
Romeo and Juliet. 21

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now
brought the dismal story of his Juliet’s death to Romeo
at Mantua, before the messenger could arrive who was
sent from Friar Lawrence to apprise him that these were
mock funerals only, and but the shadow and representa-
tion of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb
but for a short while, expecting when Romeo should come
to release her from that dreary mansion. Just before,
Romeo had been unusually joyful and 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 emper-
or! And now that a messenger came from Verona, he
thought surely it was to confirm some good news which
his dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to this
flattering vision appeared, and that it was his lady who ~
was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by any kisses,
he ordered horses to be got ready, for he determined that
night to visit Verona, and to see his lady inher tomb. And
as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate
men, he called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop
in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beggarly
appearance of the man who seemed famished, and the
wretched show in his shop of empty boxes ranged on
dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme wretchedness,
he had said at the time (perhaps having some misgivings
that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a con-
clusion 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 apothe-
cary, who, after some pretended scruples, Romeo offer-
ing him gold which his poverty could not resist, sold him
a poison, which, if he swallowed, he told hii, if he had
the strength of twenty men, would quickly despatch him.

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight
22 Tales from Shakespeare.

of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning when he had satis-
fied 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 intercs: Romeo had in the dead, but knowing
him to be a Montague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe
to all the -anulets, he judged that he was come by night
to do som: ~7.uanous shams: uc the dead bodies; therefore
in angry tone ae 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 Tybait, 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 ina
triumphal grave, weaning in Juliet’s grave, which he now
opened: and Snere say his lady, as one whom death had no
rors: upon to change a feature or complexion in her
1 abChls8¢ beauty, or as if Death were amorous, and the
can abaorred. mons.er xept her there for his delight; for
she ay yep fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep
wet she swallowed that benumbing potion: and near




































































































28

ROMEO AND THE APOTHECARY,
24 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 hima
favor 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 nis 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 sur-
prised 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 greater power than they could con-
tradict had thwarted their intents; and being frighted
by the noise of people coming, he fled ; but when Juliet saw
the cup closed in her true love’s hands, she guessed that
poison had been the cause of his end, and she would have
swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed
his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon
them: then hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she
quickly unsheathed a dagger which she wore, and stab-
bing herself, died by her true Romeo?s side.










THE TOMB OF ta CAPULETS,
26 . Tales from Shakespeare.

The watch by this time had come up to the place.
A page belonging to Count Paris, who had witnessed the
fight between his master and Romeo, had given the alarm,
which had spread among the citizens, who went up and
down the streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, ‘‘A
Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet,’’ as the rumor had imperfectly
reached them, till the uproar brought Lord Montague
and Lord Capulet out of their beds, with the prince, to
inquire into the cause of the disturbance. The friar had
been apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the
churchyard, trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspi-
cious manner. A great multitude being assembled at
the Capulets’ monument, the friar was demanded by the
prince to deliver what he knew of these strange and dis-
astrous accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old Lords Montague
and Capulet, he faithfully related the story of their chil-
dren’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 op-
portunity to divulge their marriage, another match was
projected for Juliet, who to avoid the crime of a second
marriage swallowed the sleeping draught (as he advised),
and all thought her dead: how meantime he wrote to
Romeo, to come and take her thence when the force of
the potion should cease, and by what unfortunate mis-
carriage of the messenger the letters never reached
Romeo. Further than this the friar could not follow the
story, nor knew more than that, coming himself to deliver
Juliet from that place of death, he found the Count Paris
and Romeo slain. The remainder of the transactions was
supplied by the narration of the page who had seen Paris
and Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with
Romeo from Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given
letters te be delivered to his father in the event of his




















































































ROMEO’S DEATH.
28 Tales from Shakespeare.

death, which made good the friar’s words, confessing
his marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of his
parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of the
poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monu-
ment, to die, and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances
agreed together to clear the friar from any hand he







Z

(“ww iH

Vd

Uys
i742. anit
Vi ais
2



JULIET’S DEATH.

evild be supposed to have had in these complicated
linghters, further than as the unintended consequences
of his own well-meant, yet too artificial and subtle con-
trivances.

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
Romeo and Juliet. 29

Jaid upon such offences, that it had found means even
through the love of their children to punish their unnat-
ural 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 mar-
riage of the young Capulet and Montague; and saying
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
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 outdo each other in mutual courte-
sies: while so deadly had been their rage and enmity in
past times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their
children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions)
could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the nobie
families.
KING LEAR.

EAR, king of Britain, had three daughters: Gon-

eril, 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 the duke of Burgundy

were joint suitors, and were at this time making stay for
that purpose in the court of Lear.

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

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

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded
what she had to say. Regan, who was made of the same
hollow metal as her sister, was not a whit behind in her
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
King Lear. 31

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



‘“ WE HAVE DIVIDED IN THREE OUR KINGDOM.”

of his kingdom upon her and her husband, equal in size tio
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
32 Tales from Shakespeare.

than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and
favored by him above either of them. But Cordelia, dis-
gusted 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 favorite 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 love, that she re-
turned those duties back as was for her most fit, and did
obey him, love him, and most honor him. But that she
could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her
sisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the
world. Why had her sisters husbands, if (as they said)
they had no love for anything but their father? If she
should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom she gave
her hand would want half her love, half of her care and
duty ; she should never marry like her sisters, to love her
father all.

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


@ LEAR

N

CORDELIa AND KI
34 ales from Shakespeare.

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 re-
served 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 coro-
net between them, invested them jointly with all the power,
revenue, and execution of government, only retaining to
himself the name of king; all the rest of royalty he re-
signed: with this reservation, that himself, with a hun-
dred knights for his attendants, was to be maintained by
monthly course in each of his daughters’ palaces in turn.

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little
guided by reason, and so much by passion, filled all his
courtiers with astonishment and sorrow ; but none of them
had the courage to interpose between this incensed king
and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was begin-
ning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the pas-
sionate 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 honored as a king, loved
as a father, followed asa master: and had never esteemed
his life further than as a pawn to wage against his royal
master’s enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear’s safety
was the motive: nor now that Lear was most his own
enemy, did this faithful servant of the king forget his old
principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do Lear good ;
and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad. He
had been a most faithful counsellor, in times past, to the
king, and he besought him now, that he would see with
his eyes (as he had done in many weighty matters) and go






SISTERS.

ER

CORDELIA’S FAREWELL TO H

\ Xi




\\
aN
36 Tales from Shakespeare.

by his advice still; and in his best consideration :evall
this hideous rashness: for he would answer with his life,
his judgment that Lear’s youngest daughter did not love
him least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound
gave no token of hollowness. When power bowed to
flattery, honor was bound to plainness. For Lear’s
threats, what could he do to him, whose life was already
at his service? That should not hinder duty from
speaking. -

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only
stirred up the king’s wrath the more, and like a frantic
patient who kills his physician, and loves his mortal
disease, he banished this true servant, and allotted him
but five days to make his preparations for departure ; but
if on the sixth his hated person was found within. the
realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And
Kent bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he
chose to show himself in such fashion, it was but 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 per-
_ sist 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 de-
clined 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
King Lear. 37

kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her sisters, and
of her father, though he had been unkind; and she should
go with him, and be queen of him and of fair France, and
reign over fairer possessions than her sisters: and he
called the duke of Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke,
because his love for this young maid had in a moment run
all away like water.

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sis-
ters, 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 disposi-
tions of her sisters began to show themselves in their true
colors. Even before the expiration of the first month,
which Lear was to spend by agreement with his eldest
daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out the dif-
ference between promises and performances. This wretch
having got from her father all that he had to bestow, even
to the giving away of the crown from off his head, began
to grudge even those small remnants of royalty which the
old man had reserved to himself, to please his fancy with
the idea of being still a king. She could not bear to see
him and his hundred knights. Every time she met her
father she put on a frowning countenance; and when the
old man wanted to speak with her, she would feign sickness,
or anything, to be rid of the sight of him; for it was plain
that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and his
attendants an unnecessary expense; not only she herself
slackened in her expressions of duty to the king, but by
her example, and (it is to be feared) not without her pri-
vate instructions, her very servants affected to treat him
with neglect, and would either refuse to obey his orde:s,


38 Tales from Shakespeare.

or still more contemptuously pretend not to hear them.
Lear could not but perceive this alteration in the behavior
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.























KENT DISGUISED AS A RETAINER,

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by
all. than falseness and hollow-heartedness can be con-
ciliated by good usage. This eminently appears in 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
King Lear. 39

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 greatnessand pomp laid
aside, this good earl proffered his services to the king,
who, not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but
pleased witha 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 favorite,
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 giv-
ing him saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was
secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius not en-
during to hear so open an affront put upon majesty, made
no more ado but presently tripped up his heels, and laid
the unmannerly slave in the kennel; for which friendly
service Lear became more and more attached to him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree,
and so 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 business: this poor
fool clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and
by his witty sayings would keep up his good humor,
though he could not refrain sometimes from jeering at his
master, for his imprudence in uncrowning himself, and
giving all away to his daughters: at which time, as he
rhymingly expressed it, these daughters
~ 40 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

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

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

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had
begun to perceive were not all which this foolish, fond
father was to suffer from his unworthy daughter; she
now plainly told him that his staying in her palace was
inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up an
establishment of a hundred knights: that this establish-
ment was useless and expensive, and only served to fill
her court with riot and feastings; and she prayed him
that he would lessen their number, and keep none but old
men about him, such as 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 had spoke
an untruth; and so indeed she did, for the hundred
knights were all men of choice behavior and sobriety of
manners, men skilled in all particulars of duty, and not






E FOOL.

ENT AND TH

K

LEAR,




























42 Tales from Shakespeare.

given to rioting and feasting as she said. And he bid his
horses to be prepared, for he would go to his other
daughter, Regan, he and his hundred knights: and he
spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted
devil, and showed more hideous in a child than the sea-
monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so
as was terrible to hear; praying that she might never
have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return
that scorn and contempt upon her which she had shown
to him : that she might feel how sharper than a serpent’s
tooth it was to have a thankless child. And Goneril’s
husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself
for any share which Lear might suppose he had in the
unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a rage
ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out with his
followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter.
And Lear thought to himself how small the fault of Cor-
delia (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 de-
spatched 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 humors, 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’ old enemy the steward, whom he had
formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behavior to
Lear. Caius not.liking the fellow’s look, and suspecting
what he came for, began to revile him, and challenged him
to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of














Yih ap

wMibiusttlid lille

























































Ls

=

i

‘BLASTS AND FOGS UPON THEE!”

“il.]

Tv Gone?

L
44 * Tales from Shakespeare.

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 char.
acter demanded the highest respect: so that the first
thing the king saw when he entered the castle was hig
faithful servant Caius sitting in that disgraceful situa:
tion.

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

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to
see Regan take her by the hand; and he asked Goneril if
she was not ashamed to look upon his old white beard.
And Regan advised him to go home again with Goneril
and itve with her peaceably, dismissing half of his attend-
ants, 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 down
on his knees and beg of his own daughter for food and
raiment, and he argued against such an unnatural depend-
ence, declaring his resolution never to return with her,
but to stay where he was with Regan, heand 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 Gonem:, with half
his train cut off, he would go over to France, and get a
King Lear. ot)

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 behavior, she
declared that she thought fifty knights too many to wait

i

aE

sas

BP.

EZ

LMM



Za
Lhe

a

“OQ REGAN, WILT THOU TAKE HER BY THE HAND?”

upon him: that five-and-twenty wereenough. 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
46 Tales from Shakespeare.

might be waited upon by her servants or her sister’s ser-
vants? 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 old king to the
heart: insomuch, that with this double ill usage, and vex-
ation for having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his
wits began to be unsettled, and while he said he knew not
what, he vowed revenge against those unnatural hags,
and to make examples of them that should be a terror to
the earth!

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm
could never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of
thunder and lightning with rain; and his daughters still
persisting in their resolution not to admit his followers, he
called for his horses, and chose rather to encounter the ut-
most fury of the storm abroad, than stay under the same
roof with these ungrateful daughters; and they, saying
that the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves
are their just punishment, suffered him to go in that con-
dition, 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 the
sea, or swell the waves of the sea, till they drowned the
|

>
Yi

Y



KING LEAR AND THE FOOL.
48 Tales from Shakespeare.

earth, that no token might remain of any such ungrateful
animalas man. The old king was now left with no other
companion than the poor fool, who still abided with him,
with his merry conceits striving to outjest misfortune,
saying, it was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly
the king had better go in and ask his daughters’ blessing:

But he that has a little tiny wit,
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain !
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day:

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady’s
pride.

Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch was
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 na-
ture 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 in-
gratitude, and said it was all .one as if the mouth should
tear the hand for lifting food to it; for parents were hands
and food and everything to children.

But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties that
the king would not stay out in the open air, at last per-
suaded him to enter a little wretched hovel which stood
upon the heath, where the fool first entering, suddenly ran
back terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit. But upon
examination this spirit proved to be nothing more than a
poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted
King Lear. . 49

:ovel for shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted

e fool, one of those poor lunatics who are either mad, or
ion to be so, the better to extort charity from the com-
passionate country people, who go about the country call-
ing 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 wretch-
edness 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’ il-usage had
really made him go mad. And now the loyalty of this
worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essential ser-
vices than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform.
For with the assistance of some of the king’s attendants
who remained loyal, he had the person of his royal master
removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover, where his own
friends and influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay; and him-
self embarking for France, hastened to the court of Cor-
delia, and ‘did there in such moving terms represent the
pitiful condition of her royal father, and set out in such
lively colors the inhumanity of her sisters, that this good

and loving child with many tears besought the king her
husband, that he would give her leave to embark for Eng-
land ae a sufficient power to subdue these daughters
and their husbands, and restore the king her father to his
threne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a
royal army landed at Dover.

b
th
fe





50 Tales from Shakespeare.

Lear, having by chance escaped from the guardians
which the good earl of Kent had put over him to take care
of him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia’s
train, wandering about the fields near Dover, ina pitiable
condition, stark mad and singing aloud to himself, with a
crown upon his head which he had made of straw and





























— —
air



a

nu ‘ * \ \\ pwentworrifl te =

THE MAD KING.

nettles and other wild weeds that he had picked up in the
corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia,
though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was pre-
vailed upon to put off the meeting, till, by sleep and the
operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be re-
stored to greater composure. By the aid of these skilful


















































































































































































































LEAR RECOGNIZING CORDELIA.
52 Tales from Shakespeare.

physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her g ui and
jewels for the recovery-of the old king, Lear was soon ina
condition to see his daughter.

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this
father and daughter : to see the struggles between the joy
of this poor old king at beholding again his once darling
child, and the shame at receiving such filial kindness from
her whom he had cast off for so small a fault in his dis-
pleasure; both these passions struggling with the remains
of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain sometimes
made him that he scarce remembered where he was, or
who it was that so kindly kissed him and spoke to him :
and then he would beg the standers-by not to laugh at
him if he were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his
daughter Cordelia! And then to see him fall on his knees
to beg pardon of his child; and she, good lady, kneeling
all the while to ask a blessing of him, and telling him that
it did not become him to kneel, but it was her duty, for
she was his child, his true and very child, Cordelia! And
she kissed him (as she said) to kiss away all her sisters’
unkindness, and said that they might be ashamed of
themselves, to turn their old kind father with his white
beard out into the cold air, when her enemy’s dog, though
it had bit her (as she prettily expressed it), should have
stayed by her fire such a night as that, and warmed him-
self. And she told her father how she had come from
France with purpose to bring him assistance ; and hesaid
that she must forget and forgive, for he was old and fool-
ish, and did not know what he did; but that to besure she
had great cause not to love him, but her sisters had none.
And Cordelia said that she had no cause, no more than
they had.

So we will leave this old king in the protection of this
dutiful and loving child, where, by the help of sleep and
medicine, she and her physicians at length succeeded in
winding up the untuned and jarring senses which the


I MIGHT HAVE SAVED HER!’

“6
54 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 own father, could not be expected to prove more
faithful to their own husbands. They soon grew tired of
paying even the appearance of duty and affection, and in
an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon an-
other. It happened the object of their guilty loves was
the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl
of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had succeeded in
disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from his
- earldom, and by his wicked practices was now earl him-
self: 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 hus-
band, died, Regan immediately declared her intention of
wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the jeal-
ousy of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan this
wicked earl had at sundry times professed love, Goneril
found means to make away with her sister by poison:
but being detected in her practices, and imprisoned by her
husband the duke of Albany for this deed, and for her
guilty passion for the earl which had come to his ears,
she, in a fit of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an
end to her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last
overtook these wicked daughters.

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admir-
ing the justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the
same Syes were suddenly taken off from this sight to ad-
mire 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


King Lear. 55

under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester were
victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this wicked
earl, who did not lke that any should stand between him
and the throne, ended her life in prison. Thus Heaven
took this innocent lady to itself in her young: years, after
showing her to the world an illustrious example of filial
duty. Lear did not long survive this kind child.

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still
attended his old master’s steps from the first of his
daughters’ ill usage to this sad period of his decay, tried
to make him understand that it was he who had followed
him under the name of Caius; but Lear’s care-crazed
brain at that time could not comprehend how that could
be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same person: so
Kent thought it needless to trouble him with explanations
at such a time; and Lear soon after expiring, this faith-
ful servant to the king, between age and grief for his old
master’s vexations, soon followed.him to the grave.

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of
Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, and himself
slain in single combat with his brother the lawful earl;
and how Goneril’s husband, the duke of Albany, who was
innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never encour-
aged 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’.
OTHELLO.

RABANTIO, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair
daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought
to by divers suitors, both on account of her many virtuous
qualities and for her rich expectations. But among the
suitors of her own clime and complexion she saw none
whom she could affect : for this noble lady, who regarded
the mind more than the features of men, with a 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 affee-
tions of the greatest lady. He was a soldier, anda 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 hairbreadth escapes when he had
entered a breach or marched up to the mouth of a cannon;
and how he had been taken prisoner by the insolent enemy
and sold to slavery; how he demeaned himself in that
state and how he escaped : all these accounts added to the
narration of the strange things he had seen in foreign
countries, the vast wildernesses and romantic caverns, the
quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads are in the


FE

OF HIS LI

NG THE STORY

OTHELLO RELATL
58 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 her attention, 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 inuch, but only by parts: to which he
consented, and beguiled her of many a tear, when he spuke
of some distressful stroke which his youth suffered.

His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world
of sighs ; she swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing
strange, and pitiful, wondrous pitiful: she wished (she
said) she had not heard it, yet she wished that Heaven
had made her such a man; and then she thanked him, and
told him if he had a friend who loved her, he had only to
teach him how to tell his story, and that woulda woo her.
Upon this hint, delivered not with more frankness than
modesty, accompanied with a certain bewitching pretti-
ness and blushes which Othello could not but understand,
he spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden oppor-
tunity gained the consent of the generous Lady Desde-
mona privately to marry him.

Neither Othello’s color nor his fortune was such that
it could be hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-
in-law. He had left his daughter-free; but he did expect
that, as the manner of noble Venetian ladies was, she
would choose erelong a husband of senatorial rank or ex-
pectations: butin 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 color, which to all
but this discerning lady would have proved an insur-
mountable objection, was by her esteemed above all the


ny
t

mi
}

a i i i





















































59
60 Tales from Shakespeare.

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
witcheraft (he maintained) had seduced the affections of
the fair Desdemona to marry him, without the consent of
her father, and against the obligations of hospitality.

At this juncture of time it happened that the state of
Venice had immediate need of the services of Othello, news
having arrived that the Turks with mighty preparation
had fitted out a fleet, which was bending its course to the
island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that strong post
froin 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 summoned before the
senate, stood in their presence at once as a candidate for
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 com-
manded. a most patient hearing from that grave assem-
bly; but the incensed father conducted his accusation
with so much intemperance, producing likelihoods and
allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was calied 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 elo-
quence, 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.










AR OTHELLO!”

E

“MY D
62 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 lite and edu-
cation, 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 behavior
of Desdemona would have taught him to be a tyrant, and
hang clogs on them for her desertion.

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

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus,
than news arrived that a desperate tempest had dispersed
the Turkish fleet, and thus the island was secure from any
immediateapprehension of an attack. But the war which
Othello was to suffer was now beginning ; and the enemies
which malice stirred up against this 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, favorite 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
Othello. 63

as he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting, as of do-
ing a base action. He had employed this Cassio in his.
love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sortot.
go-between in his suit; for Othello, fearing that himself
had not those soft parts of conversation which please
ladies, and finding these qualities in his friend, would often
depute Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a-courting for him;
such innocent simplicity being an honor rather than a
blemish to the character of the valiant Moor. So that no
wonder if next to Othello himself (but at far distance, as
beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle Desdemona loved and
trusted Cassio. Nor had the marriage of this couple
made any difference in their behavior to Michael Cassio.
He frequented their house, and his free and rattling talk
was no unpleasing variety to Othello, who was himself of
a more serious temper; for such tempers are observed
often to delight in their contraries, as a relief from the op:
pressive 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 lieutenant,
a place of trust, and nearest to the general’s person.
This promotion gave great offence to Iago, an older
officer, who thought he had a better claim than Cassio,
and would often ridicule Cassio, as a fellow fit only for the
company of ladies, and one that knew no more of the art
of war, or how to set an army in array for battle, than a
girl. Jago hated Cassio, and he hated Othello as well for
favoring 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 prov-
ocations the plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid
scheme of revenge, which should involve both Cassio, the
Moor and Desdemona in one common ruin.

Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply,
and he knew that of all the torments which afflict the
mind of man (and far beyond bodily torture), the pains of
64 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 re-
venge, 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, meet-
ing with the news of the dispersion of ihe enemy’s fleet,
made a sort of holiday in the island. Everybody gave
themselves up to feasting and making merry. Wine
flowed in abundance and cups went round to the health of
the black Othello and his lady, the fai Desdemona.

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, witha
charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in
drinking, that no brawl might arise, to fright the inhahbi-
tants, or disgust them with the new landed férces. That
night Iago began his deep-laid plans of mischief; under
color of loyalty and love to the general, he enticed Cassio
to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault in
an officer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he
could not long hold out against the honest freedom which
Jago knew how to put on, but kept swallowing glass after
glass (as Iago still plied him with drink and encouraging
songs), and Cassio’s tongue ran over in praise of the lady
Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, 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 felow whom
Jago had, set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a
worthy officer who interfered to appease the dispute, was
wounded in the scuffle. The riot now began to be general,
and Jago, who had set on foot the mischief, was foreniost
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
; Othello. 65

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
cut his own share in it, which Cassio was too far gone to
remember) in such a manner, as while he seemed to make
Cassio’s offence less, did indeed make it appear greater
than it was. The result was that Othello, who was a strict
observer of discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio’s
place of lieutenant from him.

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

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered,
new 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. Jago, 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 bar-
gain; 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 favor; 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 would
be his solicitor with her lord, and rather die than give up
his cause. This she immediately set about in so earnest
and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was mortally of-
66 Tales from Shakespeare.

fended with Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded
delay, and that it was too soon to pardon such an of-
fender, 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 pen-
itent 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, had taken your part? I count
this but a little thing to ask of you. When I mean totry
your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty matter.’ Othello
could deny nothing to such a pleader, and only requesting
that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised to
receive Michael Cassio again into favor.

It happened that Othello and Jago 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, took no great notice of what he said ; indeed, the confer-
ence 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 of some terrible matter, and cried, ‘‘In-
deed!”? This brought into Othello’s mind the words
which Iago had let fall upon entering the room and
seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to think
there was some meaning in all this: for he deemed lago
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
Othello. 67

natural workings of an honest mind, big with something
too great for utterance: and Othello prayed lago to speak
what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words,
“And what,” said Jago, ‘if some thoughts very vile
should have intruded into my breast, as where is the pal-
ace into which foul things do not enter?’’ Then Iago



DESDEMONA AND MICHAEL CASSIO.

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, be-
68 Tales from Shakespeare.

sougnt 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 sus-
picion. ‘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 behavior 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 marrying with
Othello, and carried it so closely, that the poor old man
thought that witchcraft had been used. Othello was
much moved with this argument, which brought the mat-
ter 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 Othel-
lo, assuming an indifference, while he was really shaken
with inward grief at Iago’s words, begged him to go
on, which Jago 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 re-
minded Othello how Desdemona had refused many suita-
ble matches of her own clime and complexicy, and had
married him, a Moor, which showed unnatural in her, and _
proved her to have a headstrong will: and when her bet-
ter 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 recon-
cilement with Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile
to note with what earnestness Desdeinona should inter-












OTHELLO AND IAGO. 69
70 Tales from Shakespeare.

cede 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 good-
ness 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 lago’s begging Othello to
account his wife innocent until he had more decisive proof ;
and Othello promised to be patient; but from that mo-
ment 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 oc-
cupation sickened upon him. He no longer took delight
inarms. 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 neigh-
ing war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride and am-
bition which are a soldier’s virtue; and his military
ardor and all his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he
thought his wife honest, and at times he thought her not
so; sometimes he thought Iago just, and at times he
thought him not so; then he would wish that he had
never known of it; he was not the worse for her loving
Cassio, so long as he knew it not: torn in pieces with
these distracting thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago’s
throat, and demanded proof of Desdemona’s guilt, or
threatened instant death for his having belied her. Iago, |
feigning indignation that his honesty should be taken for
a vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a hand-
kerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife’s hand.
Othello answered, that he had given her such a one, and
that it was his first gift. ‘That same 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,
Othello. 71

for a token of your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be
pat to death within three days; and for that fair devil
(meaning his lady), I will withdraw and devise some swift
means of death for her.”

Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong
as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife’s seen in Cassio’s
hand was motive enough to the deluded Othello to pass
sentence of death upon them both, without once inquiring
how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never given such
a present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady have
wronged her lord with doing so naughty a thing as giving
his presents to another man; both Cassio and Desdemona

_were innocent of any offence against Othello; but the
wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance of
villany, had made his wife (a good, but a meek 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 lago’s suggestion that it was Desdemona’s present.

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he
had a headache (as he might indeed with truth), and de-
sired her to lend him her handkerchief to hold his temples.
Shedidso. ‘‘Notthis,’’ said Othello, ‘‘ but that handker-
chief 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 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 16 possible?’’ said the frighted lady. ‘‘’Tis
true; continued Othello; ‘itis a magical handkerchief ;
a Sibyl that had lived in the world two hundred years, ina
02 Tales from Shakespeare.

fit of prophetic fury worked it; the silkworms that fur-
nished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in mummy
of maidens’ hearts conserved.’’ Desdemona, hearing the
wondrous virtues of the handkerchief, was ready to die
with fear, for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and with
it, she feared, the affections of her husband. Then Othello
started, and looked as if he were going to do some rash
thing, and still he demanded the handkerchief, which
when she could not produce, she tried to divert her hus-
band 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 Des-
demona, though unwillingly, began to suspect her lord
was jealous.

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

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?’’ 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 stupe-
fied with wonder at her Jord’s untrue suspicion of her, that,
a weight-like sleep came over her, and she only desired




Ee

Se ee







13

OTHELLO ACCUSING DESDEMONA.
74 . Tales from Shakespeare.

her attendant to make her bed, and to lay her wedding
sheets upon it, saying, that when people teach their babes,
they do it by ‘gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello
might have chid her so; for in good faith she was but a
child when she was chidden. And this was all the com-
plaint 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 shehad done him. Then he kissed her for the last
time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, he must
needs kiss her again; and he wept, but he said they were
cruel tears.

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she
looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under lip,
and roll his eyes, and she knew he was always fatal when
he looked so: and he bade her prepare for death, and to
say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. And this
innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for com-
passion, and to know her iault ; 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 covering her up in
the bedclothes stified 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 let-
ters, which made the guilt of Iago and the innocence of
Cassio clear beyond all doubt; and Cassio now came to


DEATH OF



DESDEMONA.,


























76 Tales from Shakespeare.

beg pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he had 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 faith-
ful to him ; the extreme anguish of which discovery mak-
ing life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, and throw-
ing 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 berne a fair
reputation, and till he was wrought upon by the arts ofa
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, drepped 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,


































‘THE MOOR HAS KILLED MY MISTRESS!” U7
TIMON OF ATHENS.

IMON, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a prince-
ly fortune, affected a humor of liberality which
knew no limits. His almost infinite wealth could not
flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster upon all sorts
and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of his
bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank them-
selves among his 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 combined with his free and prodigal nature
to subdue all hearts to hislove; men of all minds and dis-
positions tendered their services to Lord Timon, from the
elass-faced flatterer, whose face reflects as ina mirror the
present humor 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 recor -
mendatory introduction to the world, he had no more to
do but to dedicate it to Lord Timon, and the poem was
sure of a sale, besides a present purse from the patron,
and daily access to his house and table. Ifa painter had
a picture to dispose of he only had 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 ajeweller had a stone of price,
or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their costliness






















































































A BANQUET, "9


80 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 con-
tinually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries
in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation
as to a god, making sacred the very stirrup by which he
mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank the
free air but through his permission and bounty.

