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T A L E S
FROM
S.H. A. PCS P E A R E.
BY
CHARLES AND MARY, LAMB.
EDITED, witH AN INTRoduction,
BY THE REV. ALFRED AINGER, M. A. "
-ºš-
PHILADELPHIA
H E N R Y A. L T E M US
1894
£|Itemugº JBookbimberg,
|\bílabelpbia.
}
INTRODUCTION.
, TN the year 1806 Charles and Mary Lamb were residing
sº in Mitre Court Buildings in the Temple. For more
& S than ten years Charles had devoted himself to the care
sº of this sister, content to forego for her sake all thoughts
Sº, of other ties, and living beneath the shadow, which
never lifted, of a great family sorrow. Happily for both
Sº they were united by strong common tastes and sym-
a pathies as well as by the tenderest affection, and prom-
i inent among such tastes, as all readers of the AEssays of
Nº Elia well know, was the love of Shakspeare and the
& other great Elizabethans. In a letter of May 1o in this
° year to his friend Manning, who had shortly before sailed
for China, Charles Lamb writes of the sister who was
never far from his thoughts, -“Mary, whom you seem
to remember yet, is not quite easy that she had not a
… formal parting from you. I wish it had so happened.
But you must bring her a token, a shawl or something,
* and remember a sprightly little mandarin for our mantel-
º piece, as a companion to the child I am going to pur-
J chase at the museum. She says you saw her writings
ºz about, the other day, and she wishes you should know
what they are. She is doing for Godwin’s bookseller
twenty of Shakspeare's plays, to be made into children's
tales. Six are already done by her, to wit, Zhe Zempest,
Winter's Tale, Midsummer Night, Much Ado, Two
Gentlemen of Verona, and Cymbeline; and the Mer-
ichant of Venice is in forwardness. I have done Olhello,
and Macbeth, and mean to do all the Tragedies. I think
it will be popular among the little people, besides money,
|It's to bring in sixty guineas. Mary has done them
|capitally, I think you'd think.” -
- . - (iii)

iy 3 mttoouction
*
}
“Godwin's bookseller” was the agent of william
Godwin, the author of “Caleb Williams,” who ha
started just a year before in Hanway Street, as one of th
many ventures of his struggling life, what he called a
“Magazine of books for the use and amusement of chil-
dren,” Godwin himself, under the name of Baldwin (for
he did not venture to connect his own name, associated
as it was with so many novel and strange heresies, with
books designed to educate the young), furnished several
volumes of fables and school histories; and it was he,
doubtless, and not his “bookseller,” who formed the
happy thought of calling in the aid of Charles and Mary
Lamb.
“Printed for Thomas Hodgkins, at the Juvenile
Library, Hanway Street,” and “embellished with copper
plates,” appeared in the year 1807 the first edition of
“Tales from Shakspeare, designed for the use of young
persons, by Charles Lamb.” The illustrations were by
Mulready, who did much work of the same kind for
Godwin in the first years of his book-selling career.
Neither on the Title-page nor in the Preſace did Mary
Lamb's name appear, though in the latter it is not con-
cealed that more than one hand had been engaged on
the task. Perllaps it was the sister’s own wish that her
name should be suppressed. But we have her brother's
testimony to the important share which she bore in the
work, and her name therefore appears in the title of the .
present edition.
It is only matter of conjecture to which of the two
writers we owe the Preface—a singularly eloquent and
musical piece of English prose. There are passages in it
which suggest the woman's hand, and probably it repre-
sents the joint counsels of brother and sister. The Pre-
face sets forth the method on which the Tales had been
constructed—that of weaving into the narrative the ver
words of Shakspeare, wherever it seemed possible tºp
bring them in, -a method which it is obvious only
writers of the special training of Lamb and his siste
could have hoped to pursue with success. To put th
1anguage of Rosalind and Beatrice in close contact wit

3 mttoouction V
that of the ordinary compiler of children's books might
result in anything but a harmonious whole. The writers,
indeed, were evidently aware of the risks they ran, and
adopted the very sound principle of avoiding as far as
possible the use of words introduced into the language
since Shakspeare's time. But not even this restriction
might have saved the scheme from failure, had not the
brother and sister been so familiar with the rhythm and
cadences of Elizabethan English, that their own narra-
tive style assimilated almost without effort with the lan-
guage of their original, “transplanted from its own
natural soil and wild poetic garden.”
The Tales are twenty in number, and the general prin-
ciple on which they were chosen is sufficiently clear.
The whole series of English Histories is left unattempted,
as well as the Roman Plays ; and of the few that remain,
Move's Labour's Lost is the only one the reason for
whose omission is not quite obvious. Perhaps Miss
Lamb ſelt how little would have remained of the original
comedy when the poetical element in its language and
the brilliant wit of its dialogue had been removed. In
fact, the share of the work undertaken by Mary Lamb
was the more difficult and the less grateſul. It is easier
to tell the story of Pławnlet effectively in narrative prose
than Twelfth Night, or A //idsummer Night's Dream.
The mere recurrence of the same class of incidents in
the Comedies, such as the likeness existing between two
persons, tried the patience of even so devout a Shak-
spearian as Mary Lamb. Her brother writing to Words-
worth, when the book was in progress, says:—“Mary is
just stuck fast in All's Well that Ends Well. She com-
plains of having to set forth so many female characters
in boys' clothes. She begins to think Shakspeare must
have wanted—imagination ' If Lamb, however, chose
for himself the more grateful part of the joint labour, he
was generous in always insisting upon the superiority of
his sister's workmanship.
In the Preface already referred to, the aims which the
compilers had in view are distinctly explained. They
wished to interest young persons in the story of each
vi 3 introCuction
drama, to supply them, with a clear and definite outline
of the main argument, omitting such episodes or inci-
dental sketches of character as were not absolutely
necessary to its development. But, more than this, they
sought to initiate the young reader into the unfamiliar
diction of the dramatist, and by occasional slight changes
in it to remove difficulties and clear up obscurities.
Thus, in the first of the Tales—and it is thoroughly char-
acteristic of Lamb that even when writing for children
he adhered to the first folio arrangement by opening
with the Tempest—the long and intricate narrative of
Prospero in the first act—broken by grief and anger,
sentences begun and left unfinished as recollection after
recollection wells up and overflows its predecessor—is
shortened and resolved into a harmony more intelligible
to a child, so that the original, when it comes to be read,
will be freed of most of its difficulties. In this way, a
1<ind of running annotation or commentary is provided
for the reader—unsuspected by him or her—as where in
the matchless lines of Viola to the Lady Olivia :-
“Halloo your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out ‘Olivia,’”
the adapter introduces the word Echo, which a child
might have lacked the knowledge or imagination to
supply for itself.
It is in the Tragedies, and in the profounder problems
of human life there treated, that the master hand of
Charles Lamb distinctly declares itself. The subtle in-
tellect and "unerring taste that have elsewhere analyzed
for us the characters of Lear and Malvolio are no less
visible even when adapting Shakspeare's stories to the
intelligence of the least critical of students. It would
be difficult, in writing for any class of readers, to add
anything to Lamb's description of Polonius—“a man
grown old in crooked maxims and policies of state, who
delighted to get at the knowledge of matters in an in-
direct and cunning way.” Again, the connection between
3 ntvoouction vii
the actual and the assumed madness of Hamlet himself
—still so vexed a question among amateur critics—is
after all explained and exhausted in the following simple
version : “The terror which the sight of the ghost had
1eft upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak and dis-
pirited before, almost unhinged his mind, and drove
him beside his reason. And he, fearing that it would
continue to have this effect, which might subject him to
observation, and set his uncle upon his guard, if he
suspected that he was 1meditating 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 sus.
picion when his uncle should believe him incapable of
any serious project, and that his real perturbation of
mind would be best covered and pass concealed under
a disguise of pretended lunacy.” And nothing can be
finer in its way than the concluding sentences of Lamb's
version of Æomeo and /uliet, where he relates the recon-
ciliation of Lords Capulet and Montague over the graves
of the unhappy lovers. “So did these poor old lords,
when it was too late, strive to outgo each other in mutual
courtesies.” How exquisitely in the two epithets is the
moral of the whole Tragedy thrown into sudden light !
The melancholy of the whole story—the “pity of it,”—the
“one long sigh '’ which Schlegel heard in it, is conveyed
with an almost imagic suddenness in this single touch ;
with yet one touch more, and that of priceless impor-
tance—the suggestion of the whole world of Inisery and
disorder that may lie hidden as an awful possibility in
the tempers and vanities of even two “poor old '' heads
of houses.
The differences of genius in the two narrators appear
very evidently in their shares of the joint task. As
already pointed out, Mary Lamb's part was the least
rewardful, for she had to give to the improbabilities of
the Comedies an air of probability, while denied the
compensations of glowing poetry and brilliant wit.
And it was no brotherly prejudice on the part of Charles
viii 3 mttoouction
that made him praise her workmanship in the letter to
Manning. She constantly evinces a rare shrewdness
and tact in her incidental criticisms, which show her to
have been, in her way, as keen an observer of human
nature as her brother. Mary Lamb had not lived so
much among the wits and humourists of her day with-
out learning some truths which helped her to interpret
the two chief characters of Much Ado about Nothing ;
“As there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest
of as those who are apt to take the same liberty them-
selves, so it was with Benedick and Beatrice ; these two
sharp wits never met in former times but a perſect war
of raillery was kept up between them, and they always
parted mutually displeased with each other.” And
again, “The hint she gave him that he was a coward, by
saying she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard,
knowing himself to be a brave man ; but there is nothing
that great wits so much dread as the imputation of
buffoonery, because the charge comes sometimes a little
too near the truth ; therefore Benedick perfectly hated
Beatrice when she called him “the prince's jester.’” How
illuminating, in the best sense of the term, is such a
commentary as this The knowledge of human char.
acter that it displays is indeed in advance of a child's
own power of analysis or experience of the world, but
it is at once intelligible when thus presented, and in a
most true sense educative. Very profound, too, is the
casual remark upon the conduct of Claudio and his
friends when the character of Hero is suddenly blasted
—conduct which has often perplexed older readers for
its heartlessness and insane credulity :—“The prince
and Claudio 1eft the church, without staying to see
if Hero would recover, or at all regarding the dis-
tress into which they had thrown Leonato. So hard-
/hearted had their anger Amade them.” It is this casual
and diffused method of enforcing the many moral lessons
that lie in Shakspeare's plays that constitutes, at least
in the Editor's judgment, one special value of this little
book in the training of the young. Writing avowedly,
as Charles and Mary Lamb were writing, for readers still
3 mttoouction ix
in the schoolroom, ordinary compilers would have been
tempted to make these little stories sermons in disguise,
or to have appended to them in set form the lessons they
were calculated to teach. Happily, both as moralist and
artist, Charles Lamb knew better how hearts and spirits
are touched to “fine issues.” In an extant letter to
Southey, Lamb complains of those writers who will
have the moral of their story attached to the end, in
clear cut form, “like the ‘God send the good ship safe into
harbour” at the end of the old bills of lading.” It was
not after this fashion that he himself left the world so
many lessons of tenderness and wisdom. And so it has
happened that these trifles, designed for the nursery and .
the schoolroom, have taken their place as an English
classic. They have never been superseded, nor are they
ever likely to be. Written in the first instance solely
with a view to being read by children, they are marked
here and there by a certain needless concession to the sup-
posed phraseology of the nursery. But the genius of the
writers had unconsciously ministered to the wants of
children of a larger growth, and a publisher's notice,
prefixed to the second edition of the book, informs the
reader that the Tales, primarily intended for the amuse-
ment of children, had been found even still better adapted
“for an acceptable and improving present to young
ladies advancing to the state of womanhood,” and were
in consequence now presented in an edition “prepared
with suitable elegance.” Most certain is it that the
book has proved itself, during the seventy years of its
life that have elapsed, a pleasure, and an effectual guide
to the “inner shrine” of our great dramatist, to many
besides young children or even growing girls. More and
more is a knowledge of Shakspeare coming to be re-
garded as a necessary part of an Englishman’s educa-
tion ; and the Editor knows of no first introduction to
that study at once so winning and so helpful as that
supplied by these narrative versions. And it is part of the
| charm that attaches to these Tales that while Lamb and
his sister keep themselves studiously in the background,
in their character of guides and annotators, their pres-
X 3 mtroouction
ence is still felt throughout. The “withdrawing from
all selfish and mercenary thoughts; ” the “lesson of all
sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach
you courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity,” which
they attribute (with what justice () to their great original,
is felt to be 11ot 1ess the habitual mood of the brother
and sister who, in what Wordsworth beautifully called
‘‘their dual 10neliness,” found one of their best conso-
lations in breathing together the pure and bracing air
of the Elizabethan poetry. A. A
October 1878.
CONTENTS.
THE TEMPEST ºgº. • - * >
gA MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM .
v’THE WINTER’s TALE
viſuch ADo ABOUT NOTHING
AS YOU LIKE IT . : 2.
CTHE Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
C*THE MERCHANT of VENICE
CYMBELINE . . . .
>iºr
FCING LEAR " . e e
MACBETH e e - Q
º
Jºe
ALL’s WELL THAT ENDS WELL,
THE TAMING OF THE SHREw
THE COMEDY OF ERRORs
MEASURE FOR MEASURE,
Twel, FTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL, Z.
TIMON OF ATHENS ſº
CROMEO AND JULIET --ºr,
w/HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK are
OTHELLO “*” . U. e
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE
º
©
o
§
2’
BREFACE.
HE following Tales are meant to be submitted
to the young reader as an introduction to
the study of Shakspeare, for which purpose his
words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring
them in ; and in whatever has been added to give
them the regular form of a connected story, diligent
care has been taken to select such words as might
least interrupt the effect of the beautiful English
tongue in which he wrote: therefore, words intro-
duced into our language since his time have been as
far as possible avoided.
In those tales which have been taken from the
Tragedies, the young readers will perceive, when
they come to see the source from which these stories
are derived, that Shakspeare's own words, with little
alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as
well as in the dialogue; but in those made from the
Comedies the writers found themselves scarcely ever
able to turn his words into the narrative form :
therefore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has
been made use of too frequently for young people
not accustomed to the dramatic form of writing.
But this fault, if it be a fault, has been caused by an
earnest wish to give as much of Shakspeare's own
(xiii)
xiv. |\teface
words as possible: and if the “He said,” and “She
said,” the question and the reply, should sometimes
seem tedious to their young ears, they must pardon
it, because it was the only way in which could be
given to them a few hints and little foretastes of the
great pleasure which awaits them in their elder
years, when they come to the rich treasures from
which these small and valueless coins are extracted ;
pretending to no other merit than as faint and im-
perfect stamps of Shakspeare's matchless image.
Faint and imperfect images they must be called, be-
cause the beauty of his language is too frequently
destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his
excellent words into words far less expressive of his
true sense, to make it read something like prose ;
and even in some few places, where his blank verse
is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple plain-
ness to cheat the young readers into the belief that
they are reading prose, yet still his language being
transplanted from its own natural soil and wild
poetic garden, it must want much of its native
beauty.