Some of these daily dependants were young men of
birth, who (their means not answering to their extrava-
gance) had been put in prison by creditors, and redeemed
thence by Lord Timon; these young prodigals thencefor-
ward fastened upon his lordship, as if by common sym-
pathy he were necessarily endeared to all such spend-
thrifts and loose livers, who, not being able to follow him
in his wealth, found it easier to copy him in prodigality
and copious spending of what was not their own. One of
these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose debts unjustly
contracted Timon but lately had paid down the sum of
five talents.

But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors,
none were more conspicuous than the makers of presents
and givers of gifts. It was fortunate for these men, if
Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse, or any piece of
cheap 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 ac-
ceptance, and apologies for the unworthiness of the gift;
and this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, did not
































































NWN AND VENTIDIUS.

TIMO:’




82 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 in-
terest. In this way Lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon
a present of four milk-white horses trapped in silver,
which this cunning lord had observed Timon upon some
occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus, had
bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free gift
a brace of greyhounds whose make and fleetness Timon
had been heard to admire: these presents the easy-hearted
lord accepted without suspicion of the dishonest views of
the presenters; and the givers of course were rewarded
with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty
times the value of their false and mercenary donation.

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more
direct way, and with gross and palpable artifice, which
yet the credulous Timon was too blind to see, would affect
to admire and praise something that Timon possessed, a
bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase, which
was sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted lord
a gift of the thing commended, for no service in the world
done for it but the easy expense of a little cheap and ob-
vious 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 those 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
Timon of Athens. 83

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, commanding one another’s fortunes (though
it was his own fortune which paid all the costs), and with
joy they would run over at the spectacle of such, as it ap-
peared 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 with-
out care to 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 condi-
tion, 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, be-
seeching him with tears, to look into the state of his
affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the dis-
course to something else ; for nothing is sc deaf to remon-
84 Tales from Shakespeare.

strance as riches turned to poverty, nothing 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
vinter-showers these flies would disappear.

But now the time was come that Timon could shut his
ears no longer to the representations of this faithful stew-
ard. 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 endeavored at several times be-
fore to make hin listen to, that most of his land was al-
ready sold or forfeited, and that all he possessed at pres-
ent was not enough to pay the one-half of what he owed.
Struck with wonder at this representation, Timon hastily
replied, ‘‘ My lands extended from Athens to Lacedemon.”’
*“O my good lord,’ said Flavius, “the world is but a
world, and has bounds ; were it all yours to give it in a
breath, how quickly were it gone! ”’

Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty had
yet come from him, that if he had given his wealth away
unwisely, it had not been bestowed to feed his vices, but to
cherish his friends ; and he bade the kind-hearted steward
(who was weeping) to take comfort in the assurance that
his master could never lack means 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
Timon of Athens. 85

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 Sem-
pronius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts in past
times without measure or moderation ; and to Ventidius,















FLAVIUS AND THE ACCOUNTS,

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 these noble lords the loan of fifty talents ; noth-
86 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had
been dreaming overnight of a silver basin and cup, and
when Timon’s servant was announced, his sordid mind
suggested to him that this was surely a making out of his
dream, and that Timon had sent him such a present; but
when he understood the truth of the matter, and that
Timon wauted 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
bvibe, 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 foun-
tain of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first could
hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected
great regret that he should not have it in his power to
serve Lord Timon, for unfortunately (which was a base
falsehood) he had made a great purchase the day before,
which had quite disfurnished him of the means at present,
the more beast he, he called himself, to put it out of his
power to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of
his greatest afflictions that his ability should fail him to
pleasure such an honorable gentleman.


































































TIMON PURSUED BY HIS CREDITORS, 87
88 Lales. from Shakespeare.

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 laborers who had sweat to build the fine
houses which Lucius’ pride had made necessary to him;
yet—oh! the monster which man makes himself when he
proves 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 re-
deemed and now rich Ventidius, refused to assist him with
the loan of those five talents which Timon had not lent,
but generously given him in his distress.

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty as he
had been courted and resorted to in his riches. Now the
same tongues which had been loudest in his praises, ex-
tolling him as bountiful, liberal and open-handed, were not
ashamed to censure that very bounty as folly, that liber-
ality 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 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 sel]
Timon of Athens. 89

cut 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 frash and running? They came dissem-
bling, 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 honorable 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 re-
fuse their presence at this new blaze of his returning pros-
perity. For the swallow follows not summer more willing-
ly than men of these dispositions follow the good fortunes
of the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these
shrink from the first appearance of a reverse: such
summer birds are men. But now with music and state
the banquet of smoking dishes was served up; and when
the guests had a little done admiring whence the bankrupt
Timon could find means to furnish so costly a feast, some
doubting whether the scene 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,

D’
90 Tales from Shakespeare.

that. Timon’s epicurean table in past times had so liber.
ally 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 in-
deed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery as
the water with which Timon welcomed his astonished
guests, bidding them, ‘“‘ Uncover, dogs, and lap ;”’ and be-
fore they could recover their surprise, sprinkling it in their
faces, that they might have enough, and throwing dishes
and all after them, who now ran huddling out, lords,
ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid
confusion, Timon pursuing them, still calling them what
they were, ‘‘ Smooth, smiling parasites, destroyers under
the mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools of
fortune, feast-friends, time-fiies.”’ They, crowding out to
avoid him, left the house more willingly than they had en-
tered it; some losing their gowns and caps and some their
jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the presence
of such a mad lord, and the ridicule of his mock banquet.

This was the last feast that ever Timon made, and in
it he took farewell of Athens and the society of men, for
aftet that he betook himself to the woods, turning his
back upon the hated city and upon all mankind, wishing
the walls of that. detestable city might sink, and their
houses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which
infest humanity, war, outrage, poverty and 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 harm-
less and friendly than man.




































TIMON ONCE MORE INVITES HIS FRIENDS.





91
92 Tales from Shakespeare.

What a change from Lord Tirnon 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
shirt on warm ? Would those stiff trees that had outlived
the eagle turn young and fairy pages to him, to skip on
his errands when he bade them? Would the cold brook,
when it was iced with winter, administer to him his warm
broths and caudles when sick of an overnight’s surfeit ?
Or would the creatures that lived in those wild woods
come and lick his hand.and flatter him ?

Here. on a day, when he was digging for roots, 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: so it lay, doing neither
good nor harm, in the bowels of the earth, its mother,
as if it had never come from thence, till the accidental
striking of Timon’s spade against it once more brought it
to light.

Here was a mass of treasure which if Timon had 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 robber-
ies, oppression, injustice, briberies, violence, and murder
among them, he had a pleasure in imagining (such a
rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that out of this
heap which in digging he had discovered, might arise
some mischief to plague mankind. And some soldiers
passing through the woods near to his cave at that
instant, which proved to be a part of the troops of the


Timon of Athens. 93

Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust
taken against the senators at, Athens (the Athenians were
ever noted to be a thankless and ungrateful people, giving
disgust to their generals and best friends), was marching
at the head of the same triumphant army which he had
formerly headed in their defence, to war against them :



TIMON IN THE WOODS.

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
94 Tales from Shakespeare.

young children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those
(he said) would live, if they grew up, to be traitors; but
to steel his eyes and ears against any sights or sounds
that might awaken compassion; and not to let the cries
of virgins, babes, or mothers hinder him from making
one universal massacre ot the city, but to confound them
allin 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 al!
mankind.

While he liveé ‘n this forlorn state, leading a life ore
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 mon-
ument 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 haa
come (so contrary to the experience he had had of man-
kind) to offer him service in extremity. And being inthe
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 shapeand 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


TIMON AND THE SENATOBR
06 Tales from Shakespeare.

was aman, and because, with a heart more gentle and
compassionate than is usual to man, he bore man’s de-
tested 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 was a
valiant and expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians
was deemed able to cope with a besieging army such as
then threatened them, or to drive back the furious ap-
proaches 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 honors 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 valor, their defence in war, their ornament in
peace. If Alcibiades killed his countrymen, Timon cared
not. If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men
and her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them ;
and that there was not a knife in the unruly camp
Timon of Athens. 97

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
commend him to his countrymen, and tell them, that to
ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and to prevent the

2
ARERR
ied SHIA RY! WINS :



TIMON'S TOMB.

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 will-
ing 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
98 Tales from Shakespeare.

he had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should
shortly have occasion to cut down, and he invited all his
friends in Athens, high or low, of what degree soever,
who wished to shun affliction, to come and take a taste of
his tree before he cut it down; meaning that they might
come and hang themselves on it, and escape affliction that
way. ‘

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble 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 ! ”’

Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether
mere distaste of life and the loathing he had for mankind
brought Timon to his conclusion, was not clear, yet all
men admired the fitness of his epitaph, and the consistency
of his end: dying, as he had lived, a hater of mankind :
and some there were who fancied a conceit in the very
choice which he made of the sea-beach for his place of
burial, where the vast sea might weep forever upon his
grave, as in contempt for the transient and shallow tears
of hypocritical and deceitful mankind.


MACBETH.

HEN Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland,

there lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth.

This Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in

great esteem at court for his valor and conduct in the

wars; an example of which he had lately given, in defeat-

ing a rebel army assisted by the troops of Norway in ter-
rible numbers.

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, re-
turning 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 honor he had no pretensions ; and again
the third bid him, ‘‘ All hail! king that shall be here-
after!’? 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 Ban-
quo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to
be lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy, yet
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. ;
100 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 mirac-
ulously 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 predic:
tion of the third witch might in like manner have its
accomplishment, and that he should one day reign king in
Scotland.

Turning to Banquo, he said, ‘‘Do you not hope that
your children shall be kings, when what the witches
promised to me has so wonderfully come to pass?”
“That hope,’ answered the general, ‘‘might enkindle
you to aim at the throne; but oftentimes these ministers
of darkness 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
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
honor Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars.


S

Ay aN
VER TIRES NY 2 DE GF
RRA AA Le iN Mir afin
al ee

NY







\ a is
EK
FR ILNN

SxS aS cs
Ves

EE
Live NM

/ VE oe foe
itpeEstpay|









mi



THE WEIRD SISTERS ON THE BLASTED HEATH.





102 Tales from Shakespeare.

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the
air about it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by
the nests which the martiet, or swallow, had built under
all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the building,
wherever it found a place of advantage: for where those
birds most breed and haunt the air is observed to be deli-
cate. The king entered well pleased with the place, and
not less so with the attentions and respect of his honored
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 under-
taken a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she feared
her husband’s nature, that it was too full of the milk of
human kindness to do a contrived murder. She knew
him to be ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not
yet prepared for that height of crime which commonly in
the end accompanies inordinate ambition. She had won
him to consent to the murder, but she doubted his resolu-
tion: and she feared that the natural tenderness of his
disposition (more humane than her own) would come
between, and defeat the purpose. So with her own hands
armed with a dagger, she approached the king’s bed ;
having taken care to ply the grooms of his chainber so
with wine, that they slept intoxicated, and careless of
their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound sleep after
a

oN

‘

2 i c

Pm Be i f HAN Ky

Ca Et aN i Kh

““LOOK LIKE THE INNOCENT FLOWER; BUT BE
THE SERPENT UNDER IT!’


104 Tales from Shakespeare.

the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed him ear-
nestly, there was something in his face, as he slept, which
resembled her own father; and she had not the courage
to proceed.

She returned te 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 sub-
jects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. Besides, by
the favors of the king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion
of all sorts of men, and how would those honors 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
proceed no further. But she being a woman not easily
shaken from her evil purpose, began to pour in at his ears
words which infused a portion of her own spirit into his
mind. assigning reason upon reason why he should not
shrink from what he had undertaken ; how easy the deed
was ; how soon it would be over; and how the action of
one short night would give to all their nights and days to
come a sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw
contempt on his change of purpose, and accused him of
fickleness and cowardice; and declared that she had given
suck, and knew how tender it was to love the babe that
milked her, but she would, while it was smiling in her face,
have plucked it from her breast, and dashed its brains
out, ifshe had so sworn to doit, 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.
Macbeth. 105

And with the valor 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



INCITES HER HUSBAND TO THE DEED OF BLOOD.

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
106 Tales from Shakespeare.

in the chamber, laughed in his sleep and the other cried
‘** Murder,” which woke them voth ; but they said a short
prayer ; one of them said, ‘‘ God bless us!’ and the other
answered, *‘ Amen ;’’ aud addressed themselves to sleep
again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them, tried to
say ‘‘ Amen ”’ when the fellow said ‘ God bless us!” but
though he had most need of a blessing, the word stuck in
his throat and he could not pronounce it.

Again he thought he heard a veice 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 there-
fore 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 induce-
ments to such a deed were so much more forcible than such
poor silly grooms could be supposed to have; and Dun-
can’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, hav-
ing thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir was
crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird sisters
was literally accomplished,
Macbeth. 107

Though placed so high Macbeth and his queen could not
forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though
Macbeth should be king, yet not his children, but the
children of Banquo, should be kings after him. The
thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands
with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the

Su ay i | a ih























THE DISCOVERY OF THE MURDER.

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
108 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 scuffie Fleance
escaped. From that Fleance descended a race of mon-
archs who afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending
with James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of Eng-
land, under whom the two crowns of England and Scot-
land were united.

At supper the queen, whose manners were in the high-
est 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 honorable 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 a 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 hor-
rible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he
stood quite unmanned, with his eyes fixed upon the ghost.
His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but 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 had
made him see the dagger in the air when he was about to
kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see the ghost,
and gave no heed to all they could say, while he addressed
it with distracted words, yet so significant, that his queen,
fearing the dreadful secret would be disclosed, in great
haste dismissed the guests, excusing the infirmity of Mac-
beth 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,










BANQUO’S GHOST.
110 Tules from Shakespeare.

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

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

It was demanded of Macbeth whether he would have his
doubts 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 beware of the
thane of Fife; for which caution Macbeth thanked him:
for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of Macduff, the
thane of Fife.

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody
child, and he called Macbeth by name,and bid him have
no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of


THE WITCHES’ CAVE,
112 , Tales from Shakespeare,

woman born should have power to hurt him: and he ad-
vised 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 uf
a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Mac.
beth by name, and comforted him against conspiracies,
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 ?
T see I shall live the usual period of man’s life, and not be
cut off by a violent death. But my heart throbs to know
one thing. ‘Tell me, if your art can tell so much, if Ban-
quo’s issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?” Here the
caldron sunk into the ground, and a noise of music was
heard, and eight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth,
and Banquo last, who bore a glass which showed the
figures of many more, and Banquo all bloody 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 tire 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 Eng-
‘land, to join the army which was forming against him
under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late king, with intent
to displace Macbeth and set Malcolm, the right heir, upon
the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the
castle of Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom the
thane had left behind, to the sword, and extended the
slaughter to all who claimed the least relationship to
Macduff.
Macbeth. -113

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



MACDUFF’S WIFE AND CHILDREN SLAIN.

went on slowly. Everybody hated the tyrant, nobod.
loved or honored him, but all suspected him, and he be-
gan to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he had mur-
dered, who slept soundly in his grave, against whom
treason had done its worst: steel nor poison, domestic
malice nor foreign levies could hurt him any longer.
While these things were acting, the queen, who had
114 Tales from Shakespeare.

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, ora 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 re-
mained of his ancient courage, and he determined to die
(as he expressed it) ‘“‘ with armor on his back.’? Besides
this the hollow promises of the witches had filled him with
false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the
spirits that none of woman born wasto hurt him, and that
he was never to be vanquished till Birnam wood should
come to Dunsinane, which he thought could never be. So
he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable
strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly
awaited 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 be-
gantomove! ‘ Liarand slave!’ cried Macbeth, ‘if thou
speakest false thou shalt hang alive upon the next tree,
till famine end thee. If thy tale be true, I care not if thou
dost as much by me:’’ for Macbeth now began to faint in
resolution and to doubt the equivocal speeches of the
spirits. He was not to fear till Birnam wood should come
to Dunsinane: and now a wood did move! “ However,”
said he, ‘‘if this which he avouches be true, let us arm
and out. There is no flying hence nor staying here. I
begin to be weary of the sun and wish my life at an end.”’
With. these desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the
desiegers, who had now come up to the castle.

The strange appearance, which had given the messenger
an idea of a wood moving, is easily solved. When the be-
Ney
RRR
HA ae

at iN SRO Ne
Fe





MACBETH AND MACDUFF, 115
116 - Tales from Shalespeare.

sieging army marched through th2 wood of Birnam, Mal-
colm, likea skilful general, instructed his soldiers to hew
down every one a bough and bear it before him, by way
of concealing the true numbers of his host. This march-
ing of the soldiers with boughs had at a distance the ap-
pearance 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 valor, 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-
luff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight,
opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued ; Macduff
giving him many foul reproaches for the murder of his
wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged
enough with blood of that family already, would still have
declined the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it,
calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound and villain.

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit,
how none of woman born should hurt him; and smiling
confidently he said to Macduff, “‘ Thou losest thy labor,
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 Mac-
duff 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
Macbeth. 117

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 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 pres-
ent 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

ne nobles and the people.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

HYLOCK, the Jew, lived at Venice ; he was a 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 dis-
liked 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 dis-
tress, 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 Ex-
change), 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 condi-
tioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in doing cour-
tesies; indeed he was one in whom the ancient Roman
honor more appeared than in any that drew breath in
Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citizens ;
but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart
was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but a small
patrimony, had nearly exhausted his httle fortune by
living in too expensive a manner for his slender means, as
young men of high rank with small fortunes are too apt
to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Antonio as-
sisted 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


















SHYLOCK AND JESSICA.
120 Tales from Shakespeare.

lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a large estate;
and that in her father’s lifetime he used to visit at her
house, when he thought he had observed this lady had
sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages, that
seemed to say he would be no unwelcome suitor; but not
having money to furnish himself with an appearance be-
fitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought An-
tonio to add to the many favors 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
eredit of those ships.

- Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and
Antonio asked the Jew to lend hit three thousand ducats
upon an interest he should require, to be paid out of the
merchandise contained in his ships at sea. On this, Shy-
lock 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
money, said, “Shylock, do you hear? will you lend the
money?” To this question the Jew replied, ‘‘ Signor
Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often you have
railed at me about my. moneys and my usuries, and I have
borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge
of all our tribe; and then you have called me unbeliever,
cut-throat dog, and spit upon my Jewish garments, and
spurned at me with your foot, as if ] were a cur. Well
then, it now appears you need my help; and you come to
me, and say, Shylock, lend me moneys. Has a dog
money? Is it possible a cur should lend three thousand
ducats? Shall I bend low and say, Fair sir, you spat
:
:
:



















ON THE RIALTO,

E
122 Tales from Shakespeare.

upon me on Wednesday last, another time you called me
dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you moneys?”
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 upon me. I will supply your wants, and take
no interest for my money.’’ This seemingly kind offer
greatly surprised Antonio; and then Shylock, still pre-
tending kindness, and that all he did was to gain Anto-
nio’s love, again said he would Jend 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; and still Antonio insisted that he would sign it
for that before the day of payment came his ships woule
return laden with many times the value of the money.

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

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, netwith-
standing all the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did
not like his friend should run the hazard of this shocking
The Merchant of Venice. 123

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 qualities,
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, unpractised, yet
not so old but that she could learn, and that she would
commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed by
him in all things; and she said, ‘Myself and what is
mine, to you and yours isnow converted. Butyesterday,
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 honored him, by anything but broken words
of love. and thankfulness; and taking the ring, he vowed
never to part with it.
124 Tales from Shakespeare.

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia’s waiting-maid, were in
attendance upon their lord and lady when Portia so grace
fully 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 wedding feast shall
be much honored by your marriage, Gratiano.”’

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this
moment by the entrance of a messenger, who brought a
letter from Antonio containing fearful tidings. When
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 un-
pleasantest words that ever blotted paper. gentle lady,
when I first imparted my love to you, 1 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.”? Bassa-
nio then told Portia what has been here related, of his
borrowing the money of Antonio, and of Antonio’s pro-
curing 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; ¢ad then Bassanio read An-
tonio’s letter; the words of which were, ‘‘ Sweet Bassa-
nto, my ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew is for
feited, and since in paying it is impossible I should
live, I could wish to see you at my death ; notwithstand-
ing, use your pleasure ; if your love for me do not per-
suade you to come. let not my letter.”” ‘“Oh my dear
love,” said Portia, ‘‘despatch the business and be gone ;
The Merchant of Venice. 125
you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times over,
before this kind friend shall lose a liair 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



EOE
ee

LLL

= Z a, Te if

—=

| x
ar ; i
i,

Swe oe -
LL LLL

LL

















SHYLOCK: ‘‘I’LL HAVE MY BOND.”

also married to Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the
instant they were married, set out in great haste for Ven-
ice, 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
126 Tales from Shakespeare.

was appointed to try this shocking cause before the duke
of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense. the
event of the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke
cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend
along with him when he returned ; yet she feared it would
go hard with 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 honor 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 honored
husband’s friend, she did nothing doubt her own powers,
and by the sole guidance of her own true and perfect judg-
ment, 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 im-
mediately, 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 by sickness, and
he requested that the learned young doctor Balthasar (so
he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in his stead.



=

Ton
Oe
|




Hi

Hh
tr





““A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT.”
128 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 en-
gaged 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 for-
feit 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, thatit 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 him-
self; and that earthly power came nearest to Ged’s in
proportion as mercy tempered justice: and she bid Shy-
lock 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 forfeited in
the bond. “Is he not able to pay the money?” asked
Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment of
three thousand ducats as many times over as he should
desire; which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon
Antonio’s flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young
counsellor would endeavor to wrest the law a little, to
save Antonio’s life. But Portia gravely answered, that
laws once established must never be altered. Shylock
hearing Portia say that the law might not be altered, it
seemed to him that she was pleading in his favor, and he
said, “‘A Daniel is come to judgment! O wise young
judge, how I do honor you! How much elder are you
than your looks!”
The Merchant of Venice. 129

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 anything 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 you well! Grieve not that I am
fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me to your
honorable wife, and tell her how I have loved you!”’
Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied, ‘‘ Antonio, 1
am married to a wife‘who is as dear to meas 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 sacri-
fice 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
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.
130 Tales from Shakespeare.

Shylock now cried out FEA e ate “We trifle time;
I pray pronounce the sentence.’’ And now all was awful
expectation in the court, and every eae t was full of grief
for Antonio.

Portia asked if the scales were a y 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,
‘Tt 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 to judgment!’’ And then he sharpened
his long knife again, and looking eagerly on Antonio, he

’ said, ‘‘ Come, prepare! ”’

“Tarry a little, Jew,” said Portia ; “ there is something
else. This bond here gives you no drop of blood; the
words expressly are, ‘a pound of flesh.’ If in the cutting
off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of Christian
blood, your land and goods are by the law to be confis-
cated to the state of Venice.’? Now as it was utterly im-
possible 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 nameé
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 ex-
claimed, in the words which Shylock had used, “‘ O-wise
and upright judge! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to judg-
ment !”’

Shylock, Bndine himself defeated in his cruel Ine nbs


PORTIA AND THE BOND, 181


132 : Tales from Shakespeare.

said with a disappointed look, that he would take the
money; and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at An-
tonio’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 sin-
gle 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. ‘‘T 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 an-
other hold upon you. By the laws of Venice, your wealth
is forfeited to the state, for having conspired against the
life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the mercy of
the duke; therefore down on your knees, and ask him to
pardon you.”

The duke then said to Shylock, ‘‘That you may see
the difference of our Christian spirit, I pardon you your
life before you ask it; half your wealth belongs to Anto-
nio, 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 Anto-
nio’s, which had so offended Shylock that he had disin:
herited 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 re-
The Merchant of Venice. 133

pent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will for-
give 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 hus-
band, 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 Anto-
nio, he added, ‘“‘ Reward this gentleman; for in my mind
you are much indebted to him.”’

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

Fortia 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 Bas-
sanio 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 con-
fusion, 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
134 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 Gra-
tiano 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
@ 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 spirit en-
joyed every thing she saw: the moon never seemed to
shine so bright before ; and when that pleasant moon was
hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from her
house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and
she said to Nerissa, ‘“‘ That light we see is burning in my
hall: how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines
a good deed in a naughty world :’’ and hearing the sound
of music from her house, she said, ‘‘ Methinks that music
sounds much sweeter than by day ,”’

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 mat-
ter?’’ 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 sig-
nify ?’’ said Nerissa. ‘‘ You swore to me when I gave it
The Merchant of Venice. 135

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 An-
tonio’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 aring, and I am sure he
would not part with it for all the world.”’ Gratiano in
excuse for his fault now said, ““My Lord Bassanio gave
his ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his
clerk, that took some pains in writing, he begged my
ring.”

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and re-
proached 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 un-
happy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with
great earnestness, ‘“‘No, by my honor, 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? Iwas
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 ;
136 Tales from Shakespeare.

“‘ give him this ring, and bid him keep it better than the
other.”’

When Bassanio looked at this ring he was strangely
surprised to find it was the same he gave way; and then
Portia told him how she was the young counsellor, and
Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his un-
speakable 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
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 harbor.
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 ad-
venture of the rings, and the husbands did not know their
own wives: Gratiano merrily swearing in a sort of rhym-
ing speech that



while he lived, he’d fear no other thing
So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.


NERIASSA’S RING.

Ep

(

187


THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

HE 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.

AXgeon, 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.

A@geon 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.

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

“‘T was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the pro-
fession of a merchant. I married a lady with whom I
lived very happily, but being obliged to go to Epidara-
nium, I was detained there by my business six months,
and then, finding I should be obliged to stay some time
longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived,
was brought to bed of two sons, and, what was very
strange, they were both so exactly alike, that it was im-
‘possible to distinguish the one from the other. At the
same time that my wife wags brought to bed of these twin
boys, a poor woman-in the inn where my wife lodged was






189

N RELATES HIS HISTORY TO THE DUKE.

ARAEO
140 Tales from Shakespeare.

brought to bed of two sons, and these twins were as much
like each other as my two sons were. The parents of
these children being exceeding poor, I bought the two
boys, and brought them up to attend upon my sons.

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

“The incessant weeping of my wife, and the 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 con-
trive means for their safety ; I tied my youngest son to
the end of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men pro-
vide against storms; at the other end I bound the young-
est 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 our-
selves 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 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

Jorinth (as I supposed), and seeing them in safety, J had
no care but to struggle with the wild sea-waves, to pre-
_ serve my dear son and the youngest slave. At length we
The Comedy of Errors. 141

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. pee

““My youngest son, and now my only care, when he



A JOYFUL MOTHER OF TWO GOODLY SONS.

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 de-
sired to hear tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in
sending my younger one to find them, I hazarded the loss
142 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 harbors 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 mis-
fortunes ; and the duke, pitying this unfortunate father,
who had brought upon himself this great peril by his love |
for his lost son, said, if it were not against the laws,
which his oath and dignity did not permit him to alter, Ne
would freely pardon him ; yet, instead of dooming him to
instant death, as the strict letter of the law.required, he
would give him that day, to try if he could beg or borrow
the money to pay the fine.

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

Aigeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus 3 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.

4tigeon’s sons, besides being exactly alike in face and
person, were both named alike, being both called An-
tipholis, and the two twin slaves were also both named
Dromio. AXgeon’s youngest son, Antipholis of Syracuse,
he whom the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, hap-
pened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio, that
very same day that Algeon did; and he being also a
merchant of Syracuse, he would have been in the same:
The Comedy of Errors, 143

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

The oldest son of Algeon (who must be called Antiph-
olis of Ephesus, to distinguish him from his brother, An-
tipholis of Syracuse) had lived at Ephesus twenty years,
and being a rich man was well able to have paid the
money for the ransom of his father’s life; but Antipholis
knew nothing of his father, being so young when he was
taken out of the sea with his mother by the fishermen that
he only remembered he had been so preserved, but he had
uo recollection of either his father or his mother ; the fish-
ermen who took up this Antipholis and his mother and
the young slave Dromio having carried the two children
away from her (to the great grief of that unhappy lady),
intending to sell them.

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

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

Antipholis of Syracuse when he parted with his friend,
who advised him to say he came from Epidamnium, 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,
144 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent Dromio away,
he stood awhile thinking over his solitary wanderings in
search of his mother and his brother, of whom in no place
where he landed could he hear the least tidings; and he
said sorrowfully to himself, ‘‘I am like a drop of water in
the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow drop, loses itself
in the wide sea. Sol 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. Antipholis, wondering that he came
back so soon, asked him where he had left the money.
Now it was not his own Dromio, but the twin-brother that
lived with Antipholis of Ephesus that he spoke to. The
two Dromios and the two Antipholises were still as much
alike as Algeon had said they were in their infancy ; there-
fore no wonder Antipholis thought it was his own slave
returned, and asked him why he came back so soon.
Dromio replied, ‘“‘ My mistress sent me to bid you come to
dinner. The capon burns and the pig falls from the spit,
and the meat will be all cold if you do not come home.”’
“Those jests are out of season,’’ said Antipholis : ‘‘ where
did you leave the money ?”’ Dromio still answering that
his mistress had sent him to fetch Antipholis to dinner :
“What mistress?’ said Antipholis. ‘ Why, your wor-
ship’s wife, sir,’’ replied Dromio. Antipholis 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
humor 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


















145

ES DROMIO HIS PURSE.