It has been wished to make these Tales easy read-
ing for very young children. To the utmost of their
ability the writers have constantly kept this in
mind ; but the subjects of most of them made this a
very difficult task. It was no easy matter to give
the histories of men and women in terms familiar to
the apprehension of a very young mind. For young
ladies too, it has been the intention chiefly to write ;
because boys being generally permitted the use of
their fathers' libraries at a much earlier age than
girls are, they frequently have the best scenes of
|OtetaCe XV
Shakspeare by heart, before their sisters are per-
mitted to look into this manly book ; and, there-
fore, instead of recommending these Tales to the
perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so
much better in the originals, their kind assistance
is rather requested in explaining to their sisters such
parts as are hardest for them to understand : and
when they have helped them to get over the diffi-
culties, then perhaps they will read to them (care-
fully selecting what is proper for a young sister's
ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of
these stories, in the very words of the scene from
which it is taken ; and it is hoped they will find
that the beautiful extracts, the select passages, they
may choose to give their sisters in this way will be
much better relished and understood from their hav-
ing some notion of the general story from one of
these imperfect abridgments;–which if they be for-
tunately so done as to prove delightful to any of the
young readers, it is hoped that no worse effect will
result than to make them wish themselves a little
older, that they may be allowed to read the Plays
at full length (such a wish will be neither peevish
nor irrational). When time and leave of judicious
friends shall put them into their hands, they will
discover in such of them as are here abridged (not
to mention almost as many more, which are left un-
touched) many surprising events and turns of for-
tune, which for their infinite variety could not be
contained in this little book, besides a world of
sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and
women, the humour of which it was feared would
xvi |Steface
be lost if it were attempted to reduce the length of
them.
What these tales shall have been to the young
readers, that and much more it is the writers' wish
that the true Plays of Shakspeare may prove to them
in older years—enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners
of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercen-
ary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable
thoughts and actions, to teach courtesy, benignity,
generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching
these virtues, his pages are full.
sº
THE TEMPEST.
HERE was a certain island in the sea, the only
inhabitants of which were an old man, whose
name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a
very beautiful young lady. She came to this island
so young, that she had no memory of having seen
any other human face than her father’s.
They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock;
it was divided into several apartments, one of which
Prospero called his study; there he kept his books,
which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time
much affected by all learned men ; and the knowl-
edge of this art he found very useful to him ; for
being thrown by a strange chance upon this island,
which had been enchanted by a witch called
Sycorax, who died there a short time before his
arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many
good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the
bodies of large trees, because they had refused to
execute her wicked commands. These gentle spirits
were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero.
Of these Ariel was the chief.
The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mis-
chievous in his nature, except that he took rather
too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly monster
(I)
2 Caleg from 5bakópeate
called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he
was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Cali-
ban, Prospero found in the woods, a strange mis-
shapen thing, far less human in form than an ape :
he took him home to his cell, and taught him to
speak; and Prospero would have been very kind to
him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited
from his mother Sycorax, would not let him learn
anything good or useful : therefore he was em-
ployed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most
laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of com-
pelling him to these services.
When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work,
Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero’s)
would come slyly and pinch him, and sometimes
tumble him down in the mire ; and then Ariel, in
the likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him.
Then swiftly changing his shape, in the likeness of a
hedgehog, he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way,
who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick
his bare feet. With a variety of such-like vexatious
tricks Ariel would often torment him, whenever
Caliban neglected the work which Prospero com-
manded him to do.
Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will,
Prospero could by their means command the winds,
and the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised
a violent storm, in the midst of which, and strug-
gling 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 dread-
|
f
Cbe Cempest 3
ful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See
the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls
they will all perish. If I had power, I would sink
the sea beneath the earth, rather than the good ship
should be destroyed, with all the precious souls
within her.’’
“Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,” said
Prospero; “there is no harm done. I have so or-
dered it, that no person in the ship shall receive any
hurt. What I have done has been in care of you,
my dear child. You are ignorant who you are, or
where you came from, and you know no more of
me, but that I am your father, and live in this poor
cave. Can you remember a time before you came
to this cell ? I think you cannot, for you were not
then three years of age.”
“Certainly I can, sir,” replied Miranda.
“By what P” asked Prospero; “by any other
house or person P Tell me what you can remember,
my child.”
Miranda said, “It seems to me like the recollec-
tion of a dream. But had I not once four or five
women who attended upon me?”
Prospero answered, “You had, and more. How
is it that this still lives in your mind P Do you re-
member how you came here?”
“No, sir,” said Miranda, “I remember nothing
more.”
“Twelve years ago, Miranda,” continued Pros-
pero, “I was duke of Milan, and you were a prin-
cess, and my only heir. I had a younger brother,
whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted every-
thing ; and as I was fond of retirement and deep
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study, I commonly left the management of my state
affairs to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed
he proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, buried
among my books, did dedicate my whole time to
the bettering of my mind. My brother Antonio
being thus in possession of my power, began to
think himself the duke indeed. The opportunity I
gave him of making himself popular among my sub-
jects 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 carried us on board a ship, and when we
were some leagues out at Sea, he forced us into a
small boat, without either tackle, sail, or mast: there
he left us, as he thought, to perish. But a kind
lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had
privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, ap-
parel, and some books which I prize above my
dukedom.”
“O my father,” said Miranda, “what a trouble
must I have been to you then ”
“No, my love,” said Prospero, “you were a
little cherub that did preserve me. Your innocent
smiles made me to bear up against my misfortunes.
Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island,
since when my chief delight has been in teaching
you, Miranda, and well have you profited by m
instructions.” f
i
Cbe Cempegt 5
|
“Heaven thank you, my dear father,” said Mi-
randa. “Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for
raising this sea-storm P’’
“Know then,” said her father, “that by means
of this storm, my enemies, the king of Naples, and
my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this island.”
Having so said, Prospero gently touched his
daughter with his magic wand, and she fell fast
asleep ; for the spirit Ariel just then presented him-
self before his master, to give an account of the
tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's
company, and though the spirits were always in-
visible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she
should hear him holding converse (as would seem
to her) with the empty air.
“Well, my brave spirit,” said Prospero to Ariel,
“how have you performed your task?”
Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and
of the terrors of the mariners; and how the king's
son, Ferdinand, was the first who leaped into the sea ;
and his father thought he saw his dear son swal-
lowed up by the waves and lost. “But he is safe,”
said Ariel, “in a corner of the isle, sitting with his
arms folded, sadly lamenting the loss of the king,
his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a
hair of his head is injured, and his princely gar-
ments, though drenched in the sea-waves, look
fresher than before.”
“That's my delicate Ariel,” said Prospero.
“Bring him hither: my daughter must see this
young prince. Where is the king, and my brother?”
“I left them,” answered Ariel, “searching for
Ferdinand, whom they have little hopes of finding,
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thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship's crew,
not one is missing; though each one thinks him-
self the only one saved : and the ship, though in-
visible to them, is safe in the harbour.” *
“Ariel,” said Prospero, “thy charge is faithfully
performed : but there is more work yet.”
‘‘Is there more work P’’ 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 re-
collect what a torment I freed you from. Have
you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age
and envy was almost bent double? Where was
she born ? Speak ; tell me.”
“Sir, in Algiers,” said Ariel. *
“O was she so P” said Prospero. “I must re-
count what you have been, which I find you do not
remember. This bad witch, Sycorax, for her witch-
crafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, was
banished from Algiers, and here left by the sailors ;
and because you were a spirit too delicate to exe-
cute her wicked commands, she shut you up in a
tree, where I found you howling. This torment,
remember, I did free you frohn.”
“Pardon me, dear master,” said Ariel, ashamed
to seem ungrateful ; “I will obey your commands.”
“Do so,” said Prospero, “ and I will set you
free.” He then gave orders what further he would
have him do ; and away went Ariel, first to where
he had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting
on the grass in the same melancholy posture.
Cbe Cempe.9t - 7
“O my young gentleman,” said Ariel, when he
saw him, “I will soon move you. You must be
brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a
sight of your pretty person. Come, sir follow me.”
He then began singing,
“Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell.”
This strange news of his lost father soon roused
the prince from the stupid fit into which he had
fallen. He followed in amazement the sound of
Ariel’s voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda,
who were sitting under the shade of a large tree.
Now Miranda had never seen a man before, except
her own father.
“Miranda,” said Prospero, “tell me what you are
looking at yonder.”
“O father,” said Miranda, in a strange surprise,
“surely that is a spirit. Lord how it looks about !
Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not
a spirit?”
“No, girl,” answered her father; “it eats, and
sleeps, and has senses such as we have. This young
man you see was in the ship. He is somewhat al-
tered by grief, or you might call him a handsome
person. He has lost his companions, and is wan-
dering about to find them.”
Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces
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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,
expecting nothing but wonders, thought he was upon
an enchanted island, and that Miranda was the
goddess of the place, and as such he began to ad-
dress her.
She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a
simple maid, and was going to give him an account
of herself, when Prospero interrupted her. He was
well pleased to find they admired each other, for
he plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in
love at first sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy,
he resolved to throw some difficulties in their way:
therefore advancing forward, he addressed the prince
with a stern air, telling him, he came to the island
as a spy, to take it from him who was the lord of
it. “ Follow me,” said he, “I will tie you neck
and feet together. You shall drink sea-water; shell-
fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns shall be
your food.” “No,” said Ferdinand, “I will resist
such entertainment, till I see a more powerful
enemy,” and drew his sword ; but Prospero, waving
his magic wand, fixed him to the spot where he
stood, so that he had no power to move.
, Miranda hung upon her father, saying, “Why
are you so ungentle P Have pity, sir; I will be
his surety. This is the second man I ever saw, and
to me he seems a true one.’’ -
“Silence,” said the father, “one word more will
make me chide you, girl | What an advocate for an
impostor | You think there are no more such fine
Cbe Cempegl $9
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 con-
stancy; and she replied, “My affections are most
humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier man.”
“Come on, young man,” said Prospero to the
prince ; “you have no power to disobey me.”
“I have not indeed,” answered Ferdinand ; and
not knowing that it was by magic he was deprived
of all power of resistance, he was astonished to find
himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero ;
looking back on Miranda as long as he could
see her, he said, as he went after Prospero into the
cave, “My spirits are all bound up, as if I were in
a dream ; but this man’s threats, and the weakness
which I feel, would seem light to me if from my
prison I might once a day behold this fair maid.”
Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined
within the cell : he soon brought out his prisoner,
and set him a severe task to perform, taking care
to let his daughter know the hard labour he had
imposed on him, and then pretending to go into
his study, he secretly watched them both.
Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up
some heavy logs of wood. Kings' sons not being
much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after
found her lover almost dying with fatigue. “Alas!”
said she, “do not work so hard ; my father is at his
studies, he is safe for these three hours; pray rest
yourself.”
“O my dear lady,” said Ferdinand, “I dare not.
I must finish my task before I take my rest.”
“If you will sit down,” said Miranda, “I will
IO Caleø from $bakópeare
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-carry-
ing went on very slowly.
Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task
merely as a trial of his love, was not at his books,
as his daughter supposed, but was standing by them
invisible, to overhear what they said.
Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told,
saying it was against her father's express command
she did so.
Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his
daughter's disobedience, for having by his magic
art caused his daughter to fall in love so suddenly,
he was not angry that she showed her love by for-
getting to obey his commands. And he listened
well pleased to a long speech of Ferdinand's, in
which he professed to love her above all the ladies
he ever saw.
In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he
said exceeded all the women in the world, she re-
plied, “I do not remember the face of any woman,
nor have I seen any more men than you, my good
friend, and my dear father. How features are
abroad, I know not ; but, believe me, sir, I would
not wish any companion in the world but you, nor
can my imagination form any shape but yours that
I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to you too freely,
and my father's precepts I forget.”
At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head,
as much as to say, “This goes on exactly as I could
wish ; my girl will be queen of Naples.”
Cbe Cempest II
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. I am your wife if you will marry
me.’’
Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by ap-
pearing visible before them.
“Fear nothing, my child,” said he ; “I have
overheard, and approve of all you have said. And,
Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, I will
make you rich. amends, by giving you my daughter.
All your vexations were but trials of your love, and
you have nobly stood the test. Then as my gift,
which your true love has worthily 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 re-
turned ; and this command Miranda seemed not
at all disposed to disobey.
When Prospero left them, he called his spirit
Ariel, who quickly appeared before him, eager to
relate what he had done with Prospero’s brother
and the king of Naples. Ariel said he had left
them almost out of their senses with fear, at the
strange things he had caused them to see and hear.
When fatigued with wandering about, and famished
for want of food, he had suddenly set before them
a delicious banquet, and then, just as they were
going to eat, he appeared visible before them in
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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,
repented the injustice they had done to Prospero;
and Ariel told his master he was certain their peni-
tence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could
not but pity them.
“Then bring them hither, Ariel,” said Prospero:
“if you, who are but a spirit, feel for their distress,
shall not I, who am a human being like themselves,
have compassion on them P 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 Gon-
zalo 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 dis-
covered 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 Pros-
pero.
Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and
true repentance, implored his brother's forgiveness,
Qūbe Cempest I3
and the king expressed his sincere remorse for
having assisted Antonio to depose his brother: and
Prospero forgave them ; and, upon their engaging
to restore his dukedom, he said to the king of
Naples, “I have a gift in store for you too ; ” and
opening a door, showed him his son Ferdinand
playing at chess with Miranda.
Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and
the son at this unexpected meeting, for they each
thought the other drowned in the storm.
“O wonder I’” said Miranda, “what noble crea-
tures these are It must surely be a brave world
that has such people in it.”
The king of Naples was almost as much as-
tonished at the beauty and excellent graces of the
young Miranda, as his son had been. “Who is
this maid P’’ said he ; “she seems the goddess that
has parted us, and brought us thus together.”
“No, sir,” answered Ferdinand, smiling to find his
father had fallen into the same mistake that he had
done when he first saw Miranda, “she is a mortal,
but by immortal Providence she is mine ; I chose
her when I could not ask you, my father, for your
consent, not thinking you were alive. She is the
daughter to this Prospero, who is the famous duke
of Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much,
but never saw him till now ; of him I have received
a new life : he has made himself to me a second
father, giving me this dear lady.”
“Then I must be her father,” said the king;
“but oh how oddly will it sound, that I must ask
my child forgiveness.”
“No more of that,” said Prospero: “let us not
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remember our troubles past, since they so happily
have ended.” And then Prospero embraced his
brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness;
and said that a wise over-ruling Providence had
permitted that he should be driven from his poor
dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit
the crown of Naples, for that by their meeting in
this desert island, it had happened that the king's
son had loved Miranda. -
These kind words which Prospero spoke, mean-
ing to comfort his brother, so filled Antonio with
shame and remorse, that he wept and was unable to
speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this
joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on
the young couple. -
Prospero now told them that their ship was safe
in the harbour, and the sailors all on board her,
and that he and his daughter would accompany
them home the next morning. “In the mean-
time,” says he, “partake of such refreshments as
my poor cave affords; and for your evening's enter-
tainment 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 aston-
ished at the uncouth form and savage appearance
of this ugly monster, who (Prospero said) was the
only attendant he had to wait upon him.
Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed
Ariel from his service, to the great joy of that lively
little spirit; who, though he had been a faithful
servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy
his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air,
Qºbe Cºmpé9t I5
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 mas-
ter,” 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 l’’ Here Ariel sung this pretty Song:
“Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie :
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.”
Prospero thrºn buried deep in the earth his
magical books and wand, for he was resolved never
more to make use of the magic art. And having
thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled .
to his brother and the king of Naples, nothing now
remained to complete his happiness, but to revisit
his native land, to take possession of his dukedom,
and to witness the happy nuptials of his daughter
and Prince Ferdinand, which the king said should
be instantly celebrated with great splendour on their
return to Naples. At which place, under the safe
convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant
voyage, soon arrived.
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.
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 Athe-
nian, 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
(16)
a (IMögum met ſºligbt’g Đream 17
dear friend Helena, and that Helena loved Deme-
trius to distraction ; but this honourable reason,
which Hermia gave for not obeying her father's
command, moved not the stern Egeus.
Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had
no power to alter the laws of his country; therefore
he could only give Hermia four days to consider
of it : and at the end of that time, if she still
refused to marry Demetrius, she was to be put to
death.