ANTIPHOLIS GIV.
146 Tales from Shakespeare.

him, talk of their being strangers, supposing Antipholis
was jesting, replied merrily, “1 pray you, sir, jest as you
sit to dinner; I had no charge but to fetch you home to
dine with my mistress and her sister.” Now Antipholis
lost all patience and beat Dromio, who ran home and told
his mistress that his master had refused to come to
dinner, and said that he had no wife.

Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, was very.
angry when sue heard that her husband said he had no
wife; for she was of a jealous temper, and she said her
husband meat 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.

Antipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and found
Dromio with the money in safety there, and seeing his
own Dromio, he was going again to chide him for his free
jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not doubting
that it was her husband she saw, she began to reproach
him for looking strange upon her (as well he might, never
having seen this angry lady before); and then she told
him how well he loved her before they were married, and
that now he loved some other lady instead of her. ‘‘ How
comes it now, my husband,”’ said she, ‘‘ oh, how comes it
that I have lost your love?’’ ‘‘ Plead you to me, fair
dame?’ said the astonished Antipholis. It was in vain
he told her he was not her husband, and that he had been
in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted on his going home
with her, and Antipholis at last, being unable to get away,
went with her to his brother’s house, and dined with
Adriana and her sister, the one calling him husband, and
the other, brother, he, all amazed, thinking he must have
been married to her in his sleep, or that he was. sleeping
now. And Dromio, who followed them, was no less sur-
prised, for the cook-maid, who was his brother’s wife, also
claimed him for her husband.












ANTIPHOLIS AND ADRIANA, 147
148 Tales from Shakespeare.

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining with his
prother’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 Antipholis and
Dromio, the maids laughed at them, and said that Antiph-
olis 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 An-
tipholis went away very angry, and strangely surprised
at hearing a gentleman was dining with his wife.

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

The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong
Antipholis was arrested immediately after for a sum of
money he owed; and Antipholis the married brother, to
whom the goldsmith thought he had given the chain,


The Comedy of Errors. 149

happened to come to the place where the officer was
arresting the goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholis,
asked him to pay for the gold chain he had just delivered
to him, the price amounting to nearly the same sum as
that for which he had been arrested. Antipholis denying
the having received the Chain, and the goldsmith persist-











ANTIPHOLIS AND LUCIANA.

ing to declare that he had but a few minutes before given
it to him, they disputed the matter a long time, both
thinking they were right, for Antipholis knew the gold-
smith 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


150 Tales from Shakespeare.

goldsmith away to prison for the debt he owed, and at the
same time the goldsmith made the officer arrest Antipho-
lis for the price of the chain; so that, at the conclusion of
their dispute, Antipholis and the merchant were both taken
away to prison together.

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

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was re-_

turning, he met Antipholis of Syracuse, who was still in
amaze abt 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 le
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.
Antipholis 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 Antipholis,
The Comedy of Errors. 151

and he said, “‘ This fellow Dromio is certainly distracted,
and we wander here in illusions;”’ and quite terrified at
his own confused thoughts, he cried out, ‘‘Some blessed
power deliver us from this strange place!”

And now another stranger came up to him, and she
was a lady, and she too called him Antipholis, and told
him he had dined with her that day, and asked him for a
gold chain which she said he had promised to give her.
Antipholis now lost all patience, and calling her a sorcer-
ess, he denied that he had ever promised her a chain, or
dined with her, or had ever seen her face before that mo-
ment. The lady persisted in affirming he had dined with
her, and had promised her a chain, which Antipholis still
denying, she farther said, that she had given him a valua-
ble ring, and if he would not give her the gold chain, she
insisted upon having her own ring again. On this An-
tipholis became quite frantic, and again calling her sorcer-
ess and witch, and denying all knowledge of her and her
ring, ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his
words and his wild looks, for nothing to her appeared
more certain than that he had dined with her, and that -
she had given him a ring, in consequence of his promising
to make her a present of a gold chain. But this lady had
fallen into the same mistake the others had done, for she
had taken him for his brother: the married Antipholis
had done all the things she taxed this Antipholis with.

When the married Antipholis was denied entrance into
his own house (those within supposing him to be already
there), he had gone away very angry, believing it to be
one of his wife’s jealous freaks, to which he was very sub-
ject, 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, An-
tipholis promised to give her a gold chain, which he had
intended as a present for his wife; it was the same chain
152 Tales from Shakespeare.

which the goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother.
The lady liked so well the thoughts of having a fine gold
chain, that she gave the married Antipholis a ring; which
when, as she supposed (taking his brother for him), he
denied, and said he did not know her, and left her in such
a wild 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 jailer
(who allowed him to come home to get the money to
pay the debt), for the purse of money which Adriana had
sent by Dromio, and he had delivered to the other An-
tipholis.

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her hus-
band’s madness must be true when he reproached her for
shutting him out of his own house ; and remembering how
he had protested all dinner-time that he was not her hus-
band, and had never been in Ephesus till that day, she had
no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the jailer
the money, and having discharged him, she ordered her
servants to bind her husband with ropes, and had him
conveyed into a dark room, and sent for a doctor to come
and cure him of his madness: Antipholis all the while
hotly exclaiming against this false accusation, which the
exact likeness he bore to his brother had brought upon
him. But his rage only the more confirmed them in the
belief that he was mad; and Dromio persisting in the
same story, they bound him also, and took him away
along with his master.

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confine-
ment, a servant came to tell her that Antipholis 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 neighborhood, there they


















ANTIPHOLIS OF SYRACUSE SEIZED FOR A MADMAN, 153
EB
154 Tales from Shakespeare.

saw Antipholis and Dromio, as they thought, being again
deceived by the likeness of the twin brothers.

Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with the 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 Antipholis was
protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain
in the morning, and that from that hour he had never
seen the goldsmith again.

And now Adriana came up to him, and claimed him as
her lunatic husband, who had escaped from his keepers ;
and the men she brought with her were going to lay
violent hands on Antipholis and Dromio; but they ran
into the convent, and Antipholis 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 men who had sought
protection in her house; so she strictly questioned ‘the
wife about the story she told of her husband’s madness,
and she said, “‘ What is the cause of this sudden distemper
of your husband’s? Has he lost his wealth at sea? Or
is it the death of some dear friend that has disturbed his
mind?’’ Adriana replied that no such things as these
had been the cause. ‘‘ Perhaps,’’ said the abbess, “he
has fixed his affections on some other lady than you. his
wife; and that has driven him into this state.’ 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 Antipholis 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, sol did,”’
replied Adriana. ‘‘ Ay,” said the abbess, “but perhaps
The Comedy of Errors. 155

not enough.” Adriana, willing to convince the abbess
that she had said enough to Antipholis on this subject,
replied, “‘It was the constant subject of our conversation:
in bed I would not let him sleep for speaking of it. At
table I would not let him eat for speaking of it. When I
was alone with him, I talked of nothing else; and in com-
pany 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 clamor 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 recreation, what could
ensue but dull melancholy and comfortless despair? The
consequence is, then, that your jealous fits have made
your husband mad.”’

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

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still in-
sisted on having her husband delivered up to her; but the
abbess would suffer rio 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


158 Tales from Shakespeare.

brothers bore to eacli other, old Algeon’s day of grace
was passing away, it being now near sunset; and at sun-
set 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 justas 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 te 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 de-
mand 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 con-
vent.

Aigeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son who
had left him to go in search of his mother and brother ;
and he felt secure that this dear son would readily pay
the money demanded for his ransom. He therefore spoke
to Antipholis in words of fatherly affection, with joyful
hope that he should now be released. But to the utter
astonishment of Aigeon his son denied all knowledge of
him, as well he might, for this Antipholis had never seen
his father since they were separated in the storm in his in-
fancy ; but while the poor old Adgeon was in vain endeav-
oring to make his son acknowledge him, thinking surely
that either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had
so strangely altered him that his son did not know.him, °
or else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his father in
his misery ; in the midst of this perplexity the lady abbess
and the other Antipholis and Dromio came out, and the
wondering Adriana saw two ‘husbands and two Dromios
standing before her.

And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed
The Comedy of Errors. 157

them all, were clearly made out. Whenthe duke saw the
two Antipholises and the two Dromios both so exactly
alike, he at once conjectured aright of these seeming mys-
teries, for he remembered the story Algeon had told him in
the morning ; and he said these men must be the two sons
of Aigeon and their twin slaves.





‘¢ JUSTICE, MOST SACRED DUKE, AGAINST THE ABBESS.”

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the his-
tory of Algeon ; and the tale he had in the morning told
in sorrow, and under sentence of death, before the setting
sun went down was brought toa happy conclusion, for the
venerable lady abbess made herself known to be the long-
lost wife of Adgeon, and the fond mother of the two An-
tipholises.
158 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings be-
tween these long-separated parents and their children
made them for a while forget that Hgeon was yet under
sentence of death; but when they were become a little
calm, Antipholis of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom
money for his father’s life; but the duke freely pardoned
@geon 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 greetings
too, and each Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother
on his good looks, being well pleased to see his own per-
son (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 sus-
picions or was jealous of her husband.

Antipholis 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 of the past, comical
blunders would happen, and the one Antipholis and the
one Dromio be mistaken for the other, making altogether
a pleasant and diverting Comedy of Errors.
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

ERTRUDBH, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by
the sudden death of King Hamlet, in Jess than two
months after his death married his brother Claudius,
which was noted by all the people at the time for a strange
act of indiscretion or unfeelingness, or worse: for this
Claudius did noways resemble her late husband in the
qualities of his person or his mind, but was as contempt-
ible 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 a view of marrying his
widow, and ascending the throne of Denmark, to the ex-
clusion of young Hamlet, the son of the buried king, and
lawful successor to the throne.

‘But upon no one did this unadvised action of the queen
make such impression as upon this young prince, who
loved and venerated the memory of his dead father almost
to idolatry ; and being of a nice sense of honor, and a
most exquisite practicer of propriety himself, did sorely
take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother Ger-
trude : 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; 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 pros-
pect of exclusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance,
weighed so much upon his spirits, though that to a young
160 Lales from Shakespeare.

and high-minded prince was a bitter wound and a sore in-
dignity ; but what so galled him, and took away all his
cheerful spirits was that his mother had shown herself so
forgetful to his father’s memory : and such a father ! who
had been to her so loving and gentle a husband! and then
she always. appeared as loving and obedient a wife to
him, and would hang upon himas if her affection grew to
him: and now within two months, or, as it seemed to
young Hamlet, less than two months, she had married
again, married his uncle, her dead husband’s brother, in
itself a highly improper and unlawful marriage, from the
nearness of relationship, but made much more so by the
indecent haste with which it was concluded, and the un-
kingly character of the man whom she had chosen to be-
the partner of her throne and bed. This it was which,
more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits,
and brought a cloud over the mind of this honorable
young prince.

In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king
could do or contrive to divert him; he still appeared in
court in a suit of deep black, as mourning for the king
his father’s death, which mode of dress he had never laid
aside, not even in compliment to his mother on 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 Ham-
let 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 his throne.

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






































































































J

1

HAMLET AND HIS MOTHER,
162 Tales from Shakespeare.

A rumor 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 armor, from head to foot, which the dead
king was known to have worn: and they who saw it
(Hamlet’s bosom-friend Horatio was one) agreed in their
testimony as to the manner and time of its appearance:
that it came just as the clock struck twelve; that it
looked pale, with a face more of sorrow than of anger ;
that its beard was grisly, and the color 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-
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 tookhis 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
Hamlet. 163

the angels and heavenly ministers to defend them, for he
knew not whether it was a good spirit or bad; whether it
came for good or for evil, buthe gradually assumed more
courage: and his father (as it seemed to him) looked upon
him so piteously, and as it were desiring to have conversa-

























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































HORATIO AND THE GHOST.

tion with him, and did in all respects appear so like him-
Self 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


164 Tales from Shakespeare.

them know if there was anything which they could do to
give peace to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Ham-
let that he should go with him to some more removed
place, where they might be alone: and Horatio and Mar-
cellus would have dissuaded the young prince from follow-
ing it, for they feared lest it should be some evil spirit,
who would tempt him to the neighboring sea, or to. the
top of some dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible
shape which might deprive the prince of his reason. But
their counsels and entreaties could not alter Hamlet’s de-
termination, 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 Clau-
dius, 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 cus-
tom always in the afternoon, this treasonous brother stole
upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice of poisonous
henbane into his ears, which has such an antipathy to the
life of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through
all the veins of the body, baking up the blood, and spread-
ing a crust-like leprosy all over the skin: thus sleeping,
by a brother’s hand he was cut off at once from his crown,
his queen and his life: and he adjured Hamlet, if he did
ever his dear father love, that he would revenge his foul
murder. And the ghost lamented to his son, that his
mother should so fall off from virtue as to prove false to
the wedded love of her first husband and to marry his
murderer : but he cautioned Hamlet, howsoever he pro-
ceeded in his revenge against his wicked uncle, by no
















































































































































HAMLET AND HIS FATHER'S SPIRIT, 785
166 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 van-
ished.

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn
resolution that allhe 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
todo. And Hamlet related the particulars of the conver-
sation 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 rea-
son. 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 counterfeit as
if he were really and truly mad; thinking that he would
be less an object of suspicion when his uncle should believe:
him incapable of any serious project, and that his real
perturbation of mind would be best covered and pass con-
cealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy.

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and
strangeness in his apparel, his speech and behavior, and
did so excellently counterfeit the madman, that the king
and queen were both deceived, and not thinking his grief
tor 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


























1672

FATHER AND UNCLE.
168 . Tales from Shakespeare.

been re:ated, he had dearly loved a fair maid called
Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius, the king’s chief coun-
sellor in affairs of state. He had sent her letters and
rings, and made many tenders of his affection to her, and
importuned her withlove in honorable 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 un-
kindness 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 understand-
ing, impaired as they were with the deep melancholy that
oppressed him, to sweet bells which in themselves are capa-
ble of most excellent music, but when jangled out of tune
or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and unpleasing
sound, :

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in 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 extravagant terms, such as agreed
with his supposed madness, but mixed with some gentile
touches of affection, which could not but show to this hon-
ored 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 aliar,
but never to doubt that he loved ; with more of such ex-
travagant phrases. This letter Ophelia dutifully showed
to her father, and the old man thought himself bound to


168

HAMLET AND OPHELIA,
170 Tales from Shakespeare.

communicate it to the king and queen, who from that time
supposed that the true cause of Hamlet’s madness was
love. And the queen wished that the good beauties of
Ophelia might be the happy cause of his wildness, for so
she. hoped that her virtues might happily restore him to
his accustomed way again, to both their honors.

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 injunc-
tion to revenge his murder gave him no rest till it was ac-
complished. Every hour of delay seemed to him asin, 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, wasa restraint upon his purpose,
which he could not break through. Besides, the very cir-
cumstance 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 melan-
choly, 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 wiether it might not be the devil, who he had heard
has power to take any form he pleases, and who might
have assumed his father’s shape only to take advantage
of his weakness and his melancholy, to drive him to the
doing of so desperate an act as murder. And he deter-
mined that he would have more certain grounds to go
upon than a vision or apparition, which might be a de-
lusion.

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


































































































































































































































171

AND THE PLAYERS,

HAMLET
172 Tales from Shakespeare.

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, set-
ting 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 repre-
sented, but even the player himself delivered it with a
broken voice and real tears. This put Hamlet upon think-
ing, 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 circum-
stances 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
unon a duke, The duke’s name was Ganzago; his wife,




















1%8

N OF THE PLAY,

REPRESENTATIO:
174 ' ‘Tales from Shaxespeare.

Baptista. The play showed how one Lucianus, a near re-
lation 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 at-
tentively 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 ever she took
a second husband, and adding that no woman ever did so
but those wicked women who kill their first husbands.
Hamlet observed the king, his uncle, change color at this
expression, and that it was as bad as wormwood both ta
him and to the queen. But when Lucianus, according to’
the story, came to poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden,
the strong resemblance which it bore to his own wicked
act upon the late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned
in his garden, so struck upon the conscience of this
usurper, that he was unable to sit out the rest of the play,
but on a sudden calling for lights to his chamber, and af-
fecting or partly feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly
left the theatre. The king being departed, the play was
given over. Now Hamlet had seen enough to feel satis-
fied that the words of the ghost were true, and no illusion:
and in a fit of gayety, 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 behavior had displeased them both;.and the king,
Hamlet. 178

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 councillor of
state, was ordered to plant himself behind the hangings in
the queen’s closet, where he might unseen hear all that
passed. This artifice was particularly adapted to the dis-
position 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 behavior, and she
told him that he had given great offence to his father,
meaning the king, his uncle, whom, because he had mar-
ried her, she called Hamlet’s father. Hamlet, sorely in-
dignant that she should give so dear and honored a name
as father seemed to him, to a wretch who was indeed no
better than the murderer of his true father, with some
sharpness replied, ‘‘ Mother, you have much offended my
father.”? The queen said that was but an idle answer.
‘SAs 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, “‘ 1 wish I could
forget. You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s
wife; and you are my mother; I wish you were not what
you are.”’ ‘Nay, then,” said the queen, ‘‘if you show
me so little respect, I will send 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, af-
frighted at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lu-
nacy he should do her a mischief, cried out: and a voice
was heard from behind the hangings, ‘‘ Help, help the
queen !”? which Hamlet hearing, and verily thinking it
was the king himself there concealed, he drew his sword,
and stabbed at the place where the voice came from, as he
176 Tales from Shakespeare.

would have stabbed a rat that ran there, till, the voice
ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead. But whenhe
dragged forth the body, it was not the king, but Polonius,
the old officious councillor, that had planted himself as a
spy behind the hangings. ‘‘Ome!’’ exclaimed the queen,
‘what arash and bloody deed you have done!” “A
bloody deed, mother,’’ replied Hamlet; ‘‘ but not so bad
as yours, who killed a king and married his brother.”
Hamlet had gone too far to leave off here. He was now
in the humor to speak plainly to his mother, and he pur-
sued it. And though the faults of parents are to be ten-
derly treated by their children, yet in the case of great
crimes the son may have leave to speak even to his own
mother with some harshness, so as that harshness is
meant for her good, and to turn her from her wicked
ways, and not done for the purpose of upbraiding. And
now this virtuous prince did in moving terms represent to
the queen the heinousness of her offence, in being so for-
getful of the dead king, his father, as in so short a space
of time to marry with his brother and reputed murderer ;
such an act as, after the vows which she had sworn to her
first husband, was enough to make all vows of women
suspected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wed-
ding contracts to be less than gamesters’ oaths, and re-
ligion to be a mockery anda mere form of words. Hesaid
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 had been her hus-
band.. And then he showed her whom she had got in his
stead ; how like a blight or a mildew he looked, for so he
had blasted his wholesome brother. And the queen was
sore ashamed that he should so turn her eyes inward upon
Hamlet. 177

her soul, which she now saw so black and deformed. And
he asked her how she could continue to live with this man,
and be a wife to him, who had murdered her first hus-
band, and got the crown by as false means as a thief.
And just as he spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he
was in his lifetime, and such.as he had lately seen it,
entered the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, asked what
it would have; and the ghost said that it came to remind
him of the revenge he had promised, which Hamlet seemed
to have forgot; and the ghost bade him speak to his
mother, for the grief and terror she was in would else kill
her. It then vanished, and was seen by none but Hamlet,
neither could he by pointing to where 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 hear, with nothing; and she imputed it to the disorder
of his mind. But Hamlet begged her not to flatter her
wicked soul in such a manner as to think that it was his
madness, and not her own offences, which had brought his
father’s spirit again on the earth. And he bade her feel
his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman’s.
And he begged of her, with tears, to confess herself to
Heaven for what was past, and for the future to avoid the
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 direc-
tions, 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 a little quieter, he wept for
what he had done.

This unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a
pretence for sending Hamlet out of the kingdom. He
would willingly have put him to death, fearing him as
dangerous; but he dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet;




178 Tales from Shakespeare.

and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted upon the
prince her son. So this subtle king, under pretence of
providing for Hamlet’s safety, that he might not be
-called to account for Polonius’ 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 at that time was in subjection
and paid tribute to Denmark, requiring, for special
reasons there pretended, that Hamlet should be put to
death as soon as he landed on English ground. Hamlet,
suspecting some 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 valor, 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 favor they
might show him, they sat Hamlet on shore at the near-
est 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 homea sad spectacle offered itself
the first thing to his eyes.
. This was the funeral of the young and beautiful

Ophelia, his-once dear mistress. The wits of this young
lady had begun to turn ever since her poor father’s death.
That he should die a violent death, and by the hands of
































































































178

THE MAD OPHELIA,
180 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 bur-
ial, singing songs about love and about death, and some-
times 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
in the stream. To this brook she came one day when she
was unwatched, with garlands she had been making,
mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and weeds to-
gether, 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 toa muddy and miserable death. It
was the funeral of this fair maid which her brother Laer-
tes 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 inclin-
ing to interrupt the ceremony. He saw the flowers
strewed upon her grave, as the custom was in maiden
burials, which the queen herself threw in; and as she
threw them she said, ‘‘Sweets to the sweet! I thought
to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid, not to have
strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst have been my Ham-
let’s wife.” And he heard her brother wish that violets
might spring from her grave: and he saw him leap into
the grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attendants
pile mountains of earth upon him, that he might be buried
with her. And Hamlet’s love 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 brotlfers. Then
























181

ES AND THE KING,

LAERT
182 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death
of his father and Ophelia, the king, 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
extolled beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet’s success,
and wagering rich bets upon the issue: but after a few
passes, Laertes, growing warm, made a deadly thrust at
Hamlet with his poisoned weapon, and gave him a mortal
blow. Hamlet, incensed, but not knowing the whole of
the treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his own innocent
weapon for Laertes’ deadly one, and with a thrust of
Laertes’ own sword repaid Laertes home, who was thus
justly caught in his own treachery. In this instant the
queen shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had inad-








































DEATH OF HAMLET.
184 Tales from Shakespeare.

vertently 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 bow],
which she drank of, and immediately died, exclaiming
with her last breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet, sus-
pecting some treachery, ordered the doors to be shut,
while he sought it out. Laertes told him to seek no
further, for he was the traitor; and feeling his life go
away with the wound which Hamlet had given him, he
made confession of the treachery he had used, and how he
had fallen a victim to it: and he told Hamlet of the en-
venomed point, and said that Hamlet had not half an hour
to live, for no medicine could cure him; and begging for-
giveness of Hamlet, he died, with his last words accusing’
the king of being the contriver of the mischief, When
Hamlet saw his end draw near, there being yet some
venom left upon the sword, he suddenly turned upon his
false uncle, and thrust the point of it to his heart, fulfill-
ing 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 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 accom-
pany the prince in death); and Horatio promised that he
would make a true report as one that was privy to all the
circumstances. And, thus satisfied, the noble heart, of
Hamlet cracked: and Horatio and the bystanders with
many tears commended the spirit of their sweet prince to
the guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving
and a gentle prince, and greatly beloved for his many
noble and princelike qualities; and if he had lived would

no doubt have proved a most royal and complete king to
Denmark.
THE TEMPEST.

HERE was a certain island in the sea, the only in-

habitants of which were an old man, whose name

was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a very beauti-

ful 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 vock: it was
divided into several apartments, one of which Prospero
called his study; there he kept his books, which chiefly
treated of magic, a study at that time much affected by
all learned men: and the knowledge of this art he found
very useful to him: for being thrown by a strange chance
upon this island, which had been enchanted by a witch
called Sycorax, who died there a short time before his ar-
rival, 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 pleas-
ure 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 taught
him to speak; and Prospero would have been very kind to
him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from his
mother Sycorax would not let him learn anything good or
useful: therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch

G
186 Tales from Shakespeare.

wood, and do the most laborious offices; and Ariel had
the charge of compelling him to these services. :
When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel
(who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero’s) would
come slyly and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him
down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an



CALIBAN.

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 AND HIS ENCHANTED WAND.

I'll deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales,
And sail, so expeditious, that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off, —my Ariel ;—chick,—
That is thy charge; then, to the elements:
Be free, and fare thou well!


188 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 Pros-
pero; ‘“‘there isno harm done. I have so ordered it that
no person in the ship shall receive any hurt. What I
have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You
are ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and
you know no more of me but that Iam 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 at-
tended 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,
“T was duke of Milan, and you were a princess and my
only heir. I had a younger brother, whose name was
Antonio, to whom I trusted everything; and as I was
fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly left the
management of my state affairs to your uncle, my false
PROSPE2® AND

WIRANDA.-


190 Tales from Shakespeare.

brother (for so indeed he proved). 1, neglecting all world-
ly 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 him-

self 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
dear was the love that my people bore me. Antonio car-
ried 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, provi-
sions, apparel and some books which I prize above my
dukedom.”’ :

**O my father,”’ said Miranda, ‘‘ what a treuble must
I have been to you then!”

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

“Heaven thank you, my dear father,’”’ said Miranda.

‘* Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea-

storm.”’

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

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter
with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep: for the
spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master,

>?
ABANDONED TO THE ELEMENTS.


192 Tales from Shakespeare.

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
terror of the mariners; and how the king’s son, Ferdi-
nand, was the first who leaped into the sea, and his father
thought he saw this dear son swallowed up by the waves
and lost. ‘‘ But he is safe,’’ said Ariel, “in a corner of
the isle, sitting with his arms folded sadly, lamenting the
loss of the king his father, whom he concludes drowned.
Not a hair of his head is injured, and his princely 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 ?”’

“T left them,’ answered Ariel, ‘‘searching for Fer-
dinand, whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking
they saw him perish. Of the ship’s crew not one is miss-
ing; though each one thinks himself the only one saved:
and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in the har-
bor.”

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

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

“How now ?”’ said Prospero. ‘‘ You do not recollect
what a torment I freed youfrom. Have you forgotten the
wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and envy was almost
bent double? Where was she born? Speak: tell me.”
The Tempest. 193

“Sir, in Algiers,’’ said Ariel.

‘““Oh, 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



‘* WHAT CARE THESE ROARERS FOR THE NAME OF KING?”

delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut you up
in a tree, where I found you howling. This torment, re-
member, I did free you from.”’

“Pardon me, dear master,” said Ariel, ashamed to
seem ungrateful ; ‘* 1 will obey your commands.”’

“Do so,’’ said Prospero, ‘‘ and I will set you free.”
He then gave orders what farther he would have him do;
194 Tales from Shakespeare.

and away went Ariel, first to where he had left Ferdinand,
and found him still sitting on the grass in the same melan-
choly posture.

“OQ my young gentleman,” said Ariel, when he saw
him, “1 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 seated 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.”

“© father,” said Miranda, in a strange surprise,
“surely that isa spirit. Lord! how it looks about ! Be-
lieve me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not a
spirit ?”’

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

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and gray
beards like her father, was delighted with the appearance
of this beautiful young prince ; and Ferdinand seeing such
a lovely lady in this desert place, and from the strange
sounds he had heard, expected nothing but wonders,


95

]

FERDINAND AND MIRANDA.
|



196 Tales from Shakespeare.

thought he was upon an enchanted island, and thai
Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such he be-
gan to address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple
maid, and was going to give an account of herself, when
Prospero interrupted her. He was well pleased to find -
they admired each other, for he plainly perceived they had
(as we say) fallen in love at first sight: but to try Ferdi-
nand’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 to-
gether. 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 Pros-
‘pero, 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
soungentle? Have pity, sir; I will be his surety. Thisis

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

‘‘Silence,’? said her father, ‘‘one word more will
make me chide vou, girl! What! an advocate for an im-
postor! 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 re»

_ plied, ‘‘ 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.”

“‘T have not indeed,’ answered Ferdinand; and not
knowing it was by magic he was deprived of all power of
resistance, he was astonished to find he was so strangely
compelled to follow Prospero: looking back on Miranda as
long as he could see her, he said, as he went after Pros-

2?

~




i
|
:
|
|
|

The Tempest. 197

‘pero into the cave, “ My spirits are all bound up, as if I

were in a dream; but this man’s threats, and the weak-
ness 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 se-
vere task to perform, taking care to let his daughter know
the hard labor he had imposed on him, and then pretend-
ing 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.”

“Tf 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 over-
hear what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told him, say-
ing 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- ahove
all the ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her Henaty, which he said
exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, ‘I do
198 Tales from Shakespeare.

not remember the face of any woman, nor have I seen any
more men than you, my good friend, and my dear father.
How features are abroad I know not; but believe me, sir,
I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor
can my imagination form any shape but yours that I could
like.” But, sir, I fear I talk to you too freely, and my
father’s precepts I forget.”’

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

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

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

Prospero prevented Ferdinand’s thanks by appearing
visible before them.

“Fear nothing, my child,” said he; “ I have overheard
and approve of all you have said. And Ferdinand, if I
have too severely used you, I will make you rich amends
by giving you my daughter. All your vexations were
but my trials of your love, and you have nobly stood the
test. Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily
purchased, take my 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 dis-
obey.

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




The Tempest. 199

for want of.food, he had suddenly set befcre them a deli- ~
cious 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 leaving him and
his infant daughter to perish in the sea; saying, that for
this cause these terrors were suffered to afflict them.