- When Hermia was dismissed from the presence
of the duke, she went to her lover Lysander, and
told him the peril she was in, and that she must
either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her
life in four days.
Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these
evil tidings; but recollecting that he had an aunt
who lived at some distance from Athens, and that
at the place where she lived the cruel law could not
be put in force against Hermia (this law not ex-
tending beyond the boundaries of the city), he pro-
posed to Hermia that she should steal out of her
father's house that night, and go with him to his
aunt’s house, where he would marry her. “I will
meet you,” said Lysander, “in the wood a few
miles without the city; in that delightful wood
where we have so often walked with Helena in the
pleasant month of May.”
To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed ; and
she told no one of her intended flight but her friend
Helena. Helena (as maidens will do foolish things
for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell
this to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit
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from betraying her friend's secret, but the poor
pleasure of following her faithless lover to the
wood ; for she well knew that Demetrius would go
thither in pursuit of Hermia.
The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia pro-
posed to meet was the favourite haunt of those little
beings known by the name of Fairies.
Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the
Fairies, with all their tiny train of followers, in this
wood held their midnight revels.
*
Between this little king and queen of sprites there
happened, at this time, a sad disagreement ; they
never met by moonlight in the shady walks of this
pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all
their fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and
hide themselves for fear.
The cause of this unhappy disagreement was
Titania's refusing to give Oberon a little changeling
boy, whose mother had been Titania’s friend ; and
upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from
its nurse, and brought him up in the woods.
The night on which the lovers were to meet in
this wood, as Titania was walking with some of her
maids of honour, she met Oberon attended by his
train of fairy courtiers.
“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” said the
fairy king. The queen replied, “What, jealous
Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence ; I have
forsworn his company.” “Tarry, rash fairy,” said,
Oberon ; “am not I thy lord? Why does Titania
cross her Oberon P Give me your little changeling
boy to be my page.”
“Set your heart at rest,
} }
answered the queen ;
Tºl (IMögummer ſlight’g （)team I9
“your whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of
me.” She then left her lord in great anger.
“Well, go your way,” said Oberon : “before the
morning dawns I will torment you for this injury.”
Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite
and privy counsellor.
Puck (or as he was sometimes called, Robin
Goodfellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that
used to play comical pranks in the neighbouring
villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and
skimming the milk, sometimes plunging his light
and airy form into the butter-churn, and while he
was dancing his fantastic shape in the churn, in vain
the dairy-maid would labour to change her cream
into butter: nor had the village swains any better
success; whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in
the brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled.
When a few good neighbours were met to drink
some comfortable ale together, Puck would jump
into the bowl of ale in the likeness of a roasted
crab, and when some old goody was going to drink,
he would bob against her lips, and spill the ale
over her withered chin ; and presently after, when
the same old dame was gravely seating herself to
tell her neighbours a sad and melancholy story,
Puck would slip her three-legged stool from under
her, and down toppled the poor old woman, and
then the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh
at her, and swear they never wasted a merrier hour.
“Come hither, Puck,” said Oberon to this little
merry wanderer of the night ; “fetch me the flower
which maids call Zoze in Idleness; the juice of
that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those
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who sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote
on the first thing they see. Some of the juice of
that flower I will drop on the eyelids of my Titania
when she is asleep : and the first thing she looks
upon when she opens her eyes she will fall in love
with, even though it be a lion or a bear, a meddling
monkey, or a busy ape; and before I will take this
charm from off her sight, which I can do with an-
other charm I know of, I will make her give me
that boy to be my page.” -
Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly
diverted with this intended frolic of his master, and
ran to seek the flower ; and while Oberon was wait-
ing 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 expostu-
lations from Helena, reminding him of his former
love and professions of true faith to her, he left her
(as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts, and she
ran after him as swiftly as she could.
The fairy king, who was always friendly to true
lovers, felt great compassion for Helena ; and per-
haps, as Lysander said they used to walk by moon-
light in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have
seen Helena in those happy times when she was
beloved by Demetrius. However that might be,
when Puck returned with the little purple flower,
Oberon said to his favourite, “Take a part of this
flower; there has been a sweet Athenian lady here,
who is in love with a disdainful youth ; if you find
him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his
eyes, but contrive to do it when she is near him,
Žl flyfö3ummet thigbt's AE) teant 2I
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 pro-
mised to manage this matter very dexterously: and
then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her
bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her
fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild thyme,
cowslips, and sweet violets, under a canopy of wood-
bine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania al-
ways slept some part of the night; her coverlet the
enamelled skin of a Snake, which, though a small
mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy in.
He found Titania giving orders to her fairies,
how they were to employ themselves while she
slept. “Some of you,” said her majesty, “must
kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, and some wage
war with the bats for their leathern wings, to make
my small elves coats; and some of you keep watch
that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come
not near me: but first sing me to sleep.” Then
they began to sing this song:—
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms do no wrong,
Come not near our Fairy Queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby,
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby;
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So good night with lullaby.
When the fairies had Sung their queen asleep
with this pretty lullaby, they left her to perform
the important services she had enjoined them.
22 Qaleø trom $bakgpeate
Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and
dropped some of the love-juice on her eyelids, say
ing,- .
What thou seest when thou dost wake, t
Do it for thy true-love take.
But to return to Hermia, who made her escape
out of her father's house that night, to avoid the
death she was doomed to for refusing to marry De-
metrius. When she entered the wood, she found
her dear Lysander waiting for her, to conduct her
to his aunt's house ; but before they had passed
half through the wood, Hermia was so much
ſatigued, 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, per-
Suaded her to rest till morning on a bank of soft
moss, and lying down himself on the ground at
some little distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Here
they were found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome
young man asleep, and perceiving that his clothes
were made in the Athenian fashion, and that a
pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that
this must be the Athenian maid and her disdainful
lover whom Oberon had sent him to seek; and
he naturally enough conjectured that, as they were
alone together, she must be the first thing he would
see when he awoke ; so, without more ado, he pro-
ceeded 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 power-
ful was the love-charm, all his ſove for Hermia
l
‘.
Tºl (ISíðgummer ſºligbt’.3 g) team 23
vanished away, and Lysander fell in love with
Helena.
Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the
blunder Puck committed would have been of no
consequence, for he could not love that faithful
lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced
by a fairy love-charm to forget his own true Hermia,
and to run after another lady, and leave Hermia
asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was a
sad chance indeed.
Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has
been before related, endeavoured to keep pace with
Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from her ;
but she could not continue this unequal race long,
men being always better runners in a long race than
ladies. Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius; and
as she was wandering about, dejected and forlorn,
she arrived at the place where Lysander was sleep-
ing. “Ah !” said she, “this is Lysander lying on
the ground ; is he dead or asleep?” Then, gently
touching him, she said, “Good sir, if you are alive,
awake.” Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and
(the love-charm beginning to work) immediately
addressed her in terms of extravagant love and ad-
miration ; telling her she as much excelled Hermia
in beauty as a dove does a raven, and that he
would run through fire for her sweet sake; and
many more such lover-like speeches. Helena,
knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia’s lover,
and that he was solemnly engaged to marry her,
was in the utmost rage when she heard herself ad-
dressed in this manner; for she thought (as well
she might) that Lysander was making a jest of her.
24 Calcã from $5bakópeate
“Oh ” said she, “why was I born to be mocked and
scorned by every one P Is it not enough, is it not
enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet
look or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, sir,
must pretend in this disdainful manner to court me?
I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true
gentleness.” Saying these words in great anger,
she ran away ; and Lysander followed her, quite
forgetful of his own Hermia, who was still asleep.
When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at
finding herself alone. She wandered about the
wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander,
or which way to go to seek for him. In the mean
time 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's eyes; and now having found the person
first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleep-
ing Demetrius with the love-juice, and he instantly
awoke ; and the first thing he saw being Helena,
he, as Lysander had done before, began to address
lovë-speeches to her ; and just at that moment Ly-
sander, followed by Hermia (for through Puck’s un-
lucky 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,
Lysander, and her once dear friend Hermia, were
all in a plot together to make a jest of her.
./
it flyiogummet ſºligbt’g ºteam 25
Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she
knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both
before loved her, were now become thé lovers of
Helena ; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be
no jest.
The ladies, who before had always been the
dearest of friends, now fell to high words to-
gether.
“ Unkind Hermia,” said Helena, “it is you have
set Lysander on to vex me with mock praises; and
your other lover, Demetrius, who used almost to
spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him call
me Goddess, Nymph, rare, precious, and celestial P
He would not speak thus to me, whom he hates, if
you did not set him on to make a jest of me. Un-
kind Hermia, to join with men in scorning your
poor friend. Have you forgot our school-day friend-
ship P How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting
on one cushion, both singing one song, with our
needles working the same flower, both on the same
sampler wrought ; growing up together in fashion of
a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted P Hermia,
it is not friendly in you, it is not maidenly to join
with men in scorning your poor friend.”
“I am annazed at your passionate words,” said
Hermia: “I scorn you not ; it seems you scorn me.”
“Ay, do,” returned Helena, “persevere, counterfeit
serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn
my back; then wink at each other, and hold the
sweet jest up. If you had any pity, grace, or man-
ners, you would not use me thus.’’
While Helena and Hermia were speaking these
angry words to each other, Demetrius and Lysander
26 Caleg from 5bakapeate
left them, to fight together in the wood for the love
of Helena.
When they found the gentlemen had left them,
they departed, and once more wandered weary in
the wood in search of their lovers.
As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who
with little Puck had been listening to their quarrels,
said to him, “This is your negligence, Puck; or
did you do this wilfully P” “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 ex-
cellent sport.” “You heard,” said Oberon, “that
Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek a con-
venient place to fight in. I command you to over-
hang the night with a thick fog, and lead these
quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark, that they
shall not be able to find each other. Counterfeit
each of their voices to the other, and with bitter
taunts provoke them to follow you, while they think
it is their rival’s tongue they hear. See you do
this, till they are so weary they can go no farther;
and when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of
this other flower into Lysander's eyes, and when he
awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, and
return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the
two fair ladies may each one be happy with the
man she loves, and they will think all that has passed
a vexatious dream. About this quickly, Puck, and
I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has
found.’’
Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a
Il MISíðgummer ſºligbt’.3 g) team 27
clown near her, who had lost his way in the wood,
and was likewise asleep : “This fellow,” said he,
“shall be my Titania's true love ; ” and clapping
an ass’s head over the clown’s, it seemed to fit him as
well as if it had grown upon his own shoulders.
Though Oberon fixed the ass’s head on very gently,
it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what
Oberon had done to him, he went towards the
bower where the fairy queen slept.
“Ah ! what angel is that I see P” said Titania,
opening her eyes, and the juice of the little purple
flower beginning to take effect: “are you as wise as
you are beautiful ?”
“Why, mistress,” said the foolish clown, “if I
have wit enough to find the way out of this wood,
I have enough to serve my turn.”
“Out of the wood do not desire to go,” said the
enamoured queen. “I am a spirit of no common
rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give
you fairies to attend upon you.”
She then called four of her fairies: their names
were, Pease-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-
seed.
“Attend,” said the queen, “upon this sweet
gentleman ; hop in his walks, and gambol in his
sight ; feed him with grapes and apricots, and steal
for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit
with me,” said she to the clown, “and let me play
with your amiable hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass!
and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy l’’
“Where is Pease-blossom P’’ said the ass-headed
clown, not much regarding the fairy queen's court-
ship, but very proud of his new attendants.
y
28 Caleg from 5bakópeate
“Here, sir,” said little Pease-blossom.
“Scratch my head,” said the clown. “Where
is Cobweb P’’
“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 over-
flown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?”
“Here, sir,” said Mustard-seed: “what is your
will P ''
“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 me-
thinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.”
“My sweet love,” said the queen, “what will you
have to eat P I have a venturous fairy shall seek
the squirrel’s hoard, and fetch you some new
nuts.’’
“I had rather have a handful of dried pease,”
said the clown, who with his ass’s head had got an
ass's appetite. “But, I pray, let none of your
people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep.”
“Sleep, then,” said the queen, “and I will wind
you in my arms. O how I love you ! how I dote
upon you !”
When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in
the arms of his queen, he advanced within her sight,
and reproached her with having lavished her
favours upon an ass.
This she could not deny, as the clown was then
Tºl (ISiO3ummer ſaígbt’.3 g) team 29
sleeping within her arms, with his ass’s head crowned
by her with flowers.
When Oberon had teased her for some time, he
again demanded the changeling-boy ; which she,
ashamed of being discovered by her lord with her
new favourite, did not dare to refuse him. &
Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he
had so long wished for to be his page, took pity on
the disgraceful situation into which, by his merry
contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw
some of the juice of the other flower into her eyes;
and the fairy queen immediately recovered her
senses, and wondered at her late dotage, saying how
she now loathed the sight of the strange monster.
Oberon likewise took the ass’s head from off the
clown, and left him to finish his nap with his own
fool's head upon his shoulders.
Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly re-
conciled, he related to her the history of the lovers,
and their midnight quarrels; and she agreed to go
with him and see the end of their adventures.
The fairy king and queen found the lovers and
their fair ladies, at no great distance from each
other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to make
amends for his former mistake, had contrived with
the utmost diligence to bring them all to the same
spot, unknown to each other ; and he had carefully
removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander
with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.
Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander
asleep so near her, was looking at him and wonder-
ing at his strange inconstancy. Lysander presently
opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, re-
3O (Vale3 from $5bakópeate
covered his reason which the fairy charm had before
clouded, and with his reason, his love for Hermia ;
and they began to talk over the adventures of the
night, doubting if these things had really happened,
or if they had both been dreaming the same bewil-
dering dream. -
Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake ;
and a sweet sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed
and angry spirits, she listened with delight to the
professions of love which Demetrius still made to
her, and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure,
she began to perceive were sincere.
These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer
rivals, became once more true friends ; all the un-
kind words which had passed were forgiven, and
they calmly consulted together what was best to be
done in their present situation. It was soon agreed
that, as Demetrius had given up his pretensions to
Hermia, he should endeavour to prevail upon her
father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which
had been passed against her. Demetrius was pre-
paring to return to Athens for this friendly purpose,
when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus,
Hermia’s father, who came to the wood in pursuit
of his runaway daughter.
When Egeus understood that Demetrius would
not now marry his daughter, he no longer opposed
her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent
that they should be wedded on the fourth day from
that time, being the same day on which Hermia had
been condemned to lose her life ; and on that same
day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved
and now faithful Demetrius.
Žl (ISíðgummer ſºligbt’.3 £) team 3I
The fairy king and queen, who were invisible
spectators of this reconciliation, and now saw the
happy ending of the lovers' history, brought about
through the good offices of Oberon, received so
much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to
celebrate the approaching nuptials with sports and
revels throughout their fairy kingdom.
And now, if any are offended with this story of
fairies and their pranks, as judging it incredible and
strange, they have only to think that they have
been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adven-
tures were visions which they saw in their sleep :
and I hope none of my readers will be so unreason-
able as to be offended with a pretty harmless Mid-
summer Night's Dream.
THE WINTER’S TALE.
EONTES, king of Sicily, and his queen, the
beautiful and virtuous Hermione, once lived
in the greatest harmony together. So happy was
Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, that he
had no wish ungratified, except that he sometimes
desired to See again, and to present to his queen,
his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,
king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were
brought up together from their infancy, but being,
by the death of their fathers, called to reign over
their respective kingdoms, they had not met for
many years, though they frequently interchanged
gifts, letters, and loving embassies.
At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes
came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make
his friend Leontes a visit.