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

‘*Then bring them hither, Ariel,’ said Prospero: ‘‘if
you, who are but a’spirit, feel for their distress, shall not
I, who am a human being like themselves, have compas-
sion 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 Ferdi-
aand playing at chess with Miranda,
200 - Tales from Shakespeare.

\

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.

“ these are ; it must surely be a brave world that has such
people in it.”

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at
the beauty and excellent graces of the young Miranda as
his son had been. ‘‘ Who is this maid ?”’ said he; “‘ she
seems the goddess that has parted us and brought us thus
together.”” ‘No, sir,” answered Ferdinand, smiling to
find his father had fallen into the same mistake that “he
had done when he first saw Miranda, ‘she is a mortal,
but by immortal Providence she ismine ; 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 re-
nown I have heard so much, but never saw him till now ;
of him I have received a new life; he has made himself to
me a second father, giving me this dear lady.”’

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

“‘Nomore of that,’’ said Prospero: ‘let us not remem-
ber our troubles past, since they so happily have ended.”’
And then Prospero embraced his brother, and assured
him of his forgiveness; and said that a wise, overruling
Providence had permitted that he should be driven from
his poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might in-
herit 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 re-
morse, 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.
0



The Tempest. 201

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the
harbor, and the sailors all on board her, and that he and
his daughter would accompany them home’ the next
morning. “In the meantime,” said he, ‘‘ partake of such
refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your

Se EE SS
(SP Ee YS

ott " ie

PROSPERO AND THE KING.

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 un-
couth form and savage appearance of this ugly monster,
who (Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to
wait upon him,
202 Tales from Shakespeare.

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:

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

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical
books and wand, for he was resolved never more to make
use of the magic art. And having thus evercome his
enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the king
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 Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, which the king
said should be instantly celebrated with great splendor on
their return to Naples. At which place, under the safe
convoy of the spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage
soon arrived.
AS YOU LIKE IT.

URING the time that France was divided into prov-
inces. (or dukedoms as they were called) there
reigned in one of these provinces an usurper who had de-
posed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke.
The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, re-
tired 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
splendor 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
timeecarelessly, 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 spurts of the wild
deer ; and so fond were they of these poor danpled fools,
who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that
it grieved them to be forced to kill then: te supply them-
selves with venison for their food. When the cold wind§
of winter made the duke feel the charge of his adverse
fortune, he would endure it patieutly and say, ‘‘ These
chilling winds which blow upon my body are true coun-
_ sellors : and though they bite sharply, their tooth is noth-
ing 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
204 Tales from Shakespeare.

that he saw; and by the help of this moralizing turn, in
that life of his, remote from public haunts, he could find
tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in
stones, and good in everything.

The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosa-
lind, whom the usurper, Duke Frederick, when he banished
her father, still retained in his court as a companion for
his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship subsisted be-
tween 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 com-
fort 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 in-
stantly to the court before the palace; and Celia, think-
ing it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practised now
by country clowns, was a favorite sport even in the courts
of princes, and before fair ladies and princesses. To
this wrestling match therefore Celia and Rosalind went.
They found thatit was likely to provea very tragical sight ;
for a large and powerful man, who had long been prac-
tised 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 inex-
perience in the art, the beholders all thought would cer
tainly 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






AS YOU LIKE IT, 205
206 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 consid-
eration for the danger he was about to undergo, that
instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to fore-
go his purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distin-
guish 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 con-
cern 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 meto 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 ‘L
have nothing; for I only fill up a place in the world which
may be better supplied when I have made it empty.”

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




207

CELIA AND ROSALIND,
208 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 the brave
young man was changed into displeasure, and he left the
place in very ill humor. Hating to hear the very name
of any of his brother’s friends, and yet still admiring the
valor 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 favorite
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 fiave ventured.”’

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him
abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by the duke,
they spoke kind and .encouraging words to him; and
Rosalind, wheh 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.. J 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 sud-
denly ?”? 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.”’








ihe YEO EWN S hy Yrs, WS

SSNS ZX DENN salt
$ Ww \I Vax

ae 4 iene inti < AN
wal Wea me HUA Mie Ay NY NG



ORLANDO AND THE WRESTLING MATCH, 209
As You Like ft, 211,

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 2 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 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 recollect that
it was a man’s duty to comfort and console a woman, as
the weaker vessel: and to seem courageous to his new
sister, he said, ‘‘Come, have a good heart, my sister
Aliena ; we are now at the end of our travel, in the forest
of Arden.’’ But feigned manliness and forced courage
would no longer support them; for though they were in ~
the forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke:
and here the travel of these weary ladies might have come
to a sad conclusion, for they might have lost themselves,
and have perished for want of food ; but, providentially,
as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying with
fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced
212 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 entertainment, I pray
you bring us where we may rest ourselves ; for this young
maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling and
faints for want of food.”

The man replied that he was only servant to a shep-
herd, 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 be
welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the
near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength ; and
bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and took the
man who conducted them to the shepherd’s house to wait
on them ; and being by this means so fortunately provided
with a neat cottage, and well supplied with provisions,
they agreed to stay here till they could learn in what part
of the forest the duke dwelt.

When they were rested after the fatigue of their jour-
ney, they began to like their new way of life, and almost
fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess they
feigned to be; yet sometimes 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 ap-
peared that Orlando was also in the forest of Arden, and
in this manner this strange event came to pass.

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




As You Like It. 213

and entirely neglected. But in his nature and in thenoble
qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his ex-
cellent father, that without any advantages of education
he seemed like a youth who had been bred with the utmost
care; and Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified
manners of his untutored brother, that at last he wished
to destroy him; and to effect this he set on people to per-
suade 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 Or-
lando ‘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 Or-
lando, the peril his dear young master was in made him
break out in these passionate exclamations : ‘‘O my gentle
master, my sweet master, O you memory of old Sir Row-
land ! 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 de-
stroy him by setting fire to his chamber that night; and
in conclusion, advised him to escape the danger he was in
by instant flight: and knowing Orlando had no money,
Adam (for that was the good old man’s name) had brought
out with him his own little hoard, and he said, ‘“‘ 1 have five
hundred crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under your father,
and laid by to be provision for me when my old limbs
“214 Tales from Shakespeare.

should become unfit for. service; take that, and He that
‘doth the ravens feed be,comfort to my age! Here is the
gold; all this I give to you: let me be your servant;
though I look old, I will do the service of a younger man
in all your business and necessities. ‘‘O good old man!”
said Orlando, “‘ how well appears in you the constant ser-
vice of the old world! Youare not for the fashion of these
times. ‘We will goalong together, and before your youth-
ful wages are spent I shall light upon some means for both
our maintenance.”

Together then this faithful servant and his loved mas-
ter set out; and Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncer-
tain what course to pursue, till they came to the forest of
Arden, and there they found: themselves in the same dis-
tress for want of food that Ganymede and Aliena had
been. They wandered on, seeking some human habita-
tion, 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 un-

der the shelter of some pleasant trees ; and he said to
him, ‘‘ Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here a
while, and do not talk of dying!”’

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

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










|

be A -

ne ha hy

Le, ag

SIC i GE OA hee
ZZ OA fe ae
YN gb Mec 5

ORLANDO AND ADAM,

——————

Gia CRS &



215
216 Tales from. Shakespeare.

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 sav-
age 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
habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns and
cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to church,
have sat at good men’s feasts, and from our eyes have
wiped the drops which sacred pity has engendered : there-
fore sit ye 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.

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,


Nii
NY

N

Ny
N

Ue

a tity

ee
ep



ORLANDO AND ROSALIND,
H
218 . Tales from Shakespeare.

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

Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find
the name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-son-
nets 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
favor, 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 in-
to conversation with him, and he thought he saw a like- —
ness 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 humor 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,
‘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 were Rosa-
lind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whim-
sical ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of
As You Lnke ft. : 219 .

your love ; and this is the way I propose to cure you.”’ Or- |
lando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to
‘come every day to Ganymede’s cottage, and feign a play-
ful 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 a parent-

'age 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


220 Tales from Shakespeare.

a lioness lie couching, with her head on the ground, with
a cat-like watch, waiting till the sleeping man awaked
(for it is said that lions will prey on nothing that is dead
or sleeping).. It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Provi-
dence 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 lion-
ess : but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nat-
ure 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 venom-
ous snake and from the furious lioness: but before Or-
lando 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 re-
morse at once seized him, and he repented of his unworthy
conduct, and besought with many tears his brother’s
pardon for the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced
to see him so penitent, and readily forgave him : and 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 prov-
idential escape, he owned to them that he was Orlando’s
As You Like It. 221

brother who had so cruelly used him; and then he told
them of their reconciliation.

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his of-
fences made such a lively impression on the kind heart of
Aliena, that she instantly fellin love with him ; and Oliver
observing how much she pitied the distress he told her he
felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell into 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 recov-
ered he pretended he had counterfeited the swoon in
the imaginery character of Rosalind, and Ganymede
said to Oliver, ‘‘Tell your brother Orlando how well
I counterfeited a swoon.’’ But Oliver saw by the pale-
ness of his complexion that he did really faint, and
much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he
said, ‘‘ Well, if you did counterfeit, take a good heart
and counterfeit to be a man.’ “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
last he returned back to his brother he had much news to
tell him ; for besides the account of Ganymede’s fainting
at the hearing that Orlando was wounded, Oliver told
him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess
Aliena, and that she had lent a favorable 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 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
222 Tales from Shakespeare.

had seen approaching, come to i 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 per- -
suade 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 mor-
row 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 pre-
tended he would bring to pass by the aid of magic, which
he said he had learnt of an uncle who was a famous ma-
gician.

_ 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; ‘“ there-
fore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke and your
friends to your wedding; for if you desire to be married
to-morrow to Rosalind she shall be here.’’

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

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

The duke, hearing it was his own daughter that was to
be brought in this strange way, asked Orlando if he be-
lieved the shepherd-boy could really do what he had
promised ; and while Orlando was answering that he knew
not what to think, Ganymede entered and asked the duke
As Vou Like TE: gag

if he brought his daughter whether he would consent to
her marriage with Orlando. ‘‘ThatI 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.’’

co a SN alg
IN Uhiioans We





+ Matin
ele Ligie

ROSALIND: ‘YOU WILL HAVE HER WHEN I BRING HER.”

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and
Ganymede throwing off his male attire, and being once
more dressed in women’s apparel, quickly became Rosa-
lind 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,
224 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

They had no time to wonder how all this would end,
for Rosalind and Celia in their own clothes entered 3; 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 splendor usual on such occasions, yet
a happier wedding-day was never passed; and while they
were eating their venison under the cool shade of the
trees, as if nothing should be wanting to complete the
felicity of this good duke and the true lovers, an unex-
pected 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 re-
sorted 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 to the forest, intending to seize
his brother and put him with all his faithful followers to
_ the sword ; but by a wonderful interposition of Provi-
dence, this bad brother was converted from his evil inten-
tion : for just as he entered the skirts of the wild forest he
was met by an old religious man, a hermit, with whom he
CR

ees
Soy

“Garr ee

VE

%
7

By
=

S
we

X
x

~
>
NM

28 Oh
PIECED VN Ai p | NA

“LO

THE DUKE

225

ANISHED BROTHER.

8 MESSENGER TO HIS B.

9,

\

SN

ERE cS SN
SS \

SS SSNS
aS


saeeeeeeeneeameammecnmmeias

“226 _ ‘Tales from Shakespeare.

had much talk,'and who in the end completely turned _his
heart from his wicked design. Thenceforward he became
a true penitent, and resolved, relinquishing his unjust do-
minion, 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 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 sincere-

ly, though she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom,
but by this restoration which her father had made, Rosa-
lind was now the heir: so completely was the love of these
two cousins unmixed with anything of jealousy or envy.

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those
true friends who had stayed with him in his banishment ; .
and these worthy followers, though they had patiently
shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to re-
turn in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful
duke.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

cee lived at the palace at Messina two ladies whose
names were Hero and Beatrice. Hero was the
daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of Leonato, the gover-
nor 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 Florerice; 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, when 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 Bene-
dick with saying, ‘‘I wonder that you will still be talking,
Signor Benedick ; nobody marks you.”’ Benedick was just
such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he was not
pleased at this free salutation: he thought it did not be-
come a well-bred lady to be so flippant with ‘her tongue:
and he remembered, when he was last at Messina, that

- Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jests upon.


228 Tales from Shakespeare.

And as there is no one who s0 littJe likes to be made a jest
of as those who are apt to take the same liberty them-
selves, 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 observed before that she
was present, said, “‘ What, my dear Lady Disdain, are you
yet living?”? And now war broke out afresh between
them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during which
. Beatrice, although she knew he had so well approved his
valor 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 sank deeper into the mind of Bene-
dick than all Beatrice had said before. This hint she gave
him that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all he
had killed, he did not regard, knowing himself to be a
brave man: but there is nothing that great wits so much
dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge
comes sometimes a little too near the truth; therefore
‘Benedick perfectly hated Beatrice when she called him
*‘ the prince’s jester.”’

The modest Lady Hero was silent before the noble .
guests; and while Claudio was attentively observing the
improvements which time had made in her beauty, and
was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine figure

_ (for she was an admirable young lady), the prince was
highly amused with listening to the 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
BEATRICE AND BENEDICK,


ae

- 230 : Tales from Shakespeare.

pair, the prince did not give up the idea of matching these
two keen wits together.

When the prince returned with Claudio from the pal-
ace, 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 re-
plied, ‘‘O my lord, when I was last at Messina, I looked
upon her with a soldier’s eye, that liked, but had no
leisure for loving ; but now, in this happy time of peace,
thoughts of war have left their places vacant in my mind,
and in their room come thronging soft and delicate thoughts
all prompting me how fair young Hero is, reminding me
that I liked her before I went to the wars.’’ Claudio’s
confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the prince,

that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato

to accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to
this proposal, and the prince found no great difficulty in
persuading the gentle Hero 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 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.




BENEDICK ENTRAPPED.


232 Tales from Shakespeare.

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

_. The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their operations
first; and, watching an opportunity when Benedick was
quietly seated reading in an arbor, the prince and his as-
sistants took their station among the trees behind the
arbor, 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
Signor 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 be-
havior seemed ever to dislike.’’ Claudio confirmed all this,
with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice was so in
love with Benedick, that she would certainly die of grief, if
he could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and
Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he having always
been such a railer against all fair ladies, and in particular
against Beatrice. =

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

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to
this conversation; and he said to himself when he heard
Beatrice loved him, ‘‘Is it possible? Sits the wind-in that
corner ?’’? And when they were gone, he began to reason


















































I AM SENT TO BID YOU COME

‘““ AGAINST MY WILL,

BEATRICE:

233

INTO DINNER.
934 Tales from Shakespeare.

in this manner with himself. ‘This can be no trick!
they were very serious, and they have the truth from
Hero, and seem to pity the lady. Love me! Why, it
must be requited! I did never think to marry. But
when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous
and fair. Sheisso. And wise in every thing but in lov-
ing 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 willI 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 observed a con-

-cealed meaning of kindness under the uncivil words she
uttered, and he said aloud, “If I do not take pity on her,
Tama villain. If Ido not love her, Il amaJew. I will
go get her picture.”

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they
had spread for him, it was now Hero’s turn to play her
part with Beatrice; and for this purpose she sent for
Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who attended
upon her, and she said to Margaret, ‘‘ Good Margaret, run
to the parlor; there you will find my couisin 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 pleas-
ant arbor, where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, like
ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to enter.’’ This arbor,
into which Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was
the very same pleasant arbor 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


Much Ado About Nothing. 235

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 conference.’’ They then began;







HERO AND URSULA DECEIVE BEATRICE,

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
236 Tales from Shakespeare.

to let Beatrice know of it.’”’ ‘ Certainly,” replied Ursula,
“it were not good she knew: his love, lest she made sport
of it.”’ ‘‘ Why, to say 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 without
true judgment as to refuse so rare a gentleman as Signor
Benedick.’’ ‘‘He hath an excellent good name,’ said
Hero: “indeed he is the first man in Italy, always except-
ing my dear Claudio.”’? And now, Hero giving her at-
tendant a hint that it was time to change the discourse,
Ursula said, ‘‘And when are you to be married, madam ? ”’
Hero then told her, that she was to be married to Claudio
the next day, and desired she would go in with her, and
look at some new attire,as she wished to consult with her
on what she would wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who
had been listening with breathless eagerness to this
dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed, ‘‘ What fire is
in my 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 be-
hold their first meeting after being cheated into mutual
liking by the merry artifice of the good-humored 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,
whose spirit seemed to labor in the contriving of villanies.
He hated the prince his brother, and he. hated Claudio,
/

Much Ado About Nothing. 237

because he was the prince’s friend, and determined to
prevent Claudio’s marriage with Hero, only for the mali-
cious pleasure of making Claudio and the prince unhappy ;
for he knew the prince had set his heart upon this mar-
riage, almost as much as Claudio himself: and to effect
this wicked purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as
bad. as himself, whem he encouraged with the offer of a
great reward. Thus Borachio paid his court to Margaret,
Hero’s attendant ; and Don John, knowing this, prevailed
upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with him
from her lady’s chamber window, that night, after Hero
was asleep, and also to dress herself in Hero’s clothes, the
better to deceive Claudio into the belief that it was Hero,
for that was the end he meant to compass by this wicked
plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and
told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and that she
talked with men from her chamber window at midnight.
Now this was the evening before the wedding, and he
offered to take them that night, where they should them-
selves 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 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
238 Tales from Shakespeare.

“would, the next day; and the prince agreed to this, think-
ing no punishment could be too severe for the naughty
lady, who talked with a man from her window the very
night before she was going to be married to the noble
Claudio.

The next day they were all met to celebrate the mar-
riage, and Claudio and Hero were standing before the
priest, and the priest, or friar, as he was called, was
proceeding to pronounce the marriage ceremony, when
Claudio, in the most passionate language, 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 dishonored, that have
gone about to link my dear friend to an unworthy woman.
Leonato, upon my honor, 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 « nuptial.’’

“True, O God!” replied the heart-struck Hero; and
then this hapless lady sank 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 Leo-
nato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them.

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover
Hero from her swoon, saying, “How does the lady?”’
“Dead, I think,” replied Beatrice in great agony, for she
loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuous principles,
she believed nothing of what she had heard spoken against

, her. Not so the poor old father; he believed the story of

his child’s shame, and it was piteous to hear him lament-

ing over her as she lay like one dead before him, wishing
she might never more open her eyes.


THE WEDDING,
240 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 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 ad-
vised him, that he should put on mourning, and erect a
monument for her, and do all rites that appertain to a
burial. ‘What will thisdo?”’ The friar replied, ‘‘ This
report of her death shall change slander into pity: that is
some good; but that is not all the good I hope for. When
Claudio shall hear she died upon hearing his words, the

‘idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his imagination.
Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his heart,
and wish he had not so accused her: yea, though | he
thought his accusation truer.”’

Benedick now said, ‘‘ Leonato, let the friar advise you ;
and though you know how well I love the prince and
Claudio, yet on my honor I will not reveal this secret tc
them.”’
Much Ado About Nothing. — QA1

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrow-
fully, “‘I am so grieved, that the smallest twine may lead
me.” The kind friar then led Leonato and Hero away to
comfort and console them, and Beatrice and Benedick re-
mained alone; and this was the meeting from which their
friends, who contrived the merry plot against them, ex-
pected so much diversion; those friends who were now
overwhelmed with affliction, and from whose minds all
thoughts of merriment seemed forever 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 de-
serve of me who would right her!’’ Benedick then said,
“Ts 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 noth-
ing. Iam sorry for my cousin.”’ ‘By my sword,” said
Benedick, “‘ you love me, and I protest Ilove you. Come,
bid me do anything for you.’? “Kill Claudio,” said
Beatrice. “Ha! not for the wide world,” said 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 dishonored my cousin ?”’ said Bea-
trice. ‘‘OthatI wereaman!” ‘Hear me, Beatrice!” said
Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in Claudio’s
defence ; and she continued to urge on Benedick to revenge
her cousin’s wrongs: and she said, “Talk with a man out
of the window; a proper saying! Sweet Hero! she is
wronged; she is slandered; she is undone. O that I were
a man for Hero’s sake! or that I had any friend, who
would be a man for my sake! but valor is melted into
courtesies and compliments. I cannot be a man with
wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.”
242 Lales from Shakespeare.

“Varry, good Beatrice,” said Benedick: “ by this hand, I
love you.” ‘‘ Use it for my love some other way than by
swearing by it,” said Beatrice. ‘‘Think you, on your
soul, that Claudio has wronged Hero?” asked Benedick.
‘“Yea,’’ answered Beatrice, ‘‘as sure as I have a thought
orasoul.” ‘‘ Knough,” 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 ac-
count! As you hear from me, so think of me. Go, com-
‘fort 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 challeng-
ing the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords
the injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had
died for grief. But they respected his age and his sorrow,
and they said, ‘‘Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old
man.” And now came Benedick, and he also challenged
Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done
to Hero; and Claudio and the prince said to each other,
“¢ Beatrice has set him on todo this.” Claudio nevertheless
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 Clau-
dio’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
BEATRICE :

‘TALK

WITH A MAN OUT OF THE



WINDOW,”

248
244 Tales from Shakespeare.

must have been removed by the flight of Don John, who,
finding his villanies were detected, fled from Messina to
avoid the just anger of his brother.
_ The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he found
he had falsely accused Hero, who, he thought, died upon
hearing his cruel words; and the memory of his beloved
Hero’s image came over him, in the rare semblance that
he loved it first; and the-prince asking him if what he
heard did not run like iron through his soul, he answered,
that he felt as if he had taken poison while Borachio was
speaking.

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the

old man Leonato for the injury he had done his child; and
promised that whatever penance Leonato would lay upon
him for his fault in believing the false accusation against
his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he would endure it.
_ The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the
next morning a cousin of Hero’s, who, he said, was now
his heir, and in person very like Hero. Claudio, 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 sec-
ond 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


















BORACHIO’S CONFESSION.


246 Tales from Shakespeare.

that he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes: and the
prince, who was equally amazed at what he saw, ex-
claimed, ‘‘Is not, this Hero, Hero that was dead ?”’
Leonato replied, ‘‘She died, my lord, but while her slan-
der lived.’? The friar promised them an explanation of
this seeming miracle after the ceremony was ended, and
was proceeding to marry them, when he was interrupted
bv 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
he had learnt from Hero, a pleasant explanation took
place; and they found that they had both been tricked
into a belief of love, which had never existed, and had be-
come 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 expla-
nation; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he was re-
solved 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 be-
cause he heard she was dying of love for him; and
Beatrice protested that she yielded but upon great persua-
sion, 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 con-
triver of the villany, was taken in his flight and brought
back to Messina; and a brave punishment it was to this
gloomy and discontented man, to see the joy and feastings
which, by the disappointment of his plots, took place at
the palace in Messina.
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.

HERE 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 commanded to
marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian
family, refused to obey him, because she loved another
young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus demanded
justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law might
be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that
Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear friend
Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ;
but this honorable reason which Hermia gave for not obey-
ing her father’s command moved not the stern Egeus.

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no
power to alter the laws of his country ; therefore he could
only give Hermia four days to consider of it: and at the
-end of that time, if she still refused to marry Demetrius,
she was to be put to death.

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the
248 Idles from Shakespeare.

duke, she went to her lover I-ysander, and told him the
peril she was in, and that she must either give up him and
marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four days.

Lysander -was in great affliction at hearing these evil
tidings ; but recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at
some distance from Athens, and that at the place where
she lived the cruel law could not be put in force against
Hermia (this law not extending beyond the boundaries of
the city), he proposed to Hermia, that she should steal
out of her father’s house that night, and go with him
to his aunt’s house, where he would marryher. ‘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 ungener-
- ously 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 favorite haunt of those little beings known
by the name of Fairies.

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the fairies,
with all their tiny train of followers, in this wood held their
midnight revels.

Between this little king and queen of sprites there hap-
pened, at this time, a sad disagreement: they never met
by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant wood
but they 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
retusing to give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose
mother had been Titania’s friend ; and upon her death the




4





































oT
ras es

= il | |
ane it
Iti =
le























































































































uh “gf ;
i}
IN
Ce N\ 33 a
i Fe
A
ND ci
A
S i
&
ti 5
ay
{|
Ss =
\ Sa

LYSANDER AND HERMIA,


250 Tales from Shakespeare.

fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, and brought him
up in the woods.

The night on which the loves were to meet in this
wood, as Titania was walking with some of her maids of
honor, she met Oberon attended by his train of fairy
courtiers.

“Til 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 favorite and privy
councillor.

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin -Good-
fellow) -was a shrewd and knavish sprite, and used to play
comical pranks in the neighboring villages; sometimes
getting into the dairies and skimming the milk; some-
times plunging his light and airy form into the butter-
churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the
churn, in vain the dairymaid would labor 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 neighbors 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
neighbors a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip
her three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled




A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 251

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













PUCK FINDS THE LITTLE PURPLE FLOWER.

call Love in Idleness ; the juice of that little purple
fiower laid on the eyelids of those who sleep, will make
them, when they awake, dote on the first thing they see:
Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids
of my Titania when she is asleep; and the first thing she
looks upon when she opens her eyes she will fall in love
252 --£Fales from Shakespeare.

with, even though it be a lion, or a bear, a meddling mon-
key, 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 di-
verted with this intended frolic of his master, and ran to
seek the flower; and while Oberon was waiting the return
of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena enter the
wood; he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for
following him, and after many unkind words on his part,
and gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding him of
his former love and professions of true faith to her, he left
her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts, and she
yan 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 Lysan-
der 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 favorite, ‘‘Take a part of this
flower: there has been a sweet Athenian lady here, who
isin 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 woodbine, musk-roses and eg-
lantine. 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

’




2

OBERON AND TITANIA,








254 Tales from Shakespeare.

you,”’ said her majesty, ‘‘must kill cankers in the musk-
rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for their
leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some
of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly
hoots, come not near me; but first sing me to sleep.”
Then they began to sing this song:

“You spotted snakes with double tongue,

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;

Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in your sweet lullaby,

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:

Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh ;

So good-night, with lullaby.”

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this
pretty lullaby, they left her, to perform the important
services she had enjoined them. Oberon then softly drew
near his Titania, and dropped some of the love-juice on
her eyelids, saying,

c “What thou seest when thou dost wake,

Do it for thy true-love sake.”

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of
her father’s house that night, to avoid the death she was
doomed to for refusing to marry Demetrius. When she
entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting
for her, to conduct her to his aunt’s house; but before
they had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so
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
untill morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down him-
self on the ground at some little distance, they soon fell
fast asleep. .Here they were found, by Puck, who seeing
a handsome young man asleep, and perceiving that. his
clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and that a
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. - 255

pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this
must be the Athenian maid and the disdainful lover whom
Oberon had sent him to seek; and he naturally enough
conjectured as they were alone together, she must be the
first thing he would see when he awoke; so without more
ado, he proceeded to pour some of the juice of the little
purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out, that
Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the
first object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes:
and strange to relate, so powerful was the love-charm,
that all his love for Hermia vanished away,and Lysander
fell in love with Helena.

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

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been
before related, endeavored 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 ina 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 touch-
ing him, she said, ‘‘ Good sir, if you are alive, awake.”
Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm
beginning to work) immediately addressed her in terms of
extravagant love and admiration; telling her, she? as
much excelled Hermia in beauty as a dove does a raven,
and that he would run through fire for her sweet sake;
- and many more such lover-like speeches. » Helena, know-
ing Lysander was her friend Hermia’s lover, and that he
was solemnly engaged to marry her, was in the utmost




256 - Tales from Shakespeare.

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

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at 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 questions he had
asked of Puck, that he had applied the love-charm to the
wrong person’seyes ; 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 be-
fore, began to address love-speeches to her: and just at
that moment Lysander, followed by Hermia (for through
Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia’s turn
to run after her lover), made his 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, Ly-
sander and her once dear friend Hermia were all in a
plot together to make a jest of her.

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew
not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved
her, were now become lovers of Helena; and to Hermia
the matter seemed to be no jest.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 257

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



LYSANDER AND HELENA.

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 friend-
ship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on one
cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working












258 Tales from Shakespeare.

the same flower, both on the same sampler wrought;
growing up together in fashion of a double cherry, scarce
ly seeming parted? Hermia, it is not friendly in you, itis
not maidenly, to join with men in scorning your poor
friend.”

“Tam amazed at your passionate words,” said Her-
mia : ‘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 Jeft them, they
departed, and once more wandered weary in the wood in
search of their lovers.

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with.