At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to
Leontes. He recommended the friend of his youth
to the queen's particular attention, and seemed in
the presence of his dear friend and old companion
to have his felicity quite completed. They talked
over old times; their school-days and their youthful
pranks were remembered, and recounted to Her-
mione, who always took a cheerful part in these
conversations.
(32)
Qſbe (Clintet’g Cºaſe 33
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
Polixenes refusing to stay at the request of Leontes,
was won over by Hermione's gentle and persuasive
words to put off his departure for some weeks
longer. Upon this, although Leontes had so long
known the integrity and honourable principles of
his friend Polixenes, as well as the excellent dis-
position of his virtuous queen, he was seized with
an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention Her-
mione showed to Polixenes, though by her husband's
particular desire, º to please him, increased
the unfortunate king's jealousy; and from being a
loving and a true friend, and the best and fondest
of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage
and inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one of
, the lords of his court, and telling him of the suspi-
cion he entertained, he commanded him to poison
Polixenes.
Camillo was a good man ; and he, well knowing
that the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest
foundation in truth, instead of poisoning Polixenes,
acquainted him with the king his master's orders,
and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian
dominions; and Polixenes, with the assistance of
Camillo, arrived safe in his own kingdom of
Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time in
the king's court, and became the chief friend and
favourite of Polixenes.
The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous
3
34 Caleg from $5bakópeate
Leontes still more ; he went to the queen's apart-
ment, 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 Her-
mione to prison.
Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved
his mother tenderly ; and when he saw her so dis-
honoured, 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,
commanded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian
lords, to go to Delphos ; there to inquire of the
oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had
been unfaithful to him.
When Hermione had been a short time in
prison, she was brought to bed of a daughter; and
the poor lady received much comfort from the
sight of her pretty baby, and she said to it, “My
poor little prisoner, I am as innocent as you are.”
Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited
Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian
lord ; and when the lady Paulina heard her royal
mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison
where Hermione was confined ; and she said to
Emilia, a lady who attended upon Hermione, “I
pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her
majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will
carry it to the king, its father; we do not know
how he may soften at the sight of his innocent
Qºbe (Clintet'3 (Vale 35
child.” “Most worthy madam,” replied Emilia,
“I will acquaint the queen with your noble offer;
she was wishing to-day that she had any friend who
would venture to present the child to the king.”
“And tell her,” said Paulina, “ that I will speak
boldly to Leontes in her defence.” “May you be
for ever blessed,” said Emilia, “for your kindness
to our gracious queen '' Emilia then went to
Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby to the
care of Paulina, for she had feared that no one
would dare venture to present the child to its father.
Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing
herself into the king's presence, notwithstanding
her husband, fearing the king’s anger, endeavoured
to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father’s feet,
and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in
defence of Hermione, and she reproached him
severely for his inhumanity, and implored him to
have mercy on his innocent wife and child. But
Paulina's spirited remonstrances only aggravated
Leontes' displeasure, and he ordered her husband
Antigonus to take her from his presence.
When Paulina went away, she left the little baby
at its father's feet, thinking when he was alone with
it, he would look upon it, and have pity on its help.
less innocence.
The good Paulina was mistaken : for no sooner
was she gone than the merciless father ordered An-
tigonus, 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
36 Caleg from $5bakópeate
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 con-
sult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos ; but before
the queen was recovered from her lying-in, and i
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
before her subjects to receive their judgment,
| Cleomenes and Dion entered the assembly, and
presented to the king the answer of the oracle,
sealed up ; and Leontes commanded the seal to
be broken, and the words of the oracle to be read
aloud, and these were the words:—“ Hermione is
Žnnocent, Polixenes &/ameless, Camillo a true subject,
Aleonţes a jealous tyrant, and the king shal/ live with-
out am 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 sud-
denly died. - -
Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this
dear affectionate child, who had lost his life in
Qºbe (ſlintet’g (Vale 37
sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted ; and Leontes,
pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity
for his unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and
the ladies who were her attendants, to take her
away, and use means for her recovery. Paulina.
soon returned, and told the king that Hermione
was dead.
When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he
repented of his cruelty to her ; and now that he
thought his ill-usage had broken Hermione's heart,
he believed her innocent; and now he thought the
words of the Oracle were true, as he knew “if that
which was lost was not found,” which he concluded
was his young daughter, he should be without an
heir, the young prince Mamillus being dead; and
he would give his kingdom now to recover his lost
daughter: and Leontes gave himself up to remorse,
and passed many years in mournful thoughts and
repentant grief.
The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant
princess out to Sea was driven by a storm upon
the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the
good king Polixenes. Here 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 Jbeying the wicked order of Leontes.
The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels;
for Hermione had made it very fine when she sent
it to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a paper
to its mantle, and the name of AEerdita written there.
38 Caleg from $bakópeate
on, and words obscurely intimating its high birth
and untoward fate.
This poor deserted baby was found by a shep-
herd. 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 be-
came a wealthy shepherd. He brought up Per-
dita as his own child, and she knew not she was
any other than a shepherd’s daughter.
The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden ; and
though she had no better education than that of a
shepherd's daughter, yet so did the natural graces
she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in
her untutored mind, that no one from her behaviour
would have known she had not been brought up
in her father's court.
Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son,
whose name was Florizel. As this young prince
was hunting near the shepherd's dwelling, he saw
the old man’s supposed daughter ; and the beauty,
modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita
caused him instantly to fall in love with her. He
soon, under the name of Doricles, and in the dis-
guise of a private gentleman, became a constant
visitor at the old shepherd's house. Florizel's fre-
quent absences from court alarmed Polixenes; and
setting people to watch his son, he discovered his
love for the shepherd's fair daughter.
Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful
Qºbe (Clintet’g Cale 39
~~
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 cele-
brating the feast of sheep-shearing ; and though
they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every
guest being made welcome, they were invited to
walk in, and join in the general festivity.
Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward.
Tables were spread, and great preparations were
making for the rustic feast. Some lads and lasses
were dancing on the green before the house, while
others of the young men were buying ribands,
gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar at the door. ,
While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel
and Perdita sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly
more pleased with the conversation of each other,
than desirous of engaging in the sports and silly
amusements of those around them.
The king was so disguised that it was impossible
his son could know him ; he therefore advanced
near enough to hear the conversation. The simple
yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with
his son did not a little surprise Polixenes: he said
to Camillo, “This is the prettiest low-born lass I
ever saw ; nothing she does or says but looks like
something greater than herself, too noble for this
place.”
Camillo replied, “Indeed she is the very queen
of curds and cream.”
“Pray, my good friend,” said the king to the
|
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old shepherd, “what fair swain is that talking with
your daughter?” “They call him Doricles,” re-
plied the shepherd. “He says he loves my daugh-
ter; and, to speak truth, there is not a kiss to
choose which loves the other best. If young
Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he
little dreams of ;” meaning the remainder of Perdita's
jewels; which, after he had bought herds of sheep
with part of them, he had carefully hoarded up for
her marriage portion.
Polixenes then addressed his son. “How now,
young man l’” said he “your heart seems full of
something that takes off your mind from feasting.
When I was young, I used to load my love with
presents ; but you have let the pedlar go, and have
bought your lass no toy.’’
The young prince, who little thought he was talk-
ung to the king his father, replied, “Old sir, she
prizes not such trifles; the gifts which Perdita ex-
pects from me are locked up in my heart.” Then
turning to Perdita, he said to her, “O 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 Poli-
xenes, “I pray you mark our contract.”
“Mark your divorce, young sir,” said the king,
discovering himself. Polixenes then reproached
his son for daring to contract himself to this low-
born maiden, calling Perdita “shepherd's-brat,
sheep-hook,” and other disrespectful names; and
threatening, if ever she suffered his son to see her
Qſbø (Clintet’g (Vale 41
again, he would put her, and the old shepherd her
father, to a cruel death. -
The king then left them in great wrath, and
ordered Camillo to follow him with prince Florizel.