Jittle Puck had been listening to their quarrels, said to

him, ‘‘ This is your negligence, Puck; or did you do this
wilfully? ‘‘ Believe me, king of shadows,’’ answered Puck,
“it was a mistake: did not you tell me I should know the
man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not
sorry this has happened, for I think their jangling makes
me excellent sport.’? ‘‘ You heard,” said Oberon, “ that -
Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a convenient
place to fight in. I command you to overhang the night
with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so
astray in the dark, that they shall not be able to find each
other. Counterfeit each of their voices to the other, and
with bitter taunts provoke them to follow you, while they
think it is their rival’s tongue they hear. See you do this,
till they are so weary that they can go no farther; and
when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other
flower into Lysander’s eyes, and when he awakes he will
forget his new love for Helena and return to his old pas-
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 259

sion 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 like-
wise asleep: ‘‘ This fellow,’’ said he, ‘‘shall be my Ti-
tania’s true-love; ’? and clapping an ass’ head over the
clown’s, it seemed to fit him as if it had grown upon his
own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass’ 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-
ing her eyes, and the juice of the little purple flower be-

inning 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,”
love you. Go with me and I will give you fairies to at-
tend 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 gentleman: hop
in his walks and gambol in his sight; feed him with
grapes and apricots, and steal for him the honey-bags
from the bees. Come, sit with me,’’ said she to the clown,
“and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my
beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle
iO ! 939
: o Where is Pease-blossom?” said the ass-headed
clown, not much regarding the fairy-queen’s courtship,
but very proud of his new attendants.

said the en-
amoured queen. ‘I ama spirit of nocommon rate. I

a
6

260 | Tales from Shakespeare. '

“«* Here, sir,’ said little Pease-blossom.

“Seratch my head,’ saidthe clown. ‘‘ Where is Cob-
web?”

“‘ 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; ‘“‘ whatis your will ? ”’

‘‘ 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? Ihave a venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel’s
hoard, and fetch you some new nuts.”’

“T had rather have a handful of dried pease,”’ said the
clown, who with his ass’ head had got an ass’ 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 youin
my arms. O howl 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 re
proached her with having lavished her favors upon an
ass.

This she could not deny,.as the clown was then sleep-
ing within her arms, with his ass’ 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: favorite, did
not dare to refuse him. :

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so

Z










ean Sy EB |
ww nuff uae Vis
y My Ms a

THE ENAMORED QUEEN,
262 Tales from Shakespeare,

long wished for to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful
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 imme-
diately 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’ head from off the clown
and left him to finish his nap with his own fool’s head
upon his shoulders.

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled,
he related to her the history of the lovers and their mid-
night 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; andhe ©
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 him, 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 sur-
prise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive were sin-
cere. ‘

These fair r* sht-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 263

became once more true friends; all the unkind words
which had passed were forgiven, and they calmly con-
sulted 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 endeavor

























































































































































































































































































































PUCK AND THE FAIRIES.

to prevail upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence of
death which had been passed againsther. Demetrius was
preparing to return to Athens for this friendly purpose,
when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus, Her-
mia’s father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his run-
away daughter.

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not
264 Tales from Shakespeare.

now marry his daughter, he no longer opposed her mar-
riage 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 con-
demned 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 specta-
tors 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 nup-
tials with sports and revels throughout their fairy king-
dom.

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.


MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

TN 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 par-
ticular one law, the existence of which was almost for-
gotten, 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) con-
sider 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
dishonorable 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
Vienna for his strict and rigid life, was chosen by the
duke as a fit person to undertake this important charge ;
and when the duke imparted his design to Lord Escalus,
his chief councillor, Escalus said, “If any man in Vienna
be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honor, it is
Lord Angelo.”’ And now. the duke departed from Vienna
268 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 in-
vested 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 so long been
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 honorable father, for whose sake I pray you par-
don the young man’s transgression.’? But Angelo re-
plied, ‘‘ We must not make ascarecrow of the law, setting
it up to frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it
harmless, Dakes it their perch and Auk 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. Goto 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 An-
gelo. I have great hopes in that; for she can discourse
with prosperous art, and well she can persuade ; besides,
there is a speechless dialect in youthful sorrow such as
moves men.’

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that ‘nine
entered upon her novitiate in the convent, and it was her
intent, after passing through her probation as a novice, to
take the veil, and she was inquiring of a nun concerning
the rules of the convent when they heard the voice of
Lucio, who, as he entered that religious house, said,


267





































ANGELO,















ABEL AND

uss






268 Tales from Shakespeare.

“Peace be in this place!’’ ‘‘ Who is it that speaks?”
said Isabel. ‘‘ It’s 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
farther privileges?’’ said Isabel. ‘‘ Are not these large
enough?’’ replied the nun. ‘* Yes, truly,’’ said Isabel:
“T speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more
strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint
Clare.’’ Again they heard the voice of Lucio, and the
nun said, ‘‘ He calls again, I pray you 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 in your cheeks proclaim
you are no less! .can you bring me to the sight of Isabel,
a novice of this place, and the fair sister to her unhappy
brother Claudio ?’’ ‘ Why her unhappy brother ?”’ said -
Isabel, ‘let me ask: for I am that Isabel, and his sister.”
“ Fair and gentle lady,”’ he replied, “your brother kindly
greets you by me; he is in prison.’? ‘‘ Woe is me! for
what?” said Isabel. Lucio then told her Claudio wasim-
prisoned for seducing a young maiden. ‘‘ Ah,” said she,
“‘T fear it is my cousin Juliet.”’ Juliet and Isabel were
not related, but they called each other cousin in remem-
brance 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 sen-
tenced him to die for his offence ; “‘ unless,’’ said he, ‘‘ you
have the grace by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and
that is my businees between you and your poor brother.”’
- “ Alas,” said Isabel, ‘‘ what poor ability is there in me to


THE CONVENT OF SAINT CLARE. : (269
270 Tales from Shakespeare.

do him good? I doubtI have no power to move Angelo.”’
“Our doubts are traitors,’’ said Lucio, ‘‘and make us
lose the good we might often win by fearing to attempt
it. Goto 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. Com-
mend me to my brother: soon at night I will send him
word of my success.”’

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on’her
knees before Angelo, saying, ‘‘I am a woful suitor to
: your honor, if it will please your honor 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 honor!’ and she was
about to depart. But Lucio, who had acgompanied her,
said, “Give it not over so; return to him again, entreat
him, kneel down before him, hangupon his gown. You
are too cold; if you should need a pin, you could not with
a more tame tongue desire it.”’ Then again Isabel on her
knees implored for mercy. ‘‘ He is sentenced,’ said An-
gelo: “‘it is too late.”? ‘‘Too late!’ said Isabel : ‘‘ Why,
no; I that do speak a word, may call it back again. Be-
lieve 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 be gone,”
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
















.















































































































J

2%

ISABEL PLEADING,
272 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 yourown 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 dishonorable love, such as Claudio’s crime had been ;
and the conflict in his mind made him turn away from
Isabel: but she called him back, saying, ‘“ Gentle my
lord, turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my
lord, turn back?”’ ‘‘ How, bribe me!”’ said Angelo, as-
-tonished 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 permission 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 honor safe! Heaven save your
honor!’? Which, when Angelo heard, he said within his
heart, ‘‘ Amen, I would be saved from thee and from thy
Measure for Measure. 273

virtues: ’’ and then, affrighted at his own evil thoughts,
he said, ‘‘ What is this? What is this? DolI 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 wish-
ing to seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence and honor,
and now suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet
but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts pre-
vailed ; 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 honor,
and transgress even as Juliet had done with Claudio, he
would give her her brother’s life. ‘‘For,’’ said he, “I
love you, Isabel.”? ‘‘ My brother,’ said Isabel, ‘‘ did so
love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall die for it.”
“‘ But,”’ said Angelo, ‘‘ Claudio shall not die, if you will
consent to visit me by stealth at night, even as Juliet
left her father’s house at night to come to Claudio.’’
Isabel in amazement at his words, that he should tempt
her to the same fault for which he passed sentence of
death upon her brother,.said, ‘‘I would do as much for
my poor brother as for myself; that is, were I under sen-
tence of death, the impression of keen whips I would wear
274 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 hesaid, ‘“‘ Believe me,
on my honor, my words express my purpose.”’ Isabel,
angered to the heart to hear him use the word honor to
express such dishonorable purposes, said, “Ha! little
honor, 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 austere-
ness of my life, my word vouched against yours, will out-
weigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yield-
ing 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 dishonor-
able solicitations.

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined,
she said, ‘‘ Peace be here, grace and good company !”’
“Who is there?” said the disguised duke: “‘ come in;
the wish deserves a welcome.” ‘My business is a word
or two with Claudio,’’ said Isabel. Then the duke left
them together, and desired the provost, who had the
charge of the prisoners, to place him where he might over-
hear their conversation.

“‘Now, sister, what is the comfort?’ said Claudio.
Isabel told him he must prepare for death on the morrow,


Measure for Measure. 275

‘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 honor from you, and leave
you naked.”’? “Let me know the point,” said Claudio.
‘Oh, I do fear you, Claudio! ”’ replied his sister; “‘and I

mya, Se
ne

Al!



4

“*1 WILL PROCLAIM THEE.” ane

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 honor! Do you dare todie? The
sense of death is most in apprehension, and the poor
beetle that we tread upon feels a pang as great as when a
giant dies.”’ ‘Why do you give me this shame 2”? said
276 Tales from ‘Shakespeare.

Claudio. ‘Think you I can fetch a resolution from

flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter
' darkness as a bride, and hug it in my arms.” ‘“‘ There
spoke my brother,’’ said Isabel; “there my father’s
grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you muSt die; yet,
would you think it, Claudio ! this outward-sainted deputy,
if I would yield to him my virgin honor, would grant
your life. Oh, were it but my life, 1 would lay it down for
your deliverance as frankly asa pin!” ‘‘ Thanks, dear
Isabel,’? said Claudio. ‘Be ready to die to-morrow,”
said Isabel. ‘Death is a fearful thing,’ said Claudio,
«* And shamed life a hateful,”’ replied his sister. But the
thoughts of death overcame the constancy of Claudio’s
temper, and terrors, such as the guilty only at. their
deaths do know, assailing him, he cried out, ‘‘ Sweet sis-
ter, 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 honor, 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 lishonor.”’ ‘Nay, hear me, Isabel!” said Clau-
dio.

But what he would have said in defence of his weakness,
in desiring to live by the dishonor 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 cor-
rupt her-; what he said has only been to make trial of her
virtue. She having the truth of honor in her, has given
him that*gracious denial which he is most glad to receive.
There is no hope that he will pardon you; therefore pass
your hours in prayer, and make ready for death.’’ Then
Claudio repented of his weakness, and said, ‘‘ Let me ask
my sister’s pardon! Iam so out of love with life, that I




























































































































































































































Lees WL,
ih Hi)

















ISABEL AND CLAUDIO.
278 _ Tales from Shakespeare.

will sue to be rid of it.” And Claudio retired, over-
whelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault.

The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended
her virtuous resolution, saying, ‘“‘ The hand that made you
fair has made you good.” ‘ Oh,” said Isabel, ‘“ how
much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! if ever he re-
turn, 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 at:
tentive ear to my advisings. I believe that you may
most righteously do a poor wronged lady a merited hene-
fit, redeem your brother from the angry law, do no géain
to your own most gracious person, and much pleas» the
absent duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have
notice of this business.’’ Isabel said, she had a spirit tc
do any thing 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, he-
sides the loss of a most noble and renowned brother, who
in his love towards her was the most kind and natural, in
the wreck of her fortune she lost the affections of Ler
husband, the well-seeming Angelo: who pretended to dis-
cover some dishonor in this honorable 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 ¢ontinuance of her first affection.’’ The duke
Measure for Measure. 279

then more plainly unfolded his plan. It was that Isabel
should go to Lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to come
to him as desired, at midnight; that by this means she
would obtain the promised pardon; and that Mariana
should go in her stead to the appointment, and pass her-
self upon Angélo 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 to-
gether 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 vis-
ited 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 his undertaking.
When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo,
to the house of Mariana, where the duke had appointed
her to meet him, he said, ‘‘ Well met, and in good time;
what is the news from this good deputy ?’’ Isabel related
the manner in which she had settled the affair. ‘‘ An-
gelo,’’. said she, ‘‘has a garden surrounded with a brick
wall, on the western side of which is a vineyard, and
to that vineyard is a gate.’? And then she showed to the
duke and Mariana two keys that Angelo had given her;
and she said, ‘“‘ This bigger key opens the vineyard gate ;
this other a little door which leads from the vineyard to
the. garden. There I have made my promise at the dead
of the night to call upon him, and have got from him his
word of assurance for my brother’s life. I have taken a
due and wary note of the place : and with whispering and
most guilty diligence he showed me the way twice over.”
** Are there no other tokens agreed upon between you,
that. Mariana must observe ?”’ said the duke. ‘No,
none,’’ said Isabel, ‘‘ only to go when it isdark. 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.ser-
280 z Tales Srom Shakespeare.

vant is persuaded I come about my brother.’? The duke
commended her discreet management, and she, turning to
Mariana, said, ‘‘ Little have you to say to Angelo, when
you depart from him, but, soft and low, Remember now
my brother !”?

Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed
place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she sup-
posed, by this device preserved both her brother’s life and
her own honor. 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 be-
headed ; for, soon after the duke entered the prison, an
order came from the cruel deputy, commanding that
Claudio should be beheaded, and his head sent to him by
five o’clock in the morning. But theduke persuaded the
provost to put off the execution of Claudio, and to de-
ceive Angelo, by sending him the head of a man who
died that morning in the prison. And to prevail upon the
provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provost
suspected not to be anything more or greater than he
seemed, showed the provost a letter written with the
duke’s hand, and sealed with his seal, which when the
provost saw, he concluded this friar must have some
secret order from the absent duke, and therefore he con-
sented to spare Claudio; and he cut off the dead man’s
head, and carried it to Angelo.

Then the duke, in his own name, wrete 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 ex-
hibit their petitions in the street on his first entrance into
the city.

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and














































































































































































281

”

‘JUSTICE MOST ROYAL DUKE,

K
282 Tales from Shakespeare.

the duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret rea-
sons thought it good to tell her that Claudio was be-
headed; therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had
sent the pardon for her brother, he said, ‘‘ Angelo has re-
leased 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 com-
fort, and when she was become a little calm, he ac-
quainted her with the near prospect of the duke’s return,
and told her in what manner she should_proceed in pre-
ferring her complaint against Angelo, and he bade her
not 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 i in what manner
she also should act.

Then the duke laid aside his friar’s habit, and in his
own royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful
subjects assembled to greet his arrival, entered the city
of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who delivered
up his authority in the proper form. And there came
Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and
said, ‘‘ Justice most royal duke! Iam the sister of one
Claudio, who for the seducing a young maid was con-
demned 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 dishonorable
love release my brother; and after much debate within
myself, sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and I did ©
yield tohim. But the next morning betimes, Angelo, for-
- feiting his promise, sent a warrant for my poor brother’s
head!’’ The duke affected to disbelieve her story ; and
Angelo said that grief for her brother’s death, who had
suffered by the due course of the law, had disordered her
Measure for Measure. 283

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 forever 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 Mari-
ana had both obeyed his instructions in what they said,
the duke intending that the innocence of Isabel should be
plainly proved in that public manner before the whole
city of Vienna: but Angelo little thought that it was
from such a cause that they thus differed in their story,
and he hoped from their contradictory evidence to be able
to clear himself from the accusation of Isabel; and he
said, assuming the look of offended innocence, “1 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 deptited 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,
°

284 Tales from Shakespeare.

“Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander Lord
Angelo?’’? He replied, ‘‘ Where is the duke? It is he
should hear me speak.’’ Escalus said, ‘‘The duke is in
us, and we will hear you. Speak justly.” ‘Boldly at
least,’’ retorted the friar: and then he blamed the duke
for leaving the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she
had accused, and spoke so freely of many corrupt prac-
tices he had observed, while, as he said, he had been a
looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus threatened him with
the torture for speaking words against the state, and for
censuring the conduct of the duke, and ordered him to be
taken away to prison. Then, to the amazement of all
present, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, the sup-
posed friar threw off his disguise, and they saw it was
the duke himself.

The duke first addressed issbels He said to her,
“Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince, but
with my habit I have not changed my heart. Iam still
devoted to your service.’’ ‘‘Oh, give me pardon,”’ said
Isabel, ‘‘that I, your vassal, have employed and troubled
your unknown sovereignty.’’ He answered that he had
most need of forgiveness from her for not having pre-
vented the death of her brother—for not yet would he tell
her that Claudio was living; meaning first to make a
farther trial of her goodness. Angelo now knew the duke
had been a secret witness of his bad deeds, and he said,
““O-my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guilti-
ness, to think I ¢an 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, “ An-
gelo, 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,


Measure for Measure. 285

**T 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







THE DUKE DISCOVERED.

service !’? The duke said, ‘‘ Against all sense you im-
portune her. Should Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy,
her brother’s ghost would break his paved bed, and take
her hence in horror.” Still Mariana said, ‘‘ Isabel, sweet
Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold up your hand, say noth-
ing! I will speak all. They say, best men are moulded
out of faults, and for the most part become much the
better for being a little bad. So may my husband. Oh,
286 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 honorable 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, pre-
sented 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 of-
fered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose vir-
tuous 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 friar,
which the noble duke had done for her, made her with
grateful joy accept the honor he offered her ; and when she
became duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the
virtuous Isabel worked such a complete reformation
among the young ladies of that city, that from that time
none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, the repent-
ant wife of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving
duke long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of
husbands and of princes,






MARIANA AND ANGELO. 287






ai

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

ATHERINE the Shrew was the eldest daugnter of
Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She wasa
lady of such an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper,
such a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua
by no other name than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed
very unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman
would ever be found who would venture to marry this
lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for de-
ferring 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 Pe-
truchio came to Padua, purposely to look out for a wife,
who, nothing discouraged by these reports of Katherine’s
temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome, re-
solved upon marrying this famous termagant, and tam-
ing her into a meek and manageable wife. And. truly
none was so fit to set about this herculean labor as Petru-
chio, whose spirit was as high as Katherine’s, and he was
a witty and most happy-tempered humorist; and withal
so wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew
how to feign a passionate and furious deportment, when

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

x
The Taming of the Shrew. 289

A-courting then Petruchio went to Katherine the
Shrew, and first of all he applied to Baptista, her father,
for leave to’-woo his gentle daughter Katherine, as Petru-
chio called her, saying archly that having heard of her
bashful modesty and mild behavior, he had come from







KATHERINE AND HER SISTER.

Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished
her married, was forced to confess Katherine would ill
answer this character, it being soon apparent of what
manner of gentleness she was composed, for her music-
master rushed into the room to complain that the gentle
Katherine, his pupil, had broken his head with her ‘ute,
for presuming to find fault with her performance; which
290 ‘Tales from Shakespeare.

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, Signor Bap-
tista, I cannot come every day to woo. You knew my
father. He is dead, and has left me heir to all-his lands
and goods. Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love,
what dowry you will give with her.”’ Baptista thought
his manner was somewhat blunt for a lover; but being
glad to get Katherine married, he answered that he would
give her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and
half his estate at his death; so this odd match was
quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise his
shrewish daughter of her lover’s addresses, and sent her in
to Petruchio to listen to his suit.

In the meantime Petruchio was settling with himself
the mode of courtship he should pursue: and he said, “T
will woo her with some spirit when she comes. If she
rails at me, why, then I will tell her she sings as sweetly as
a nightingale ; and if she frowns, I will say she looks as
clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not
speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her language;
and if she bids me leave her, I will give her thanks as if
she bid me stay with her a week.’’ Now the stately
Katherine entered, and Petruchio first addressed her with
‘*Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name I hear.’
Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said disdain-
fully, “‘They call me Katherine who do speak to me.”’
** You lie,” replied the lover; “for you are called plain
Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometime Kate the Shrew;
but, Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom,
and therefore, Kate, hearing your mildness praised in
every town, I am come to woo you for my wife.”

A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and
“angry terms showing him how justly she had gained the
name of Shrew, while. he still praised-her sweet and cour-
teous words, till at length, hearing her father coming, he






















EATHERINE AND PETRUCHIO.
4

292 Tales from Shakespeare.

said (intending to make as quick a wooing as possible),
“‘ Sweet Katherine, 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 prom-
ised to be married the next Sunday. This Katherine de-
nied, saying she would rather see him hanged on Sunday,
and reproached her father for wishing to wed her to such
a madcap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her
father not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed
she should seem reluctant before him, but that when they
were alone he had found her very fond and loving; and he
said to her, ‘Give me your hand, Kate; I will go to
Venice to buy you fine apparel against our wedding-day.
Provide the feast, father, and bid the wedding guests. I
will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes,
that my Katherine 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 Kather-
ine wept for vexation to think that Petruchio had only
been making a jest of her. At last, however, he ap-
peared, but he brought none of the bridal finery he had
promised Katherine, nor was he dressed himself like a
bridegroom, but in strange disordered attire, as if he
meant to make a sportof 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 fash-
ion habited.

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress ;
he said Katherine was to be married to him, and not to
his clothes. Finding it was in vain to argue with him, to
the church they went, he still behaving in the-same mad
way, for when the priest asked Petruchio if Katherine
should be his wife, he swore so loud that sheshould, that,
The Taming of the Shrew. 293

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 Katherine trem-









PETRUCHIO AND HIS WIFE.

led and shook with fear. After the ceremony was over,
while they were yet in the church, he called for wine, and
drank: a loud health to the company, and threw a sop
which was at the bottom of the glass full in the sexton’s
Jace, 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
- 294 ~ Tales from Shakespeare.

such a mad marriage; but Petruchio did but put this
wildness on, the better to succeed in the plot he had
formed to tame his shrewish wife.

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast,
but when they returned from church, Petruchio, taking

-hold of Katherine, declared his intention of carrying his

wife home instantly ; and no remonstrance of his father-
in-law, or angry words of the enraged Katherine, coula
make him change his purpose: he claimed a husband’s
right to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and away he.
hurried Katherine off; he seemed so daring and resolute
that no one dared attempt fo 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 jour-
neyed on through rough and miry ways, and ever when
this horse of Katherine’s stumbled, he would storm and
swear at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce craw!
under his burthen, as if he had been the most: passlouate
man alive.

At length, after a weary journey, during which Kath-
erine had heard nothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio
at the servant and the horses, they arrived at his house.
Petruchio welcomed her kindly to her home, but he re-
solved she should have neither rest nor food that night.
The tables were spread, and supper soon served 3 but
Petruchio, pretending to find fault with every dish, threw
the meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to re-
move it away, and all this he did, as he said, in love for his
Katherine, that she might not eat meat that was not well
dressed. And when Katherine, weary and supperless,
retired to rest, he found the same fault with the bed,
throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so
that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where if she
chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by
the loud voice of her husband, storming at the servants
for the ill-making of his wife’s bridal-bed.
Lie
ae





THE MARRIAGE-FRAST. 295


296 Tales from Shakespeare.

The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still
speaking kind words to Katherine, but when she attempted
to eat, finding fault with everything that was set before
her, throwing the breakfast on the floor as he had done
the supper; and Katherine, the haughty Katherine, was
fain to beg the servants to 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? Beg-
gars that come to my father’s door have food given them.
But I, who never knew what it was to entreat for any-
thing, 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 tome.’’ Here her soliloquy was inter-
rupted 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 diligentI am. Ihave dressed your
meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits thanks.
What, not aword! Nay, then you love not the meat, and
all the pains I have taken is to no purpose.” He then
ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme
hunger, which had abated the pride of Katherine, made
her say, though angered to the heart, ‘‘I pray you let it
stand.’ But this was not all Petruchio intended to bring
her to, and he replied, ‘‘ The poorest service is repaid with
thanks, and so shall mine before you touch the meat.”
On ais Katherine brought out a reluctant “I thank you,
sir.”’* And now he suffered her to make a slender meal,
saying, ‘“‘ Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate: ;
eat apace! And now, my honey love, we will return to
your father’s house, and revel it as bravely as the best,
with silken coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs
and scarfs amd fans and double change of finery ;”’ and to
make her believe he really intended to give her these gay






°

PETRUCHIO AND THE GOWN:
298 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 wal-
‘nut shell, desiring the haberdasher to take it away and
make a bigger. Katherine 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 Katherine had eaten had a little -
revived her fallen spirits, and she said, ‘‘ Why, sir, I trust
I may have leave to speak, and speak I will: I am no
child, no babe ; your betters have endured to hear me say
my mind; and if you cannot, you had better stop your
ears.’’ Petruchio would not hear these angry words, for
he had happily discovered a better way of managing bis
wife than keeping up a jangling argument with her ; there-
fore his answer was, “‘ Why, you say true, it is.a paltry
cap, and I love you for not liking it.” “Love me, or love
me not,” said Katherine, “I like the cap, and I will have
this cap, or none.”’ “ You say you wish to see the gown,,”
said Petruchio, still affecting to misunderstand her. Tho
tailor then came forward and showed her a fine gown he
had made for her. Petruchio, whose intent was that she
should have neither cap nor gown, found as much fault
with that ‘‘O mercy, Heaven!” said he; ‘‘ what stuff
is here! What, do you call this a sleeve ? it is like a demi-
cannon, carved up and down like an apple-tart.”” The
tailor said, ‘‘ You bid me make it according to the fashion
of the times ; ’ and Katherine said she never saw a better-
fashioned gown. This was enough for Petruchio, and
privately desiring these people might be paid for these
goods, had excuses made to them for the seemingly strange
treatment he bestowed upon them; he with fierce words
The Taming of the Shrew. 299

and furious gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher
out of the room : and then, turning to Katherine, he said,
“‘ Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s even
in these mean garments we now wear.’’ And then he
ordered his horses, affirming they should reach Baptista’s
house by dinner-time, for that it was but seven o’clock.
Now it was not early morning, but the very middle of the
day, when he spoke this ; therefore Katherine ventured to
say, though modestly, being almost overcome by the.
vehemence of his manner, ‘“‘] dare assure you, sir, it is
tivo 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 if he were
lord even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said
it should be what time he pleased to have it, before he set
forward: ‘‘For,”’ said he, ‘‘ whatever I say or do, you
still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and when I go,
it shall be what o’clock I say it is.”? Another day Kath-
erine was forced to practise her newly-found obedience,
and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such a per-
_ fect subjection that she dared not remember there was
such a word as contradiction, would Petruchio allow her
to go to her father’s house ; and even while they were upon
their journey thither, she was in danger of being turned
back again, only because she happened to hint it was the
sun, when he affirmed the moon shone brightly at noon-
day. ‘Now, by my mother’s son,”’ said he, “and that is
myself, it shall be the moon, or stars, or what T list, be-
_ fore I journey to your father’s house.”’ He then made as
if he were going back again; but Katherine, no longer
Katherine the Shrew, but the obedient wife, said, ‘‘ Let us
go forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and it shall
be the sun, or moon, or what you please ; and if you please
to call it a rush candle henceforth, I vow it shall be so for
me.” This he was resolved to prove, therefore he said
again, “I say itis the moon.” ‘I know it is the moon,”
300 Tales from Shakespeare.

replied Katherine. ‘‘ You lie, it is the blessed sun,’’ said
Petruchio. ‘‘ Then it is the blessed sun,” replied Kather-
ine; ‘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 shali
be for Katherine.’’ Now then he suffered her to proceed
on her journey; but further to try if this yielding humor
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 Katherine
if she had ever beheld a fairer gentlewoman, praising the
red and white of the old man’s cheeks, and comparing his
eyes to two bright stars; and again he addressed him,
saying, “‘ Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you! ”’
and said to his wife, ‘‘ Sweet Kate, embrace her for her
beauty’s sake.”? The now completely vanquished Kath-
erine 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 dwell-
ing? 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 with-
ered, and not a maiden, as you say he is.”” On this Kath-
erine 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 en-
counter has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and
Iam 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 Vin-
centio very happy by telling him of the rich marriage his






















PETRUCHIO AND THE GRANDSIRE,
302 Tales from Shakespeare.

son was about to make; and they all journeyed on_pleas-
antly together till they came to Baptista’s house, where
there was a large company assembled to celebrate the
wedding of Bianco and Lucentio, Baptista having willing-

ly consented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got
- Katherine off his hands.

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the
wedding-feast, and there was present also another newly
married pair.

Lucentio, Bianca’s husband, and Hortensio, the other
new-married man, could not forbear sly jests, which
seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition of Petruchio’s
wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed highly pleased
with the mild tempers of the ladies tlLey had chosen,
laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. Petru-
chio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies were re-
tired after dinner, and then he perceived Baptista himself
joined in the laugh against him: for when Petruchio af-
firmed that his wife would prove more obedient than theirs,
the father of Katherine said, ‘‘ Now, in good sadness, son-
Petruchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all.’’
“Well,” said Petruchio, “I say no, and therefore for as=
surance 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 pro-
pose.”” To this the other two husbands willingly con-
sented, for they were quite confident that their gentle
wives would prove more obedient than the headstrong
Katherine; and they proposed a wager of twenty crowns,
but Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much as that
upon his hawk or hounds, but twenty times as much upon
his wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to a
hundred crowns, and Lucentio first sent his servant to de-
sire Bianca wouldcometohim. Butthe 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














el















ile
D

Wj On,
y ify Yy

yn

i
p
7 i yj

NH
i

303

THE SHREW TAMED,


304 - ‘Tales from Shakespeare.

a wife?” Then they laughed at him, and said it would
be well if Katherine did not send him a worse answer.
And now it was Hortensio’s turn to send for his wife ; and
he said to his servant, ‘Go, and entreat my wife to come
tome.” ‘Ohho! entreat her!’’ said Petruchio. ‘Nay,
then, she needs must come.” “I am afraid, sir,’ said
Hortensio, ‘your wife will not be entreated.’’ But pres-
ently this civil husband looked a little blank, when the ser-
vant returned without his mistress; and he said to him,
‘‘How now! Where is my wife?’’ ‘Sir,’ said the ser-
vant, “‘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;
ahd 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, ex-
claimed, ‘“‘ Now, by my halidom, here comes Katherine !’’
and she entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, “ What is
your will, sir, that you send for me?”’ ‘‘ Where is your
sister and Hortensio’s wife?’ said he. Katherine replied,
‘“They sit conferring by the parlor fire.” “Go, fetch
them hither,” said Petruchio. Away went Katherine
without reply to perform her husband’scommand. “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, every-
thing that is sweetand happy.” Katherine’s father, over-
joyed 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.’? Katherine now entering
with the two ladies, he continued, ‘See where she comes,


The Taming of the Shrew. 305

and brings your froward wives as prisoners to her woman-
ly persuasion. Katherine, that cap of yours does not be-
come you; off with that hauble, and throw it under foot.”’
Katherine instantly took of, her. cap and threw it down.
“Tord!’’ said Hortensio’s wife, ‘‘may I never have a
cause to sigh till lam brought to such asilly 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.’ ‘‘Katherine,’’ said Petruchio, “‘I charge
you tell these headstrong women what duty they owe their
lords and husbands.’’ And, to the wonder of all present,
the reformed. shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise
of the wife like duty of obedience, as she had practised it
implicitly in a ready submission to Petruchio’s will. And
Katherine once more became. famous in Padua, not as
heretofore, as Katherine the Shrew, but as Katherine the
most obedient and duteous wife in Padua.
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

EBASTIAN and his sister Viola, a young gentleman
and lady of Messaline, were twins, and (which was
accounted a great wonder) from their birth they so much
resembled each other, that, but for the difference in their
dress, they could not be known apart. They were both
born im one hour, and in one hour they were both in
danger of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the
coast of Illyria as they were making a sea voyage to-
gether. The ship, on board of which they were, split ona
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 any-
thing 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 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

f
Twelfth Night. 307

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 re-
plied, 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 asa page. It wasa
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 behavior in the captain,
and that he showed a friendly concern for her welfare, in-
trusted 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 color and in the same fashion her
brother Sebastian used to wear ; and when she was dressed
in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like her brother, .
that some strange errors happened by means of their
being mistaken for each other; for, as will afterwards
appear, Sebastian was also saved.

Viola’s good friend, the captain, when he had 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
308 Lales from Shakespeare.

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 favored attendant. To
Cesario Orsino confided the whole- history of his love for
the Lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and unsuc-
cessful 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 un-
kindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports
of the field and all manly exercises in which he used to de-
light, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening to the
effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs and passionate
love-songs; and neglecting the company of the wise and
learned lords with whom he used to associate, he was now
all day long conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet
companion, no doubt, his grave courtiers thought Cesario
was for their once noble master, the great Duke Orsino.
It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the
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 should behold without
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, “Ifa
lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and |
perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not love
her in return, would you not tell her that you could not
love, and must not she be content with this answer?”
But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied
that it was possible for any woman to love as he did. He
said no woman’s heart was big enough to hold so much
love, and therefore it was unfair to compare the love of
any lady for him to his love for Olivia. Now, though
Twelfth Night. 309

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

eee

ESS

os
bee fina
ee

LLP TESS

HE:

5

oe
LZ Pr aoa

Lp
LLL













CESARIO, THE DUKE’S PAGE.

I know,” replied Viola, ‘‘ what love women may owe to
men. They are as true of heart as we are. My father
had a daughter loved a man, as I, perhaps, were I a
woman, should love your lordship.”? ‘And what is her
history ?’’ said Orsino. ‘A blank, my lord,’’ replied
Viola: “she never told her love, but let concealment, like
a@ worm in the bud, prey on her damask cheek. She pined
310 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 Or-
sino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom
the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, ‘‘So please you,
my lord, I might not be admitted to the lady, but by her
handmaid she returned you this answer: Until seven
years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face;
but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her
chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her
dead brother.’”? On hearing this, the duke exclaimed,
‘Oh, she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this
debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love when the
rich golden shaft has touched her heart !’’? And then he
said to Viola, “‘ You know, Cesario, I have told you all
the secrets of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to.
Olivia’s house. Be not denied access! stand at the doors,
and tell her there your fixed foot shall grow till you have
audience.” ‘And if I do speak to her, my lord, what
then?’’ said Viola. ‘‘ Oh, then,” replied Orsino, “ unfold
to her the passion of my love. Make a long discourse to
her of my dear faith. It will well become you to act my
woes, for she will attend more to you than to one of
graver aspect.”’ E

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she
undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to be-
come 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 in-
sisted 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
ee



oe
——— ip = == S
dt is SESS
oe ee iK NC

ao RES

<

+ XS

SAWN SS

CSE

SSSR
SEES

















311

VIOLA AND OLIVIA.
312 Tales from Shakespeare.

foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he
must speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady?
for he seems fortified against all denial, and- will speak
with you, whether you will or no.”’ Olivia, curious to see
who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he
might be admitted ; and throwing her veil over her face,
she said she would once more hear Orsino’s embassy, not
doubting but that he came from the duke, by his importu-
nity. Viola entering, put on. the most manly air she
could assume, and affecting the fine courtier’s language
of great men’s pages, she said to the veiled lady, ‘‘ Most
radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell
me if you are the lady of the house: for I should be sorry:
to cast away my speech upon another; for besides that it
is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to
learn it.” ‘‘ Whence come you, sir?’ said Olivia. ‘I
can say little more than I have studied,”’ replied Viola ;
“and that question is out of my part.’ ‘‘Are you a
comedian?’’ said Olivia. ‘No,’ replied Viola; “and yet
Iam not that which I play;” meaning, that she being a
woman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she
asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia
said she was; and then Viola, having more curiosity to
see her rival’s features than haste to deliver her master’s
message, said, ‘Good madam, let me see. your face.’’
With this bold request Olivia was not averse to comply:
for this haughty beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had loved
so long in vain, at first sight 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 nego-
tiate with my face?’’ And then, forgetting her deter-
mination 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














































































EB?”

OT WELL DON

TN

66 AND IS I
314 _ Tales from Shakespeare.

most cruel lady living, if you will lead these graces to the
grave, and leave the world no.copy.’”’ ‘Oh, sir,” replied
Olivia, ‘‘ I will not be so cruel. The world may have an
inventory of my beauty. As, ztem, two lips, indifferent
red; ztem, two gray eyes, with lids to them; one neck;
one chin, and so forth. Were you sent here to praise
me?’ Viola replied, ‘‘I see what you are: you are too
proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves you.
Oh, sucha love could but be recompensed, though you were
crowned the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with
adoration and with tears, with groans that thunder love,
and sighs of fire.’ ‘Your lord,” said Olivia, ‘‘ knows
well my mind. I cannot love him; yet I doubt not he
is virtuous ; I know him to be noble and of high estate,
of fresh and spotless youth. All. voices proclaim him
learned, courteous and valiant; yet I cannot love him, he
might have taken his answer long ago.”’ - “If I did love

you as my master does,”’ said Viola, “I would make me.

a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name.
I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing
them in the dead of the night: your name should sound
among the hills, and I would make Echo, the babbling
gossip of the air, cry out Olivia. Oh, you should not rest
between the elements of earth and air, but you should
pity me.” ‘You might do much,” said Olivia; ‘‘ what is
your parentage? ’’ Viola replied,‘‘ Above my fortunes, yet
my state is well. I am a gentleman.” Olivia now re-
luctantly 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. ITamagentleman.” And she said aloud, “1 will
be sworn he is; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action and
spirit, plainly show he is a gentleman.’’ And then she
Twelfth Night. Se pee

wished Cesario was the duke; and perceiving the fast hold
he had taken on her affections, she blamed herself for her
sudden love; but the gentle blame which people lay upon
their own faults has no deep root: and presently the noble
Lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fort-
unes 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 sus-
pect; for knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her,
she began to recollect that Olivia’s looks and manner
were expressive of admiration, and she presently guessed
her master’s mistress had fallen in love with her.
“ Alas,’’ said she, “the poor lady might as well love
a dream. Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused
Olivia to breathe as fruitless sighs for me as I do for Or-
sino.”

Viola returned to Orsino’s palace, and related to her
lord the ill success of the negotiations, 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 meantime, to pass away the
tedious intervals, he commanded a song which he loved to
be sung; and he said, ‘My good Cesario, when J heard
that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion
much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spin-
sters 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 inno-
cence of love in the old times.”
316. Tales from Shakespeere.

SONG.

Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress let me be fluid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,
’ Tam slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, oh, prepare i6,
My part of death no one so true did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweat,
On my black coffin let there be strown :
Not a friend, not a friend gree}
My poor corpse, where my Lones shall be thrown;
A thousand thousand sighs to save, fay me oh 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 unre-
quited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance of
feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were ob-
served by Orsino, who said to her, ‘‘My life upon it,
Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked
upon some face that it loves; has itnot, 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 dis-
cover when their ladies delight to converse with handsome
young messengers; and the instant Viola arrived, the
gates were thrown wide open, and the duke’s page was.
shown into Olivia’s apartment with great respect; and
when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to
plead in her lord’s behalf this lady said, “I desire you
never to speak of him again; but if you would undertake
another suit, I had rather hear you solicit than music
Twelfth Night. - 817
from the spheres.”? This was pretty plain speaking, but
Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly
confessed her love; and when she saw displeasure with
perplexity expressed in Viola’s face, she said, ‘‘ Oh, whata
deal of scorn looks beautifulin the contempt and anger of
his up! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood,
honor, and by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your
pride, I have neither wit nor reason.to conceal my pas-
sion.”’ 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
solicitations was a declaration of a resolution Never to
love any woman.

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was
made upon her valor. A gentleman, a rejected suitor
of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favored 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 confess-
ing that she was a woman; but she was relieved at once
from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery, by a
stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and
as if he had been long known to her, and were her dearest
friend, said to her opponent, “‘If this young gentleman
has done offence, I will take the fault on me; and if you
offend him, I will for his sake defy you.’’ Before Viola
had time to thank him for his protection, or to inquire the
reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with
an enemy where his bravery was of no use to him; for
the officers of justice coming up in that instant, appre-

‘hended 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
318 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 asmall sum of money, being nearly the whole she
possessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things,
charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He said,
‘“‘This youth whom you see here, I snatched from the
jaws of death, and for his sake alone I came to Illyria,
and have fallen into this danger.’’ But the officers cared
little for hearkening to the complaints of their prisoner,
and they hurried him off, saying, ‘‘ What is that to us ? ”’
And as he-was carried away, he called Viola by the name
of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebastian for dis-
owning 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 in-
deed it was. The stranger, whose name was Anthonio,
was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his
ship, when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was float-
ing on the mast to which he had fastened himself in the
storm. Anthonio conceived such a friendship for Sebas-
tian, that he resolved to accompany him whithersover he
went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit
Orsino’s court, Anthonio, rather than part from him,
came to Illyria, though he knew, if his person should be
known there, his life would be in danger, because in a sea-

fight he had once dangerously wounded the Duke Orsino’s *

nephew. This was the offence for which he was now
made a prisoner.
Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together buta few




















THE QUARREL.


320 Tales from Shakespeare.

hours before Anthonio met Viola. He had given his
purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if he saw
anything he wished to purchase, telling him he would
wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town ;
but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, An-
thonio had ventured out to look for him, and Viola being
dressed the same, and in face so exactly resembling her
brother, Anthonio drew his sword (as he thought) in de-
fence 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 Anthonio was gone, fearing a second invita-
tion to fight, slunk home as fast as she could. She had
not long gone, when her adversary thought he saw her
return; but it was her brother Sebastian who happened
to arrive at this place, and he said, ‘“‘ Now, sir, have I
met you again? There’s for you;’’? and struck him a
blow. Sebastian was no coward; he returned the blow
with interest, and drew his sword.

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came
out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for
Cesario, invited him to come into her house, 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 de-
lighted to.find Cesario (as she thought him) become more
sensible of her attentions; for though their features
were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt
and anger to be seen in his face which she had complained
of when she told her 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
Twelfth Night. 321

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 humor, 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 ceremony was over he
left his lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his
friend Anthonio the good fortune that he had met with.
In the meantime Orsino came to visit Olivia, and at the
moment he arrived before Olivia’s house the officers of
justice brought their prisoner, Anthonio, before the duke.
Viola was with Orsino, her master; and when Anthonio
saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he told
the duke in what manner he had rescued this youth from
the perils of the sea; and after fully relating all the kind-
ness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his com-
plaint with saying, that for three months, both day and
night, this ungrateful youth had been with him. But the
Lady Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could
no longer attend to Anthonio’s story; and hesaid, ‘ Here
comes the countess: now Heaven walks on earth! but for
thee, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months has
this youth attended on me: and then he ordered Anthonio
to be taken aside. But Orsino’s heavenly countess soon
gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingrati-
tude as Anthonio had done, for all the words he could hear
Olivia speak were words of kindness to Cesario; and when
he found his page had obtained this high place in Olivia’s
favor 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,


322 Tales from Shakespeare.

«« 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, the
same habit, the brother and sister began to question each
other, for Viola could scarce be persuaded that her brother
was living, and Sebastian knew not how to account for the
sister he supposed drowned being found in the habit of a
young man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she
was indeed Viola and his sister under that disguise.
‘When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme
likeness between this twin brother and sister had occa-
sioned, 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 forever 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 favorite, young Cesario, being
changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with great at-
tention, 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 re-
Twelfth Night. "823

membered how often she had said she loved him, which
at the time seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faith-
ful 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 Cesarto and boy), ‘‘ Boy, you have said to me
a thousand times that you should never love a woman like
to me,-and for the faithful service you have done for me,
so much beneath your soft and tender breeding, and since
you have called me master so long you shall now be your
master’s mistress, and Orsino’s true duchess.”’

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, -
which she had so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited
them to enter the 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 whith had separated them being
the means of bringing to pass their high and mighty fort-
unes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the duke of Illyria,
and Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess,
the Lady Olivia.


PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE.

ERICLES, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile

from his dominions, to avert the dreadful calamities
which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of Greece, threat-
ened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, in re-
venge 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, Helli-
canus, Pericles set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent him-
self till the wrath of Antiochus, who was mighty, should
be.appeased.

The first place which the prince directed his course to
was Tharsus; and hearing that the city of Tharsus was
at that time suffering under a severe famine, he took with
him store of provisions for its relief. On his arrival he
found the city reduced to the utmost distress ; and, he

coming like a messenger from Heaven with this unhoped-_

for succor, Cleon, the governor of Tharsus, welcomed him
with boundless thanks. Pericles had not been here many
days, before letters came from his faithful minister, warn-
ing him that it was not safe for him to stay at Tharsus,
for Antiochus knew of his abode, and by secret emissa-
ries, despatched for that purpose, sought his life. Upon
receipt of these letters Pericles put out to sea again,
amidst the blessings and prayers of a whole people who
had been fed by his bounty.

He had not sailed far, when his ship was overtaken by

a dreadful storm, and every man on board perished ex-
cept Pericles, who was cast by the sea-waves naked on an
unknown shore, where he had not wandered long before






= SSS

/

ws





825

PERICLES AT THARSUS,
326 Tales from Shakespeare. .

he met with some poor fishermen, who invited him to
their homes, giving him clothes and provisions. The fish-
ermen told Pericles the name of their country was Pen-
tapolis, and that their knmg was Symonides, commonly
called the good Symonides, because of his peaceable reign
and good government. From them he also learned that
~ King Symonides had a fair young daughter, and that the
following day was her birthday, when a grand tourna-
ment was to be held at court, many princes and knights

being come from all parts to try their skillin 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 armor, which disabled him from making one

among these valiant knights, another fisherman brought.

in a complete suit of armor that he had taken out of the
sea with his fishing net, which proved to be the very ar-
mor he had lost. When Pericles beheld his own ar-
mor, he said, ‘‘ Thanks, Fortune ; after all my crosses
you give me somewhat to repair myself. This armor
was bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose 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,
1 think my shipwreck no misfortune.”

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father’s ar-
mor, repaired to the royal court of Symonides, where he
performed wonders at the tournament, vanquishing with
ease all the brave knights and valiant princes who con-
tended with him in arms for the honor of Thaisa’s love.
When brave warriors contended at court-tournaments for
the love of kings’ daughters, if one proved sole victor
over all the rest, it was usual for the great lady for
whose sake these deeds of valor were undertaken, to
bestow all her respect upon the conqueror, and Thaisa did
not depart from this custom, for she presently dismissed
all the princes and knights whom Pericles had vanquished,




Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 327

and distinguished him by her especial favor and regard,
crowning him with the wreath of victory, as king of that
day’s happiness ; and Pericles became a most passionate
lover of this beauteous princess from the first moment he
beheld her.

The good Symonides so well approved of the valor



PERICLES CAST UPON THE ROCKS.

and noble qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most ac-
complished 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 Sy-
monides disdain to accept of the valiant unknown for a
828 Tales from Shakespeare.

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, im-
patient of his long absence, threatened to revolt, and
talked of placing Hellicanus upon his vacant throne. This
news came from Hellicanus himself, who being a loyal
subject to his royal master, would not accept of the high
dignity offered him, but sent to let Pericles know their in-
tentions, that he might return home and resume his law-
fulright. It was matter of great surprise and joy to Sy-
monides, to find that his son-in-law (the obscure knight)
was the renowned prince of Tyre; yetagain he regretted
that he was not the private gentleman he supposed him:
to be, seeing that he must now part both with his ad-
mired 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 re-
main with her father. till after her confinement, but the
poor lady so earnestly desired to go with her husband,
that at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyre
before she was brought to bed.

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles,
for long before they reached Tyre another dreadful tem-
pest 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
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 dread-
ful 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,




THE LISTS.
330 Tales from Shakespeare. .

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 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 rew visitor, shall be able
to recompense.”

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the
sailors having a superstition that while a dead body re-
mained in the ship the storm would never cease, they
came to Pericles to demand that his queen should be.
thrown overboard ; and they said, ‘‘ What courage, sir?
God save you!” ‘‘ Courage enough,”’ said the sorrowing
prince: ‘“‘I do not fear the storm ; it has done to me its
worst; yet for the love of this poor infant, this fresh
new sea-farer, I wish the storm was over.”’ “Sir,” said
the sailors, ‘‘your queen must overboard. The sea works
high, the wind is loud, and the storm will not abate till
the ship be cleared of the dead.’”’ Though Pericles knew
how weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he
patiently submitted, saying, “‘ As you think meet. Then
she must overboard, most wretched queen!”? And now
this unhappy prince went to take a last view of his dear
wife, and as he looked upon his Thaisa, he said, ‘‘ A terri-
ble childbed hast thou had; my dear: no light, no fire—

‘the unfriendly elements forgot thee utterly, nor have I

time to bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast
thee scarcely coffined into the sea, where for a monument
upon thy bones the humming waters must overwhelm
thy corpse, lying with simple shells, O Lychorida, bid
a

Hi

i

i
Fi i

















SHROUDED IN CLOTH OF STATE, _ "31
332 . Lales from Shakespeare.

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 out about this suddenly,
Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my Thaisa.”’

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrapped
ina satin shroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-smell-
ing spices he strewed over her, and beside her he placed
rich jewels, and a written paper, telling who she was;
and praying if haply any one should find the chest which
contained the body of his wife, they would give her burial :
and then with his own hands he cast the chest into the
sea. When the storm was over, Pericles ordered the
sailors to make for Tharsus. ‘‘ For,’’ said Pericles, ‘‘ the
babe cannot hold out till we come to Tyre. At TharsusI
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 Ceri-
mon, 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 or-

.dered 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 fur-
ther 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
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 333

be made and proper cordials to be brought, and soft music
: to be played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits
| if she should revive; and he said to those who crowded
/ round her, wondering at what they saw, ‘“‘I pray you, |
gentlemen, give her air; this queen will live; she has not
been entranced above five hours ; and see she begins to
blow into life again; she is alive; behold, her eyelids
move; this fair creature will live to ‘make us weep to hear
her fate. *? Thaisa had never died, but after the birth of
her little baby had fallen into a deep swoon, which made
/ all that saw her conclude her to be dead ; and now by the
_ care of this kind gentleman she once more revived to light
| and life; and opening her eyes she said, ‘‘ Where am I ?
| Where is my lord? What world is this?” By gentle
| degrees Cerimon let her understand: what had befallen
her ; and when he thought she was enough recovered to
beat 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 wuever shall see again I will put on a
-vestal livery and never more have j 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 mineshall
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 be-
came a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and passed her
days in sorrowing for her husband’s supposed loss, and in
the most devout exercises of those times.
Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he named
Marina, because she was born at sea) to Tharsus, intend-
ing 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 oftheir famine, they would be kind to



4
i.
i
t


334 Tales from Shakespeare.

his little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw Prince
Pericles and heard of the great loss which had befallen
him he said, ‘‘O your sweet. queen, that it had pleased
Heaven you could have brought her hither to have

blessed my eyes with the sight of her!’’ Pericles replied, |

«« We must obey the powers above us. Should I rage and
roar as the sea does in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end
must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here, I must
charge your charity with her. I leave her the infant of

your care, beseeching you to give her princely training.”

_And then turning to Cleon’s wife, 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 services, Prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people |

with your corn (for which in their prayers they daily re-
member 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 thys 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. ‘‘Oh, no tears Lycho-
rida,”’ said Pericles; ‘‘no tears; look to your little mis-
tress, 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 wo-
ful queen, whom he thought dead, remained at Ephesus.
Her little babe Marina, whom this hapless mother had
never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a manner suitable
to her high birth. He gave her the most careful educa-
tion, so that by the time Marina attained the age of four-
teen years the most deeply-learned men were not more
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 335

studied in the learning of those times than was Marina.
She sung like one immortal, and danced as goddess-like,
_ and with her needle she was so skilful that she seemed to
' compose nature’s own shapes in birds, fruits or flowers,
the natural roses being scarcely more like to each other
than they were to Marina’s silken flowers. But when she
had gained from education all these graces, which made
' her the general wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, be-
came her mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason that her
own daughter, from the slowness of her mind, was not
- able to attain to that perfection wherein Marina excelled :
_ and finding that all praise was bestowed on Marina,
whilst her daughter, who was of the same age, and had
been educated with the same care as Marina, though not
with the same success, was in comparison disregarded,
she formed a project to remove Marina out of the way,
vainly imagining that her untoward daughter would be
more respected when Marina was no more seen. ‘To en-
compass this she employed a man to murder Marina, and
she well timed her wicked design, when 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 Ly-
chorida. Leoline, the man she employed to do this bad
deed, though he was a very wicked man, could hardly be
persuaded to undertake it, so had Marina won all hearts
to-love her. He said, ‘“‘Sheisa goodly creature!’’ ‘‘The
fitter then the gods should have her,” replied her merci-
less enemy: ‘‘ here she comes, weeping for the death of her
nurse Lychorida: are you resolved to obey me ?’’ Leo-
line, fearing to disobey her, replied, “‘I am resolved.”
And so, in that one short sentence, was the matchless
Marina doomed to an untimely death. She now ap-
proached with a basket of flowers in her hand, which, she
said, she would daily strew over the grave of good Ly-
chorida. The purple violet and the marigold sheuld as a
carpet hang upon her grave, while summer days did last.



a




336 LIales from Shakespeare.

** Alas, for me! ’’ she said, “‘ poor unhappy maid, born in
a tempest, when my mother died. This world to me is
like a lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends.”
‘¢ How now, Marina,”’ said the dissembling Dionysia, “‘ do
you weep alone? How does it chance my daughter is
not with you. Do not sorrow for Lychorida, you have a
nurse in me. Your beauty is quite changed with this un-
profitable woe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air
will spoil them ; and walk with Leoline; the air is fine and
will enliven you. Come, Leoline, take her by the arm and
walk with her.”’ ‘No, madam,”’ said Marina, ‘‘ I pray
you let me not deprive you of your servant ;’’ for Leoline
was one of Dionysia’s attendants. ‘‘ Come, come,” said
this artful woman, who wished for a pretence to leave her
alone with Leoline, ‘‘ 1 love the prince, your father, and I
love you. We every day expect your father here; and
when he comes and finds you 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 cheer-
ful once again. Be careful of that excellent complexion
which stole the hearts of.old and young.”’ Marina, being
thus importuned, said, ‘‘ Well, I will go, but yet I have
no desire to it.”” As Dionysia walked away, she said to
Leoline, “ Remember what I have said!’’—shocking
words, for their meaning was that he should remember to
kill Marina,

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and
said, ‘‘ Is the wind westerly that blows ?”’ ‘‘ Southwest,”
replied Leoline. ‘‘ When I was born the wind was north,”
said she: and then the storm and tempest and all her
father’s sorrows and her mother’s death came full into
her mind; and she said, “My father, as Lychorida told
me, did never. fear, but cried, Courage, good seamen, to
the sailors, galling his princely hands with the ropes, and,
clasping to the mast, he endured a sea that almost split
the deck.”’ - ‘“ When was this? ’’ said Leoline. ‘‘ WhenI
was born,” replied Marina: “ never were waves nor wind


Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 3387

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 con-
fusion of the ship.’? Lychorida had so often recounted to
Marina the story of her hapless birth, that these things
seemed ever present to her imagination. But here Leo-

a

MARINA AND THE PIRATES.

line interrupted her with desiring her to say her prayers.
‘What mean you?” said Marina, who began to fear, she
knew not why. ‘If you require a little space for prayer,
I grant it,”’ said Leoline; “but be not tedious; the gods
are quick of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in haste.”
“ Will you kill me?” said Marina; ‘‘alas! why?” ‘To
satisfy my lady,” replied Leoline. ‘‘ Why would she
338 } Tales from Shakespeare.

have me killed ?’’ said Marina : “‘ now, as I can remember,
I never hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad word,
nor did any ill turn to any living creature. Believe me
now, I never killed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a
worm once against my will, but I wept for it. How have
I offended ?”’ The murderer replied: ‘“‘ My commission is
not to reason on the deed, but to do it.”? And he was just
going to kill her when certain pirates happened to land at
that very moment, who seeing Marina, bore her off as a
prize to their ship.

The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried
her to Metaline, and sold her for a slave, where, though
in that humbie condition, Marina soon became known
throughout the whole city of Metaline for her beauty and
her virtues; and the person to whom she was sold _ be-
came rich by the money she earned for him. She taught
music, dancing, and fine needlework, and the money she
got by her scholars she gave to her master and mistress ;
and the fame of her learning and her great industry came
to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who
was the governor of Metaline, and Lysimachus went him-
self 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 excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all out:.
ward graces, that he wished to marry her, and notwith.
standing her humble situation, he hoped to find that her
birth was noble; but ever when they asked her parent-
age, she would sit still and weep.

Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline fearing the anger of




Pericles, Prince of Tyre. _ 8389

Dionysia, told her he had killed Marina; and that wick-
ed woman gave out that she was-dead, and made a pre-
tended funeral for her, and erected a stately monument,
and shortly after Pericles, accompanied by his loyal min-
ister Hellicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to Tharsus,
on purpose to see his daughter, intending to take her
home with him ; and he never having beheld her since he
left her an infant in the care of Cleon and his wife, how -
did this good prince rejoice at the thoughts of seeing this
dear child of his buried queen! but when they told him
Marina was dead, and showed the monument they had
erected for her, great was the misery this most wretched
father endured, and not being able to bear the sight of
that country where his last hope and only memory of his
dear Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and hastily
departed from Tharsus. From the day he entered the
ship a dull and heavy melancholy seized him.- He never
spoke, and seemed totally insensible to everything around
him. .

Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the shit in its course
passed by Metaline, 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. Hellicanus received him very courteously,
told him that the ship came from Tyre, and that they
were conducting thither, Pericles their prince; ‘‘ A man,
sir,’ said Hellicanus, ‘‘who has not spoken to any one
these three months, nor taken any sustenance, but just to
prolong his grief ; it would be tedious to repeat the whole
ground of his distemper, but the main springs from the
loss of a beloved daughter and a wife.’’ Lysimachus

. begged to see this afflicted prince, and when he beheld
Pericles, he saw he had been once a goodly person, and he
said to him, ‘‘Sir king, all hail, the gods preserve you,
hail, royal sir!’’ But in vain Lysimachus spoke to him.
Pericles made no answer, nor did he appear to perceive




340 Tales from. Shakespeare.

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 Hellicanus he sent
for Marina, and when she entered the ship in which her
own father sat motionless with grief, they welcomed her
on board as if they had known she was their princess;
and they cried, ‘‘She is a gallant lady.” Lysimachus
was well pleased to hear their commendations, and he said,
** She is such a one, that were I well assured she came of
noble birth, 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 Metaline had so carefully concealed her
birth, ashamed to tell that one of royal ancestry was now
a slave, first began to speak to Pericles of the wayward
changes in her own fate, telling him from what a high
estate herself had fallen. As if she had known it was her
royal father she stood before, all the words she spoke
were of her own sorrows; but her reason for so doing
was, that she knew nothing more wins the attention of
the unfortunate than the recital of some sad calamity to
match their own. The sound of her sweet voice aroused
the drooping prince; he lifted up his eyes, which had
been so long fixed and motionless; and Marina, who was
the perfect image of her mother, presented to his amazed
sight the features of his beloved queen. The long-silent
prince was once more heard to speak. ‘‘ My dearest
wife,” said the awakened Pericles, ‘‘ was like this maid,
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 341

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 have been tossed from wrong to in-
jury, and that you thought your griefs would equal mine,
if both were opened.’’? ‘‘Some such thing I said,’’ re-
plied Marina, ‘‘and said no more than what my thoughts
did warrant me as likely.’’ ‘‘Tell me your story,”’ said
Pericles; ‘if I find you have known the thousandth
part of my endurance, you have borne your sorrows like
aman, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you do look
like Patience gazing on king’s graves, and smiling Ex-
tremity out of act. How lost you your name, my most
kind virgin? Recount your story, I beseech you. Come
sit by me.” How was Pericles surprised when she said
her name was Marina, for he knew it was no usual name,
but had been invented by himself for his own child to sig-
nify seaborn. “ Oh, lam mocked,” said he, ‘‘and you are
sent hither by some incensed god to make the world laugh
at me.” ‘ Patience, good sir,” said Marina, ‘‘ or I must
cease here.” ‘‘ Nay,” said Pericles, “I will be patient ;
you little know how you do startle me, to call yourself
Marina.”’. ‘The name,’’ she replied, “‘was given me
by one that had some power, my father, and a king.”
“How, a king’s daughter!” said Pericles, ‘‘and called
Marina! But are you flesh and blood? Are you no
fairy ? Speak on! where were you born? and wherefore
called Marina?’’ She replied, “‘ I was called Marina, be-
cause I was born at sea. My mother was the daughter
of a king; she died the minute I was born, as my good
nurse Lychorida has often told me weeping. The king
my father left me at Tharsus, till the cruel wife of Cleon
sought to murder me. cued me, and brought me here to Metaline. But, good
sir, why do you weep? It may be, you think me an im-
postor. But indeed, sir, 1 am the daughter to King


342 ‘Tales from Shakespeare.

Pericles, if good King Pericles be living.’’ Then Pericles,
terrified as it seemed at his own sudden joy, and doubtful
if this could be real, loudly called for his attendants, who
rejoiced at-the sound of their beloved king’s voice; and
he said to Hellicanus, ‘‘O Hellicanus, strike me, give me
a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys
rushing upon me overbear the shores of my mortality. Oh,
come hither, thou that was born at sea, buried at Tharsus,
and found at sea again. O Hellicanus, down on your
knees, thank the holy gods! This is Marina. Now bless-
ings on thee, my child! Give me fresh garments, mine own
Hellicanus! She is not dead at Tharsus,as she should
have been by the savage Dionysia. She shall tell you all,
when you shall kneel to her, and call her your very prin-
cess. Who is this?” (observing Lysimachus for the first
time). “‘ Sir,”’ said Hellicanus, ‘‘it is the governor of
Metaline, who, hearing of your melancholy, came to see
you.” ‘*T 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,
_L hear none,”’ replied Hellicanus. ‘‘ None,’ said Pericles :
“‘why, it is the music of the spheres.”? As there was no
music to be heard, Lysimachus concluded that the sudden
joy had unsettled the prince’s understanding; and he
said, ‘‘ It is not good to cross him ; let him have his way :”
and then they told him they heard the music ; and he now
complaining of a drowsy slumber coming over him, Ly-
simachus 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 Marita 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 com-
manded him to go to her temple at Ephesus, and there


PERICLES AND THAISA,
344 Tales from Shakespeare.

before her altar to declare the story of his life and misfort-
unes; and by her silver bow she swore that if he per-
formed her injunction he should meet with some rare fe-
licity. When he awoke, being miraculously refreshed, he
told his dream, and that his resolution was to obey the
bidding of the goddess.

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore
and refresh himself with such entertainment as he should
find at Metaline, which courteous offer Pericles accepting,
agreed to tarry with him for the space of a day or two.
During which time we may well suppose what feastings,
-what rejoicings, what costly shows and entertainments
the governor made in Metaline, to greet the royal father
of his dear Marina, whom in her obscure fortunes he had
so respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon Lysimachus’
suit, when he understood how he had honored 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 condi-
tion, 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 pros-
perous 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 Ceri-
mon (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 hus-
band’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 con-
fess myself the prince of Tyre, who, frightened from my


Pericles, Prince of Tyre. 345

country, at Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa; she died
at sea in child-bed, but brought forth a maid-child called
Marina. She at Tharsus was nursed with Dionysia, who
atfourteen years thought to kill her, but her better stars
brought her to Metaline, by whose shores as I sailed, her
good fortunes brought this maid on board, where by her
most clear remembrance she made herself known to be
my daughter.”

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his words
had raised in her, cried out, ‘‘ You are, you are, O royal
Pericles ’’—and fainted. ‘‘ What means this woman? ”’
said Pericles: ‘‘she.dies! gentlemen, help!”’ ‘‘ Sir,’’ said
Cerimon, “‘ if 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 recounted how, early one tempestuous morning, this
lady was thrown upon the Ephesian shore ; how, opening
the coffin, he found therein rich jewels, and a paper; how
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 youare. Did you not name a tempest, a
birth, and a death?’’ He, astonished, said, ‘‘ The voice
of dead Thaisa!’’ ‘‘ That Thaisa am I,” she replied,
“supposed dead and drowned.” ‘‘O true Diana! ”’ ex-
claimed Pericles, in a passion of devout astonishment.
** And now,” said Thaisa, ‘‘1 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.”’
““ Hnough, 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

‘ M
346 Tales from Shakespeare.

Thaisa: and while she hung in rapturous joy over her
child, Pericles knelt before the altar, saying, “ Pure
Diana, bless thee for thy vision. For this I will offer ob-
lations nightly to thee.’’? And then and there did Pericles,
with the consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their daugh-
ter, the virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving Lysima-
chus 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 suc-
cessful, and triumphing over chance and change. In Hel-
_ licanus 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 be-
stowing 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 Tharsus, when her cruel
attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body to re-
venge 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 enor-
tity. :
THE WINTER’S TALE.

EONTHS, 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, ex-
cept that he sometimes desired to see again, and to pre-
sent 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 respec-
tive kingdoms, they had not met for many years, though
they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and loving em-
bassies.

At length,-after repeated invitations, Polixenes came
from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make his friend
Leontes a visit. 5

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leon-
tes. He recommended the friend of his youth to the
queen’s particular attention, and seemed in the presence
of his dear friend and old companion to have his felicity
quite completed.. They talked over old times: their
. school-days and their youthful pranks were remembered,
and recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful
part in these conversations.

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

- And now began this good queen’s sorrow; for Polixe-
nes, 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, al- ~

though _Leontes had so long known the integrity and
348 Tales from Shakespeare.

honorable principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the
excellent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized
with an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention Hermi-
one showed to Polixenes, though by her husband’s particu-
lar desire, and merely to please him, increased the unfort-











COMMANDED TO POISON POLIXENES.

unate king’s jealousy; and from being a loving and true
friend, and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes be-
came 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






=

;



















|
Al

il Me

Na



























































-LEONTES AND HERMIONE,
350 Tales from Shakespeare. —

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 favor-
ite of Polixenes. 5

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

Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his
mother tenderly ; and when he saw her so dishonored, and
found she was taken from him to be put into a prison, he
took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away by
slow degrees, losing his 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 lad y re-
ceived much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby,
and she said to it, ‘‘ My poor little prisoner, I am as inno-
cent as you are.”’

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Pau-
lina, 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 3 we do not ‘know how he






361

ER.

MAMILLUS AND HIS MOTH
352 Tales from Shakespeare.

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
forever blessed,’’ said Emilia, ‘for your kindness to our
gracious queen!’ Emilia then went to Hermione, who
joyfully gave up her baby to the care of Paulina, for she
had feared that no one would dare venture to present the
child to its father.

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself
into the king’s presence, notwithstanding her husband,
fearing the king’s anger, endeavored to prevent her, she
laid the babe at its father’s feet, and Paulina made a noble
speech to the king in defence of Hermione, and she re-
proached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored
him to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. But
Paulina’s spirited remonstrances only aggravated Leon-
tes’ 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 in-
nocence.

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








PAULINA BEFORE THE KING,
354 - ++ Tales from Shakespeare.

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 com-
manded the seal to be broken, and the words of the oracle
to be read aloud, and these were the words: “ Hermione
as innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true sub-
ject, 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 Mamillus, hearing his
mother was to be tried for her life, struck with grief and
shame, had suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear af-
fectionate 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. Paul-
ina soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was
dead. 2

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead; he re-
pented of his cruelty toher; and now that he thought his
ill usage had broken Hermione’s heart, he believed her
innocent ; and he now thought the words of the oracle
were true, as he knew “if that-which was lost. was not
found,”’ which he concluded was his young daughter, he:
should be without an heir, the young prince Mamillus
being dead; and he would give his kingdom now to






THE DESERTED BABY



FOUND.




SSS aS See

356 ‘Tales from Shakespeare.

recover his lost daughter; and Leontes gave himself up
to remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts
and repentant grief. é

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
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,
with the name of Perdita written thereon, and words ob-
scurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate.

The poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He
was a humane man, and so he carried the little Perdita
home to his wife, who nursed it tenderly; but poverty
tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize he had
found: therefore he left that part of the country, that no .
one might know where he got his riches, and with part of
Perdita’s jewels he bought herds of sheep, and became a
wealthy shepherd. He brought up. Perdita as his own
child, and she knew not she was any other than a shep-
herd’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 in-
herited from her royal mother shine forth in her untu-
tored mind, that no one from her behavior would have
known she had not been brought up.in her father’s court.

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose
name was Florizel. As this young prince was hunting
near the shepherd’s dwelling, he saw the old man’s sup-
posed daughter ; and the beauty, modesty, and queen-like


FLORIZEL AND PERDITA,
358 Tales from Shakespeare.

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.

Florizel’s frequent absence from court alarmed Polix-
enes ; and setting people to watch his son, he discovered
his lore 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 sur-
prise Polixenes: he said to Camillo, ‘‘ This is the prettiest
low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but
looks like somes greater than herself, too noble for
this place.’

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


. The Winter’s Tale. 359

“Pray, my good friend,’’ said the king to the old shep-
herd, ‘“‘ what fair swain is that talking with your daugh-
ter?’’ <‘*They-call him Doricles,’’ replied the shepherd.
“« Hesays he lovesmy 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



‘*MARK YOUR DIVORCE, YOUNG SIR!”

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 mar-
riage 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, J
360 Tales from- Shakespeare.

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 inmy heart.’’ Then turning to Perdita, he said to her,
“Oh, hear me, Perdita, before this ancient gentleman,
who it seems was once himself a lover ; he shall hear what
I profess.”’ Florizel then called upon the old stranger to
be a witness to a solemn promise of marriage which he
made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, ‘“‘ I pray you, mark
our contract.’’

‘“‘Mark your divorce, young sir,” said the king, 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 shep-
herd her father, to a cruel death.

The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered
Camillo to follow him with Prince Florizel.

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal na-
ture 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
self-same sun which shines upon his palace, hides not his
face from our cottage, but looks on both alike.’? Then
sorrowfully she said, ‘‘ But now J am awakened from this
dream, I willqueenitnofarther. 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 behavior ; and perceiving that
the young prince was too deeply in love to give up his mis-
tress at the command of his royal father, he thought of a
way to befriend the lovers, and at the same time to exe-
cute a favorable scheme he had in his mind:

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of |
The Winter’s Tale. +361

Sicily, was become a true penitent; and though Camillo
was now the favored 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 par-
don 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, Ca-
millo and the old shepherd, arrived in safety at the court
of Leontes. Leontes, who still mourned his dead Her-
mione 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 re-
semblance 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 more again to look
upon.”’

‘When the old shepherd heard how much notice the
king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a daugh4
ter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to comparing the
time when he found the little Perdita, with the manner of
its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its high birth;
from all which it was impossible for him not to conclude
that Perdita and the king’s lost daughter were the same.

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina
were present when the old shepherd related to the king the
362. Tales from Shakespeare.

manner in which he had found the child,-and also the cir-
cumstance of Antigonus’ death, he having seen the bear
seize upon him. He showed the rich. mantle in which
Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped. the child;
and he 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, be-
ing found! .When Leontes heard that Perdita was his
daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that Hermione-was
not living to-behold her child, made him that he could say
nothing for a long time but ‘‘ 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 almost be ready to think it was Hermione her-
self. Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see
the semblance of his Hermione, and Perdita longing to be-
hold what the mother she never saw did look like.

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed
this famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble Hermione,
that all the king’s sorrow was renewed at the sight: for a
long time he had no power to speak or move.

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

At length the king said, ‘‘ Oh, thus she stood, even with
such majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet, Paulina,
Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks.” Paulina
replied, ‘So much the more the carver’s excellence, who
has made the statue as Hermione would have looked had
she been living now. But let me draw the curtain, sire,
lest you think it moves.”’
ai

iu



= THE LIVING STATUE, : 863
\

364 Tales from Shakespeare.

The king then said, “Do not draw the curtain! Would
I were dead! See, Camillo, would you not think it
breathed ? Hereye seems to have motion init.” ‘ Imust
draw the curtain, my liege,’’ said Paulina. ‘ You are so
transported, you will persuade yourself the statue lives.”’
“©O sweet Paulina,’’ said Leontes, ‘‘make me think so
twenty years together! Still methinks there is an air
comes from her. What fine chisel could ever yet cut
breath? Let no man mock me; for I will kiss her.”
“Good my lord, forbear!” said Paulina. ‘The ruddi-
ness upon the lips is wet; you will stain your own with
oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?” ‘No, not
these twenty years,’’ said Leontes.

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

‘¢ Kither forbear this transport,”’ said Paulina to Leon-
tes, ‘‘and let me draw the curtain, or prepare yourself for
more amazement. I can make the statue move indeed;
ay, and descerid 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,
‘“‘Tam content to look upon. What you can make her
speak, I am centenk to hear ; for it is as easy to make her
speak as move.’

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn ae
. which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up; and
to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue came
down froin 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 ‘Teotes’ neck,
and blessed her husband and her child. No wonder; for
the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real and living
queen,
























865

”

HERMIONE: ‘' POUR YOU GRACES UPON MY DAUGHTER’S HEAD.


366 _ Tales from Shakespeare.

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, Hermi-
one had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes shduld
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, know-
ing that Camillo had long wished to return to Sicily, he
conjectured he should find the fugitives here; and, follow-
ing them with all speed, he happened to arrive just 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. jong: suf
fering Hermione rewarded. That excellent’ lady.. lived:
many years with her Leontes and her Perdita, the happi-
“est of mothers and-of queens.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

ERTRAM, count of Rossilion, had newly comé 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
favor and protection.

Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed
‘countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of the French court,
came to conduct Bertram to 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 com-
mand, which ne 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 hus-
band, whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet she dared
not keep him a single day, but gave instant orders for his
departure. Lafeu, who came to fetch him, tried to com-
fort the countess for the loss of her late lord and her son’s
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 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
368 Tales from Shakespeare.

of the history of Helena, saying she was the only daugh-
ter 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 un-
der 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 tomy mother, your mistress, and make much
of her.”’ ;

Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in
sad and mournful silence, the tears she shed were not for
Gerard de Narbon. Helena loved her father, but in the
present feeling of a deeper love, the object of which she
was about to lose, she had forgotten the very form and
features of her dead father, her imagination presenting
no image to her mind but Bertram’s.

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remem-
bered that he was the count of Rossilion, descended from.
the most ancient family in Paris. She of humble birth.
Her parents of no note at all. His ancestors all noble.
And therefore she looked up to the 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 peculiar star, and
think to wed it, Bertram is so far above me.’’
Al’s Well That Hnds Well. 369

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 por-
tion than some prescriptions of rare and well-proved vir-
tue, which by deep study and long experience in medicine
he had collected as sovereign and almost infallible reme-
dies. Among the rest, there was one set down as an im-
proved 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 pre-
scription, it-was unlikely, as the king as well as his physi-
clans 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 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 medi-
cine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven to be
the legacy that should advance her fortune, even to the
high dignity of being Count Rossilion’s wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess
was informed’ by her steward that he had overheard
Helena talking to herself, and that he understood, from
some words she uttered, she was in love with. Bertram,
and had thought of following him to Paris. Thecountess -
dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to
tell Helena she wished to speak with her. What she had
oS — et SS a ae

~

370 Tales from. Shakespeare.

just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of days
long past into the mind of the countess ; those days prob-
ably 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 honorable mistress.’ ‘‘ You
are my daughter,’’ said the countess again: ‘I say Jam
your mother. Why do you start and leok pale at my
-words?’’ With looks of alarm and confused thoughts,
fearing the countess suspected her love, Helena still re-
plied, .‘‘ Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother ;
the Count Rossilion cannot be my brother, nor I your
daughter.”? ‘Yet, Helena,’ said the countess, “you
might be my daughter-in-law ; and I am afraid that is
what you mean to be, the words mother and daughter so
disturb you. Helena, do you love my son?’ ‘*Good
madam, pardon me,”’ said the affrighted Helena. Again
the countess repeated her question. ‘‘Do you love my
son?’”? **Do not you love him, madam ?”’ said Helena.
The countess replied, ‘‘ Give me not this evasive an-
‘sswer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your
affections, for your love has to the full appeared.’’
Helena on her knees now owned her love, and with shame.
and terror implored the pardon of her noble mistress:
and with words expressive of the sense she had of the in-
equality between their fortunes, she protested Bertram
did not know she loved him, comparing her humble unas-
piring 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 ill-
All’s Well That Ends ‘Weil. 371

ness. - “* 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
think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
had from the conversation of my thoughts been absent





















































HELENA AND THE COUNTESS,

then.’? The countess heard the whole of this confession
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 madeat that
372 Tales from Shakespeare.

awful hour in regard to this young maid, whose destiny,
and the life of the king himself, seemed to depend on the ex-
ecution of a project (which though conceived by the fond
suggestions of a loving maiden’s thoughts, the countess
knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Provi-
dence to bring to pass the. recovery of the king, and to lay
the foundation of the future fortunes of Gerard de Nar-
bon’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, 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 pre-
cious medicine as the darling treasure which contained
the essence of all her father’s long experience and skill,
and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life if it failed to re-
store 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 on his fair physician ; and he desired Helena to
look round on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and






























































a EWE
oo ee =< \ ‘SS

Sau

Ny)



ee | 2 Ny,

SSX



EVs
y esi







































Fl i/











































1

ee —— oF ve
= IEE par ha
SN
a
SS
2 aa =
i Za =
4 = eT
hy a ee Zs
Z ee = PEE
M2 J aE

eS





















878

HELENA AND THE KING,


374 Tales from Shakespeare.

choose her husband. Helena was not slow to make her
choice, for among these young lords she saw the Count
Rossilion, and turning to- Bertram, she said, ‘This is the
man. I dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I give me
and my service 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 ob-
tain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her hus-
band’s love not being a gift in the power of the king of
France to bestow.

Helena was no sooner married than she was desired
by Bertram to apply to the king for him for leave of ab-
sence from court; and when she brought him the king’s
permission for his departure, Bertram told her that as he
was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much.
unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the
course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she
grieved when she found it was his intention to leave her.
He ordered her to go home to his mother. When Helena
heard this unkind command, she replied, ‘‘ Sir, I can say
nothing to this, but that I am your most obedient ser-
vant and shall ever with true. observance seek to eke out
that desert wherein my homely stars have failed to equal
my great fortunes.’’ But this humble speech of Helena’s








































THE KING ORDERS THE MARRIAGE.
876 ' . Tales from Shakespeare.

did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gén-
tle wife, and he parted from her without the common
civility of a kind farewell.

Back to the countess then. Helena returned. She had
accomplished the purport of her journey, she had pre-
served the life of the king, and she had wedded her heart's
dear lord, the Count Rossilion ; but she returned back a
dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and. as soon as
she entered the house she received a letter from Bertram
which almost broke her heart.

The good countess received her with a cordial welcome,
as if she had been herson’s own choice, and a lady of high
degree, and she spoke kind words, to comfort her for the
unkind neglect of Bertram in sending his wife home on her
bridal day alone. But this gracious reception failed to
cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said, “‘ Madam, my
lord is gone, forever 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 isa 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 re-
spectful condescension and kind flattery this matchless
mother tried to soothe the sorrows of her daughter-in-law.
Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, and cried
out in an agony of grief, Till I have no wife, I have noth-
ang in France. Thecountess asked her if she found those
words in the letter? ‘Yes, Madam,” was all poor
Helena could answer.

The next morning Helena was missing. She left a
letter to be delivered to the countess after she was gone,
to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden absence; in
this letter she informed her that she was so much grieved .
at having driven Bertram from his native country and
BERTRAM AND HELENA,

N


378 ; Tales from Shakespeare.

his home, that, to atone for her offence, she had under-
taken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jacques le Grand,
and concluded with requesting the countess to inform hér
son, that the wife he so hated had left his house forever,

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 him-.
self by many brave actions, Bertram received letters from
‘his mother, containing the acceptable tidings that Helena
would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to re-
turn home when Helena herself, clad ‘in 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. Jacques le Grand; and when
Helena arrived at this city, she heard that a hospitable
widow dwelt there, who used to receive into her house the
female pilgrims that were going to visit the shrine of that
saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. . To
this good lady therefore Helena went, and the widow gave
her a courteous welcome, and invited her to see whatever
was curious in that famous city, and told her that if she
would like to see the duke’s army, she would take her
where she might have a full view of it. “And you will
see a countryman of yours,”’ said the widow; ‘his name
is Count Rossilion, who has done_worthy service in the
duke’s wars.’’ Helena wanted no second invitation, when
she found Bertram was to make a part of the show.
She accompanied her hostess ; and a sad and mournful
pleasure it was to her to look once more upon her dear
husband’s face. “Is he not a handsome man?” said the
widow. ‘I like him. well,” replied Helena with great
truth. All the way they walked, the talkative widow’s
discourse was all of Bertram; she told Helena the story
of Bertram’s marriage, and how he had deserted the poor
lady his wife, and entered into the duke’s army to avoid
living with her. To this account of her own misfortunes
Helena patiently listened, and when it was ended, the his-
All’s Well That Ends Well. 379

tory 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 Ber-
tram’s love for her daughter.

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on

Pty
A
i











































THE COUNTESS READING HELENA’S LETTER.

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 gentle-
woman, the daughter of this widow who was Helena’s
hostess ;-atid 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
380 Tales from Shakespeare.

suit to her was, that she would permit him to visit her by
stealth after the family were retired to rest; but Diana
would by no means be persuaded to grant this improper
request, nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing
him to be a married man; for Diana had been brought up
under the counsels of a prudent mother, who though she
was now in reduced’ circumstances, was well-born, and
descended from the noble family of the Capulets.

All this the good lady related to Helena, highly prais-
ing the virtuous principles of her discreet daughter, which
she said -were entirely owing to the excellent education
and good advice she had given her; and she farther said,
that Bertram had been particularly importunate with
Diana to admit him to the visit he so much desired that
night, because he was going to leave Florence early next
morning. :

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram’s love
for the widow’s daughter, yet from this story the ardent
mind of Helena conceived a project (nothing discouraged
at the ill success of her former one) to recover her truant
lord. She disclosed to the widow that she was Helena,
the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kind
hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from
Bertram to take place, and allow her to pass herself upon
Bertram for Diana; telling them, her chief motive for
_ desiring to have this secret mecting 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 favor. 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






HELENA SEES THE DUKE’S ARMY.


382 Tales from Shakespeare.

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-dis-
course he addressed to Helena were precious sounds to
her, though she knew they were meant for Diana, and
Bertram was so well pleased with her that he made hera
solemn promise to be her husband, and to love her for-
ever ; which she hoped would be prophetic of a real affec-
tion, when he should know it was his own wife, the de-
spised 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, los-
ing 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 rever-
ence, 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 de-
pend on her leaving a favorable 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 conver-
sation and the endearing gweetness of her manners so
charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife.
Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of
his regard, and he gave it to her; and in return for this
ring, which it was of such importance 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-
All’s Well That Ends Well. 383

pany her to Paris, their farther assistance being necessary
to the full accomplishment of the plan she had formed.
When they arrived there, they found the king was gone
upon a visit to the countess of Rossilion, and Helena fol-
lowed the king with all the speed she could make.























































































“TAKE MY RING.”

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
Rossilion he began to talk of Helena, calling her a precious
jewel that was lost by the folly of her son; but seeing the
subject distressed the countess, who sincerely lamented
the death of Helena, he said, ‘“‘ My good lady, I have for-
884 Tales from Shakespeare.

given and forgottenall.”’ But the good-natured old Lafeu,
who was present, and could not bear that the memory of
his favorite 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 allears cap-
tive, whose deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve
her.”? The king said, ‘‘ Praising what is lost makes the -
remembrance dear. Well—call him hither;’? meaning
Bertram, who now presented himself before the king : and,
on his expressing deep sorrow for the injuries hehad done
to Helena, the king, for his dead father’s and his admi-
rable mother’s sake, pardoned him and-restored him once
more tohis favor. Butthe gracious countenance of theking
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 Ber-
tram, on the king’s questioning him how he came by the
ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to
him out of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena
since the day of their marriage. The king, knowing Ber-
tram’s dislike to his wife, feared he had destroyed her ; and
he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying, “I am
wrapped in dismal thinking, for I 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, fearing the
king’s anger, denied he had made any such promise; and
then Diana produced the ring (which Helena had put into
her hands) to confirm the truth of her words ; and she
said that she had given Bertram the ring he then worein


iS aera
ital a eh

cell
|

Hl





BI.
Bil








386 Tales from Shakespeare. _

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 Ber-
tram’s, the king’s suspicions were confirmed, 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 re-

MOVs

1
Zz



THE KING EXAMINES THE RING,

quested that her mother might be permitted to- fetch
the jeweller of whom she bought the ring, which, being
_granted, the widow went out, and presently returned lead-
ing in Helena herself.

The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her
son’s danger, and had even dreaded that the suspicion of
his having destroyed his wife might possibly be true, find-
All’’s Well That Ends Well. 387

ing her dear Helena, whom she loved with even a mater-
nal affection, was still living, felt a delight she was hard-
ly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for
joy that it was Helena, said, ‘‘Is this indeed the wife of
Bertram that Isee?’’ Helena, feeling herself yet an un-
acknowledged 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! Oh, pardon!’ “Omy
lord,’’ said Helena, ‘‘ when I personated this fair maid, I
found you wondrous kind ; and look, hereis your letter ! ’’
reading to him in a joyful tone those words which she had
once repeated so sorrowfully, When from my finger you
can get this ring—‘“‘ This is done, it was to me you gave
the ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won ?”
Bertram replied, “If you can make it plain that you were
the lady I talked with that night, I will love you dearly,
ever, ever dearly.”’ This was no difficult task, for the
widow and Diana came with Helena purposely to prove
this fact; and the king was so well pleased with Diana,
for the friendly. assistance she had rendered the dear lady
he so truly valued for the service she had done him, that
he promised her also a noble 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 ser-
vices.

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 daugh-
ter-in-law of hex noble mistress, and herself the countess
of Rossilion.

: 5 } {
= oss ST a : © ce ces La
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

HERE lived in the city of Verona two young gentle-
men, whose names were Valentine and Protheus,
between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendship had
long subsisted. They pursued their studies together, and
their hours of leisure were always passed in each other’s
company, except when Protheus visited a lady he was in
love with ; and these visits to his mistress, and this pas-
sion of Protheus for the fair Julia, were the only topics on
which these two friends disagreed: for Valentine, not be-
ing himself a lover, was sometitnes a little weary of hear-
ing his friend forever talking of his Julia, and then he
would laugh at Protheus, 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 that he led, to the anxious hopes
and fears of the lover Protheus.

One morning Valentine came to Protheus to tell him
they must for a time be separated, for that he was going
to Milan. Protheus, unwilling to part with his friend,
used many arguments to prevail upon Valentine not to
leave him; but Valentine said, “Cease to persuade me,
my loving Protheus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear
out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping youths
have ever homely wits. If your affection were not chained
to the sweet glances of your honored Julia, I would en-
treat you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the
world abroad ; but since you are a lover, love on still, and
may your toe be prosperous ! ”’

They parted with mutual expressions of unalienable
friendship. ‘Sweet Valentine, adieu!’ said Protheus;
“think on me, when you see some rare object worthy of


















PROTHEUS AND VALENTINE,


390 Tales from Shakespeare. ©

notice mH your travels, and wish me partaker of your hap-
piness.’

Valentine began his journey that same day towards
Milan: and when his friend had left him, Protheus sat
down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her maid
Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Protheus as well.as he did her, but she was
a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought it did not become
her maiden dignity too easily to be won; therefore she
affected to be insensible of his passion, and gave him
much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she
would not receive it, and chid her maid for taking letters
from Protheus, and ordered her to leave the room. But
she so much wished to see what was written in the letter,
that she soon called in her maid again, and when Lucetta:
returned, she said, “‘ What o’clock is it?’? Lucetta, who
knew her mistress more desired to see the letter than to
know the time of day, without answering her question,
again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her
maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to know
what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and
threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out of
the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stooped 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 finger-
ing them to anger me.”

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could
the torn fragments. She first made out these words,
*“Love-wounded Protheus;’’ and lamenting over these
and such like loving words, which she made out though
they were all torn asunder, or, she said, wounded (the
expression ‘‘ Love-wounded Protheus”’ giving her that
idea), she talked to these kind 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,




WDE



We



JULIA AND
’ LUCRETIA
391
392 Tales fre, Shakespeare.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-
like childishness, till, finding herself unable to make out
the whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude in destroying
such sweet and loving words, as she called: them, she
wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus than she had ever
done before.

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this favor-
able answer to his letter; and while he was reading it, he
exclaimed, ‘‘ Sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life!’? In the
midst of his raptures he was interrupted by his father.
“‘How now!” said the old gentleman; “‘ what letter are
you reading there ?.”’

‘My lord,”’ replied Protheus, “it is a letter from my
friend Valentine, at Milan.’’

*“ what news.”’

‘There are no news, my lord,’’ said Protheus, greatly
alarmed, ‘‘ but that he writes how well beloved he is of
the duke of Milan, who daily graces him with favors; 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 de-
pending on his friendly wish,’’ said Protheus. ,

Now it had happened that Protheus’ father had just
‘been talking with a friend on this very subject: his friend
had said, he wondered his lordship suffered his yon 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 dis-
cover islands far away, and some to study in foreign uni-
versities ; and there is his companion Valentine, he is gone
to the duke of Milan’s court. Your son is fit for any of
these things, and it will be a great disadvantage to him in
his riper age not to have travelled in his youth.”

Protheus’ father thought the advice of his friend was

very good, and upon Protheus telling him that Valentine
Two. Gentlemen of Verona. ie 393 -

“wished him with him, the partner of his fortune,” he at
once determined to send his son to Milan; and- without
giving Protheus.any reason for this sudden resolution, it
being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said, “‘ My will
is the same as Valentine’s wish:” and seeing his son
look astonished, he added, ‘‘ Look not amazed, that I so
suddenly 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
Iam peremptory.”’

Protheus. knew it was of no use to make objections
to his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will;
and he blamed himself for telling his father an untruth
about Julia’s letter, which had brought upon him. the sad
necessity of leaving her.

‘Now that Julia found she was going: to lose Protheus
for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference ;
and they bade each other-a mournful farewell, with many

. vows of love and constancy. Protheus and Julia exchanged

rings, which they both promised to keep forever in re-
membrance of each other ; and thus, taking a sorrowful
leave, Protheus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode
of his friend Valentine.

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

She who had wrought this wondrous change in 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~
394 Tales from Shakespeare.

Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent
qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day
on a visit to Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia
with turning everything Thurio said into ridicule, when
the duke himself entered the room, and told Valentine the
welcome news of his friend Protheus’ arrival. Valentine
said, ‘If I had wished a thing, it would have been to have
seen him here! ”’ and when he highly praised Protheus to
the duke, saying, -‘‘My lord, though I have been a
truant of my time, yet hath my friend made use and fair
advantage of his days, and is complete in person as in
mind, in all good grace to gracea 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 himdoso.’? They were here in-
_terrupted by the entrance of Protheus, and Valentine in:
troduced him to Silvia, saying, ‘“‘Sweet lady, entertain
him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.”’

When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit,
and .were alone together, Valentine said, ‘‘ Now tell me
how all does from whence you came? How does your
lady, and how thrives your leve?’’ Protheus replied,
“My tales of love ae to weary you. I know you joy
not in a love discourse.’

« Ay, Protheus,”’ returned Valentine, ‘‘ but that life is
altered now. I have done penance for condemning love.
For in revenge of my contempt of Love, Love has chased
sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Protheus, Love
is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I confess
there is no woe like his correction, nor no such joy on
earth asin his service. I now like no discourse except it
be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, and
sleep, upon the very name of love.’

This acknowledgment of the change which love had
made in the disposition of Valentine was a great triumph
to his friend Protheus. But “friend”? Protheus must be
Two Gentlemen of Verona. 395

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 Protheus; 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 endeavoring to supplant him in her affections ;
and although, as it will always be, when people whose
dispositions are naturally good become unjust, he had
many scruples before he determined to forsake Julia, and
become the rival of Valentine: yet he at length overcame
his sense of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without
remorse, to his new unhappy passion.

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole his-
tory of his love, and how carefully they had concealed it
from the duke her father, and told him, that despairing of
ever being able to obtain his consent, he had prevailed
upon Silvia to leave her father’s palace that night, and go
with him to Mantua; then he showed Protheus a ladder
of ropes, by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get
out of one of the windows of the palace after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend’s dear-
est secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it
was, that Protheus resolved to go to the duke and dis-
close the whole to him. ae

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 eel what he was going to reveal, but
that the gracious favor 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 con-
ceal them under a long cloak.
396 Tales from Shakespeare.

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of integrity,
in that he preferred telling his friend’s‘intention rather
than he would conceal an unjust action; highly com-
mended 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 something was wrapped: within
his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder.

The duke upon this stopped him, saying,. ‘‘ Whither
away sofast, Valentine?’’ ‘“‘ May it please your grace,”
said Valentine, ‘‘ there is a messenger that stays to bear
my letters to my friends, and I am going to deliver
them.’’ Now this falsehood of Valentine’s had no better
success in the event than the untruth Protheus told his
father.

“Be they of much import? ”’ said the duke.

**No more, my lord,” said Valentine, “‘ than to tell my
father I am well and happy at your grace’s court.”

‘Nay, then,”’ said the duke, “no matter: stay with me
a ‘while. 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. Iam now 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.’’ =a

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made
answer, “And what would your grace have me to do in
all this?”
aS

Sy

fae

ee

bi

i

fe


398 ‘Tales from. Shakespeare. |

““Why,” said the duke, ‘‘the lady I would wish to
marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my aged
eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship is much
changed since I was young: now I would willingly have
you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo.”
Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of
courtship then practised by young men, when they wished
to win a fair lady’s love, such as presents, frequent visits,
and the like. ;
The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a
present which he sent her, and that she was so strictly
kept by her father, that no man might have access to her
by day. ,
“ Why, then,’ said Valentine, ‘‘ you must visit her by
night.” ;
«But at night,” said the artful duke, who was now
‘coming to the drift-of his discourse, ‘‘ her doors are fast
locked.” ;
Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the duke

should get into the lady’s chamber at night by means of
a ladder of ropes, saying he would procure him one fit-
ting for that purpose; and in conclusion-advised him to
conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that
which he now wore. ‘Lend me your cloak,” said the
duke, who had feigned this long story on purpose to have
a pretence to get off the cloak: so, upon saying these
words, he caught hold of Valentine’s cloak, and throwing
it back, he 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 in-
tended elopement. . The duke, after upbraiding Valentine
‘for his ingratitude in thus returning the favor he had
shown him, by endeavoring to steal away his daughter,
banished him from.the court and city of Milan forever ;
and Valentine was forced to depart that night without
even seeing Silvia.

While Protheus and Milan was thus injuring Valen-
Two Gentlemen of Verona. 399

tine, Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Pro-
theus ; and her regard for him at last so far overcame
her. sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona
and seek her love at Milan; and to secure herself from -
danger on the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and
herself in men’s clothes, and they set out in this disguise,
and arrived at Milan, soon after Valentine was banished
from that city through the treachery of Protheus.

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

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome
young gentleman (as he took her to be), who, from his ap-
pearance, he concluded was of high rank, spoke so famil-
iarly 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 gentlemen that evening
was going to serenade his mistress.

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that
she did not well know what Protheus would think of: the
imprudent step she had taken ; for she knew he had loved
her for her noble maiden pride and dignity of character,
and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem : and
this it. was that made her; wear a sad and move nat
countenance.

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with
him and hear the music ; for she secretly hoped she might
meet Protheus by the way.

But when she came to the palace whither the host con-
ducted her, a very different effect was produced to what
‘the kind host intended ; for there, to. her heart’s sorrow,
she beheld her lover, the inconstant Protheus, serenading
the Lady Silvia with music and addressing discourse of love
and:admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silviafrom a




400. Tales from: Shakespeare. .

. window talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsak-
ing his own true lady, and for hisingratitude to his friend
Valentine: and then Silvia left the window, not choosing
to listen to his music and his fine speeches ; for she was a
faithful lady to her banished Valentine, and abhorred the
ungenerous conduct of his false friend Protheus.

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just wit-
nessed, yet did she still love the truant Protheus; and
hearing that he had lately parted with a servant, she
contrived with the assistance of her host, the friendly inn-
keeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a page; and Pro-
theus 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 Pro-
theus ; and.Julia, or the page Sebastian; as she was called,
entered into. conversation with Silvia:about: Protheus’ first.

love, the forsaken Lady.Julia. She: putting in (as one may
say) a good word for herself, said she knew Julia ; as well
she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke: tell-
ing-how fondly Julia.loved-her master. Protheus,:.and how

his unkind neglect would grieve her : and then she with a.
pretty equivocation:went on: ‘Julia. is about my height.

and of my complexion, the color of her.eyes and hair the
same as mine:’’ and indeed Julia looked a most: beautiful
youth in her-boy’s attire. .. Silvia was: moved to pity this

lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the :man she

loved ; and when: Julia offered the -ring which: Protheus
had sents refused. it, saying, ‘¢The.smore shame for: him,
that he sends me that ring; I will not: take it, for. I have
often heard him say his Julia.gave it to him. I-love thee,
gentle youth, for pitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse;
I give it you for Julia’s sake.”’ . These comfortable words
coming from her kind rival’s tongue eheened! ihe. ae
heart of the disguised lady. : ;

-But.to-return ‘to. the. banished Valenfines witar searce

2
Two Gentlemen of Vgrona. 401.

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 de-
manded his money. _

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

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

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself,
said he would consent to live with them and be their cap-
tain, provided they did no outrage on women or poor pas-
sengers. F

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of
whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and out-
lawed banditti: and in this situation he was found by Sil-
via, 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 ;
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
402. Tales from Shakespeare.

forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and one of
these robbers seized on Silvia, and wouldalso have taken
Eglamour, but he escaped.

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she
was in, bid her not be alarmed, for thathe 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 honorable

mind, and always showed humanity to women. Silvia
-found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried
as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. “O
Valentine,’ she cried, ‘‘ this I endure for thee !”’

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his
captain he was stopped by Protheus, who, still attended
by Julia in the disguise of a page, having heard of the
flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to this forest. Pro-

- theus now rescued her from the hands of the robber ; but
scarce had she time to thank him for the services he had
done her, before he began to distress her afresh with his
love-suit: and while he was rudely pressing her to con-
sent to marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) was
standing beside him in great anxiety of mind, fearing lest
the great service which Protheus had just done to Silvia
should win her to show him some favor, they were all
strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valen-
tine, who, having heard his robbers had taken a lady
prisoner, came to console and relieve her.

Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so much
ashamed of being caught by his friend, that he was all at
once seized with penitence and remorse; and he expressed
such a lively sorrow for the injuries he had done to Valen-
tine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and gener-
ous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and re-
stored him to his former place in his friendship, but in a
sudden flight of heroism he said, ‘‘I freely do forgive
you; and all the interest I have in Silvia, I give it up
to you.”’ Julia, who was standing beside her master as
a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Protheus






arr Re een, ee ame

‘Two Gentlemen of Verona. 403

would not be able, with his new-found virtue, to refuse
Silvia, fainted, and they were all employed in recovering
her: else would Silvia have been offended at being thus
made over to Protheus, though she could scarcely think
that Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained
and too generous act of friendship. When Julia re-
covered from the fainting fit, she said, ‘‘I had forgot, my
master ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia.’? Pro-
theus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the one he
gave to Julia, in return-for that which he received from
her, and which he had sent by the supposed page to
Silvia. ‘How is this?’’ said he, “this is Julia’s ring:
how came you by it, boy?” Julia answered, “ Julia
herself did give it me, and Julia herself hath brought it
hither. ”’

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly per-
ceivéd 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.

Protheus and Valentine were expressing their happi-
ness in their reconciliation, and in the’love of their faithful
ladies, when they were surprised with the sight of the
duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit of
Silvia.

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia,
saying, ‘‘ Silvia is mine.’”? Upon this Valentine said to
him in a very spirited manner, ‘‘ Thurio, keep back : if
once again you say that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace
your death. Here she stands, take possession of her with

-a touch! I dare you but to breathe upon my love.’ Hear-
ing 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
404 Tales from Shakespeare.

now in great anger, ‘‘ The more base and degenerate in
you to take such means for her as you have done, and
leave her on such light conditions.’’ Then turning to
Valentine, he said, ‘‘I do applaud your spirit, Valentine,
and think you worthy of ari empress’s love. You shall
have Silvia, for you have well deserved her.’’ Valentine
then with great humility kissed the duke’s hand, and ac-
cepted the noble present which he had made him of his
daughter with becoming thankfulness, taking occasion of
this joyful minute to entreat the. good-humored duke to
pardon the thieves with whom he had associated in the
forest, assuring him, that when reformed and restored
to society, there would be found among them many good,
and fit for great employment; for the most of them had
been banished, like Valentine, for state offences, rather
than for any black crimes they had been guilty of. To
this the ready duke consented ; and now nothing remained
but that Protheus, the false friend, was ordained, by way
of penance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at
the recital of the whole story of his loves*and falsehoods
before the duke; and the shame of the recital to his
awakened conscience was judged sufficient punishment :

which being done, the lovers, all four, returned ‘back to
Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized in presence of
the duke, with high triumphs and feasting.


VALENTINE DEFIES THURIO TO TAKE SILVIA. 403
CYMBELINE.

URING the time of Augustus Czesar, 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 fa-
ther’s court; but by a strange chance the two sons of
Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the el-
dest was but three years of age, and the youngest quite
an infant: and Cymbeline could never discover what
was become of them, or by whom they were conveyed
away. z

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, although 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 hus-
band) was the best scholar and most accomplished gentle-
man 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,


07

POSTHUMUS. BANISHED.
408 Tales from Shakespeare.

because he was born after his father’s death) and edu-
cated 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 @ subject. He commanded
Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished him from his
native country forever.

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief
she suffered at losing her husband, offered to procure thein
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 ring
which had been her mother’s, and Posthumus promised
never to part with the ring; and he fastened a bracelet
on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would pre-
serve 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


THE FAREWELL OF POSTHUMUS AND IMOGEN,

O
410 - Tales from Shakespeare.

young men of different nations, who were talking freely of
ladies; each one praising theladies of his country, and his
own mistress. Posthumus, who had ever his own dear
lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the fair Imogen,
was the most virtuous, wise, and constant lady in the world.

One of these gentlemen, whose. name was lJachimo,



“JT DARE YOU TO THIS MATCH; HERE’S MY RING.”

being offended that a lady of Britain should be so praised
above the Roman ladies, his countrywomen, provoked
Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of his so
highly-praised wife; and, at length, after much alterca-
tion, Posthumus consented to a proposal.of Iachimo’s,
that he (Iachimo) should go to Britain, and endeavor to
gain the love of the married Imogen, They then laid a




















































































41]

"S OHAMDER,

IACHIMO IN IMOGEN
412 Tales from Shakespeare. \

wager, that if Iachimo did not succeed in this wicked de-
sign, he was to forfeit a large sum of money; but if he
could win Imogen’s favor, and prevail upon her to give
him the bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly de-
sired she would keep as a token of his love, then the
wager was to terminate with Posthumus giving to lachi-
mo 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 honor.
_ Jachimo, 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 dishon-
orable design. 5
The desire lachimo had to win the wager made him now
have recourse to astratagem to impose upon Posthumus,
and for this purpose he bribed some of Imogen’s attend-
ants, and was by them conveyed into her bedchamber
concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till
Imogen had retired to rest, and had fallen 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
‘racelet from her arm,-which Posthumus had given to
her, he retired into the chest again; and the next day he
started off for Rome with great expedition, and boasted
to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the bracelet,
and likewise permitted him to pass a night in her cham-
ber: and in- this manner Jachimo told his false tale:
“Her bedchamber was hung with tapestry of silk and
silver, the story was the proud Cleopatra when she met
her Anthony, a piece of work most bravely wrought.”
‘This is true,’’ said Posthumus; ‘‘ but this you might
have heard spoken of without seeing.’’ -






























418

‘“‘“KNOW YOU THIS JEWEL, SIR?”
414 Tales from Shakespeare.

“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 cham-
ber, and added, ‘I had almost forgot her andirons, 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 gaveme 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-
liveréd 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.
disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to Mil-
ford 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 forbid-
den 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,


; ae WAS ee
Nop Kgonee Lads o SS
HE Mag Sern

TMOGEN LEARNS OF THE ACCUSATION.

h alibi a

y . S

fink! EA bn se a -
SS 3







416 Tales from Shakespeare.

who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to
serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen the cruel
order he had received. :

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved
husband, found herself doomed: by that husband to suffer
death, was afflicted beyond measure. an

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 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 asa sover-
eign 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 ap-
pearance of death for a few hours. This mixture, which
Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, de-
siring 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
dwellings of her two brothers, who had been stolen away
in their infancy. Bellarius, who stole them away, was a


IN THE CAVE,

IMOGEN
418 Jales from Shakespeare.

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 con-

cealed ina 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 fortunes in the
wars.

At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was Imo-
gen’s fortune to arrive. She had lost her way ina large

‘forest through which her road lay to Milford Haven
_ (from whence she meant to embark for Rome) : and being

unable to find any place where she could purchase food, ,
she was with weariness and hunger almost dying; for it
is not merely putting on a man’s apparel that will enable
a young lady, tenderly brought up, to bear the fatigue of
wandering about lonely forests like a man. Seeing this
cave, she entered, hoping to find some one within of
whom she could procure food. She found the cave empty,
but looking about she discovered some cold meat, and
her hunger was so pressing, that she.could not wait. for
an invitation, but sat down, and began to eat. ““Ah!”’
said she, talking to herself, “I see a man’s life is a
tedious one; how tired am I! for two nights together I
have made the ground my bed: my resolution helps me,
or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford
Haven from the mountain-top, how near it seemed !”?
Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate
came across her, and she said, “‘ My dear Posthumus, thou —
art a false one.”’

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting

’ with their reputed father, Bellarius, were by this time re-
. . turned home. Bellarius had given them the names of
‘Cymbeline. 419

Polidore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but sup-
posed 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 vic-
tuals, or I should think that it was a fairy.”’



BELLARIUS AND THE PRINCES,

“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 mas-
ters, do not harm me; before I entered your cave I
420 Tales from Shakespeare.

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 earnest--
ness. ‘‘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 his bound for Italy ; he embarked at Mil-
ford Haven, to whom being going, almost spent with
hunger, I am fallen into this offence.”

“Prithee, fair youth,” said old Bellarius, ‘‘do not
think us churls, nor measure our good minds by this rude
place.we live in. You are well encountered ; it is almost
night. You shall have better cheer before you depart,
and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome.”

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen
to their cave with many kind expressions, saying they
would love her (or, as they said, him) as a brother; and
they entered the cave, where (they having killed venison
when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them with her
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 Imo-
gen excelled in this useful art; and, as her brothers pret-
tily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots in characters, and
sauced their broth, as if Juno had been sick, and Fidele
were lier dieter. ‘‘And then,” said Polidore to his
brother, “‘ how angel-like he sings.”

They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele
smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did -overcloud
his lovely face, as if grief and patience had together taken
possession of him...
Cymbeline. 421

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their
near relationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or,
as the boys called her, #zdele) 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 tthe 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,
praising all the way the noble parts and graceful de-
meanor of the youth Fidele.

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected
the cordial Pisanio had given her, and drank it off, and
presently fell into a sound and deadlike sleep.

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunt-
ing, Polidore went first into the cave, and supposing her
‘asleep, pulled off his heavy shoes, that he might tread
softly and-not awake her; so did true gentleness spring
up in the minds of these princely foresters: but he soon
discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise,
and concluded her to be dead, and Polidore lamented over
her with dear and brotherly regret, as if they had never
from ‘their infancy been parted.

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest,
and there celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn
dirges, as was then the custom.

Imogen’s two brothers then carried her to a shady
covert, and there laying her gently on the grass, they
sang repose to her departed spirit, and covering her over
with leaves and flowers, Polidore said, ‘‘ While summer
lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy sad
422° ; ‘Tales from Shakespeare.

grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy face ;
the bluebell, like thy clear veins ; and the leaf of eu
tine, which is not sweeter than was thy breath ; all these I
will strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss in Senter,
when there are no flowers to cover thy sweet corse.’

When they had finished her funeral cheedules, they de-
parted. very sorrowful.

Imogen had not been long left alone, hae the effect
of the sleepy drug going off, she awakened, and easily
shaking off the slight covering of leaves and flowers they
had thrown over her, she arose, and imagining she had
been dreaming, she said, ‘‘ I thought 1 was a cave-keeper,
and cook to honest creatures ; how came I here, covered
with flowers?’’? Not being able to find her way back to
the cave, and seeing nothing of her new companions, she
concluded it was certainly all a dream: and once more
Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage, hoping at last
she should find her way to Milford Haven, and thence get
a passage in some ship bound for Italy; for all her
thoughts were still with her husband Posthumus, whom
she intended to seek in the disguise of a page.

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

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

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 lmogen was aead),.sat heavy on
!

\f

oP

Oi



423

THE IMAGINED DEATH OF IMOGEN.
424 _ Tales from Shakespeare.

his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiring
either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by Cym-
beline for returning home from banishment.

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

Cymbeline’s army now advanced to meet the enemy,
and when they entered this forest, Polidore and Cadwal
joined the king’s army. The young men were eager to
engage in acts of valor, 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 ar-
mies, and the Britons would have been defeated, and
Cymbeline himself killed, but for the extraordinary valor
of Posthumus and Bellarius, and the two sons of Cymbe-
line. 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 ban-
ishment. :

Imogen and the master she served were taken prison-
ers, 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, Posthu-
mus was brought in to receive his sentence of death ; and
at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius with Polidore
and Cadwal were also brought before Cymbeline, to re-
ceive the rewards due to the great services they had by
Cymbeline. 425

their valor done for the king.- Pisanio, being une of the
king’s attendants, was likewise present. ;

Therefore there was now standing in the king’s pres-
ence (but with very different hopes and fears) Posthumus
and Imogen, with her new master the Roman general ;
the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false friend Iachimo ;
and 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 lachimo, 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. f

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.’ Bellarins 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 Polidore. ‘‘ Peace, peace,” said
Bellarius ; ‘‘If it were he, [am sure he would have spoken
tous.” ‘Be silent,’’ replied Bellarius.

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

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen
under his protection as his page, was the first (as had 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 :
426 Tales from Shakespeare.

“‘T-hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but
doom them ‘all to death: I am.a Roman, and with a
Roman heart will suffer death. But: there is one thing
for which I would entreat.’’ Then bringing Imogen be-
for 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 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 tome. I know
not why or whether I say, Live, boy; but I give you your
life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will grant it
to you. Yea, even though it be the life of the noblest
prisoner I have.’’ i

“‘T 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 the favor 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,
“T do not beg my life, good lad, but I know that this is
what you will ask for.” ‘No, no, alas!’ said Imogen,
“‘T 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
lachimo with the torture if he did not confess how he
came by the diamond ring on his finger.

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his


OYMBELINE: “MY TEARS THAT FALL PROVE HOLY WATER ON THEE.”
: 427
428 Tales from Shakespeare. z

villany, telling, as has been before related, the whole
story of his wager with Posthumus, and how he had suc-
ceeded in imposing upon his credulity.

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the in-
nocence of his lady, cannot be expressed. He instantly



THE JEWEL STOLEN FROM IMOGEN’S ARM.
\

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
Cymbeline. ~ 429

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 Polidore and Cadwal
to the king, telling him they were his two lost sons,
_ Guiderius and Arviragus.

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius ; for who could think
of punishment at a season of such Gnivencil happiness ?
To find his daughter living,.and his lost sons in the per-
sons of his young deliverers, that he had seen so bravely
fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed !

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services
for her late master, the Roman general Lucius; whose
life the king her father readily granted at her request ;
and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was
concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which
was kept inviolate many years.

How Cymbeline’s wicked queen, through despair of
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 pro-
voked, 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.
Popular Books of Adventure for Boys
By H. Irving Hancock

THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC; Ot, The
Secret of Smugglers’ Island.

THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET; Or, The
Mystery of the Dunstan Heir.
‘THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND; Or, A
Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed. :
THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS; Or,
The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise.

THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA; Or, Laying the
Ghost of Alligator Swamp.

THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT THE GOLDEN GATE;
Or, A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog.

Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00 each.

The Submarine Boys Series
By Victor G. Durham

THE SUBMARINE BOYS ON DUTY; Or, Life on a Diving
Torpedo Boat. : :

THE SUBMARINE BOYS’ TRIAL TRIP; Or, ‘‘Making
Good’’ as Young Experts.

THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE MIDDIES; Or, The
Prize Detail at Annapolis.

THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SPIES; Or, Dodging
the Sharks of the Deep.

THE SUBMARINE BOYS? LIGHTNING CRUISE; Or, The
Young Kings of the Deep.

THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG; Or, Deeding
Their Lives to Uncle Sam.

Cloth, 12mo, Tllustrated. Price, $1.00 each,

‘At all booksellers or sent postpaid by the publishers.

HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
Pare Hie ess a Aes SD= eS be P oy AY a Tal
~The Pony. Rider Boys Series
By Frank Gee Patchin

THE PONY RIDER. BOYS IN THE ROCKIES; “Or, The
Seeret of the Lost Claim.

THE PONY RIDER ‘BOYS IN TEXAS; Or, The Veiled
Riddle of the Plains. :

THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA; ‘Or, The Mys-
tery of the Old Custer Trail.

THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS; Or, The
Secret of Ruby. Mountain.

THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI; Or, Finding
a Key to the Desert: Maze.

THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN: NEW MEXICO; Or, The
End of the Silver Trail.

Cloth, 12mo. Tllustrated. Price, $1.00 each,

The High School Boys Series

By H. Irving Hancock

THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.’s First
Year Pranks and Sports.

THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the
Gridley Diamond.

THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling
on the Football Gridiron.

THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick

& Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard.
Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00 each,

At all booksellers or sent postpaid by the publishers.

HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY

POR AD OR Tar a ok


The Automobile Girls Series

THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT NEWFORT; Or, Watching
the Summer Parade.

THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES; Or,
The Ghost of Lost Man’s Trail.

THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or,
Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow.

(OTHERS iN PREPARATION)
Cloth. Illustrated.’ Price, $1.00 each.

The Circus Boys Series : c
By Edgar B. P. Darlington :

THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Mak-
ing a. Start in the Sawdust Life.

Cloth. Tustrated. Price, $1.00.

The High School Girls Series
By Jessie Graham Flower, A.M.

GRACE’ HARLOWE’S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; _ |
: Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshmen Girls.

Cloth. Tlustrated. Price, $1.00. |



At all booksellers or sent postpaid by the publishers.

HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
Pee A DE Le PON TA


Aitemus’

Little Men and Women Series

A new series for young people, by the best known
..' English and American authors.

BLACK BEAUTY. By Anna Sewell.
HIAWATHA. By Henry W. Longfellow.

ALICE IN WONDERLAND AND THROUGH THE LOOK-
ING GLASS. By Lewis Carroll.

PAUL AND VIRGINIA. By Sainte Pierre.

GALOPOFF, THE TALKING PONY. By Tudor Jenks.

GYPSY, THE TALKING DOG. By Tudor Jenks.

CAPS AND CAPERS. By Gabrielle E. Jackson.

DOUGHNUTS AND DIPLOMAS. By Gabrielle E, Jackson.

FOR PREY AND SPOILS. By Frederick A. Ober.

TOMMY FOSTER’S ADVENTURES.. By Frederick A. Ober.

TAS ae SHAKESPEARE. By Charles and Mary
amb.

FOLLY IN FAIRYLAND. By Carolyn Wells.

FOLLY IN THE FOREST. By Carolyn Wells.

POLLY PERKINS’ ADVENTURES. By E. Louise Liddell.

HELEN’S BABIES. By John Habberton.

A LITTLE ROUGH RIDER. By Tudor: Jenks.

ANOTHER YEAR WITH DENISE AND NED TOODLES,
By Gabrielle E. Jackson.

POOR BOYS’ CHANCES. By John Habberton.
SEA KINGS AND NAVAL HEROES. By Hartwell James.
THE BOY GEOLOGIST. By Professor E. J. Houston.

Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00 each.
At all booksellers or sent postpaid by the publishers.





HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
Benet) Tp 2Ae Dir Bs 2 Poe ea
- Ser | oe