When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal
nature was roused by Polixenes' reproaches, said,
“Though we are all undone, I was not much
afraid ; and once or twice I was about to speak,
and tell him plainly that the selfsame sun which
shines upon his palace, hides not his face from our
cottage, but looks on both alike.” Then sorrow-
fully she said, “But now I am awakened from this
dream, I will queen it no further. Leave me, sir;
I will go milk my ewes and weep.”
The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the
spirit and propriety of Perdita's behaviour, and
perceiving that the young prince was too deeply in
love to give up his mistress at the command of his
royal father, he thought of a way to befriend the
lovers, and at the same time to execute a favourite
scheme he had in his mind.
Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king
of Sicily, was become a true penitent ; and though
Camillo was now the favourite friend of king Poli-
xenes, he could not help wishing once more to see
his late royal master and his native home. He
therefore proposed to Florizel and Perdita, that
they should accompany him to the Sicilian court,
where he would engage Leontes should protect
them, till, through his mediation, they could obtain
pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to their
marriage. - -
To this proposal they joyfully agreed ; and Ca-
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millo, who conducted everything relative to their
flight, allowed the old shepherd to go along with
them.
The shepherd took with him the remainder of
Perdita's jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper
which he had found pinned to her mantle.
After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita,
Camillo and the old shepherd, arrived in safety at
the court of Leontes. Leontes, who still mourned
his dead Hermione and his lost child, received Ca-
millo with great kindness, and gave a cordial wel-
come to prince Florizel. But Perdita, whom Flo-
rizel introduced as his princess, seemed to engross
all Leontes’ attention : perceiving a resemblance
between her and his dead queen Hermione, his
grief broke out afresh, and he said, such a lovely
creature might his own daughter have been, if he
had not so cruelly destroyed her. “And then,
too,” said he to Florizel, “I lost the society and
friendship of your brave father, whom I now desire
more than my life once again to look upon.”
When the old shepherd heard how much notice
the king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost
a daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to
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 re-
lated to the king the manner in which he had found
the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus'
Cbe Ulintet'a Cale 43
death, he having seen the bear seize upon him.
He showed the rich mantle in which Paulina re-
membered Hermione had wrapped the child; and
he produced a jewel which she remembered Her-
mione 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 Per-
dita was J_eontes’ own daughter: but oh ! the noble
struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her hus-
band's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled,
in the king's heir, his long-lost daughter being
found. When Leontes heard that Perdita was his
daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that Her-
mione was not living to behold her child, made him
that he could say nothing for a long time, but, “O
thy mother, thy mother ’’
Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful
scene, with saying to Leontes, that she had a statue,
newly finished by that rare Italian master, Julio
Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of
the queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go
to her house and look upon it, he would be almost
ready to think it was Hermione herself. Thither
then they all went ; the king anxious to see the
semblance of his Hermione, and Perdita longing
to behold what the mother she never saw did look
like. - -
When Paulina drew back the curtain which con-
cealed this famous statue, so perfectly did it re-
semble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was re-
newed at the sight : for a long time he had no power
to speak or move.
“I like your silence, my liege,” said Paulina, “it
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the more shows your wonder. Is not this statue
very like your queen P”
At length the king said, “O, thus she stood,
even with such majesty, when I first wooed her.
But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as
“ this statue looks.” Paulina replied, “So much the
more the carver’s excellence, who has made the
statue as Hermione would have looked had she
been living now. But let me draw the curtain, sire,
lest presently you think it moves.”
The king then said, “Do not draw the curtain ;
Would I were dead | See, Camillo, would you not
think it breathed P. Her eye seems to have motion
in it.” “I must draw the curtain, my liege,” said
Paulina. “You are so transported, you will per-
suade yourself the statue lives.” “O, sweet Pau-
lina,” 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 P Let no man mock me, for I will kiss
her.” “Good, my lord, forbear !” said Paulina.
* “The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; you will stain
your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the
curtain P” “No, not these twenty years,” said
Leontes. •
Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling,
and beholding in silent admiration the statue of
her matchless mother, said now, “And so long
could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother.”
“Either forbear this transport,” said Paulina to
Leontes, “and let me draw the curtain ; or prepare
yourself for more amazement. I can make the
statue move indeed ; ay, and descend from off the
Cbe (Clinter’g Cale 45
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 aston-
ished king, “I am content to look upon. What
you can make her speak, I am content to hear;
for it is as easy to make her speak as move.” .
Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn
music, which she had prepared for the purpose, to
strike up ; and, to the amazement of all the
beholders, the statue came down from off the
pedestal, and threw its arms around Leontes' neck.
The statue then began to speak, praying for bless-
ings on her husband, and on her child, the newly-
found Perdita.
No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes’
neck, and blessed her husband and her child. No
wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione her-
self, the real, the living queen. • * -
Paulina had falsely reported to the king the
death of Hermione, thinking that the only means
to preserve her royal mistress' life; and with the
good Paulina, Hermione had lived ever since,
never choosing Leontes should know she was
living, till she heard Perdita was found ; for
though she had long forgiven the injuries which
Leontes had done to herself, she could not pardon
his cruelty to his infant daughter.
His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost
daughter found, the long-sorrowing Leontes could
scarcely support the excess of his own happiness.
Nothing but congratulations and affectionate
speeches were heard on all sides. Now the de-
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lighted parents thanked prince Florizel for loving
their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they
blessed the good old shepherd for preserving their
child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina rejoice
that they had lived to see so good an end of all
their faithful services.
And as if nothing should be wanting to complete
this strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes
himself now entered the palace.
When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo,
knowing that Camillo had long wished to return
to Sicily, he conjectured he should find the fugi-
tives here ; and, following 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
long-suffering Hermione rewarded. The excel-
lent lady lived many years with, her Leontes and
her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
HERE lived in the palace at Messina two
ladies, whose names were Hero and Beatrice.
Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of
Leonato, the governor of Messina.
Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to
divert her cousin Hero, who was of a more serious
disposition, with her sprightly sallies. Whatever
was going forward was sure to make matter of mirth
for the light-hearted Beatrice.
At the time the history of these ladies commences
Some young men of high rank in the army, as they
were passing through Messina on their return from
a war that was just ended, in which they had dis-
tinguished themselves by their great bravery, came
to visit Leonato. Among these were Don Pedro,
the Prince of Arragon ; and his friend Claudio,
who was a lord of Florence; and with them came
the wild and witty Benedick, and he was a lord
of Pādūā... " ' " `` sº-
These strangers had been at Messina before, and
... the hospitable governor introduced them to his
`daughter and his niece as their old friends and ac-
quaintance.
Benedick, the moment he entered the room be-
(47)
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gan a lively conversation with Leonato and the
prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of
any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying,
“I wonder that you will still be talking, signior
Benedick: nobody marks you.” Benedick was
just such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he
was not pleased at this free salutation ; he thought
it did not become a well-bred lady to be so flippant
with her tongue; and he remembered when he
was last at Messina, that Beatrice used to select
him to make her merry jests upon. And as there
is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of as
those who are apt to take the same liberty 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 P” And now war broke out afresh between
them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during.
which Beatrice, although she knew he had so well
approved his valour in the late war, said that she
would eat all he had killed there : and observing
the prince take delight in Benedick's conversation,
she called him “the prince's jester.” This sarcasm
sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick than all
Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him
that he was a coward, by saying she would eat all
he had killed, he did not regard, knowing him-
FISuch Eloo Elbout ſºlotbing 49
self to be a brave man ; but there is nothing that
great wits so much dread as the imputation of buf-
foonery, because the charge comes sometimes a
little too near the truth: therefore Benedick per-
fectly hated Beatrice when she called him “the
prince's jester.” -
The modest lady Hero was silent before the
noble guests; and while Claudio was attentively
observing the improvement which time had made
in her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite
graces of her fine figure (for she was an admirable
young lady), the prince was highly amused with
listening to the humorous dialogue between Bene-
dick and Beatrice ; and he said in a whisper to
Leonato, “This is a pleasant-spirited young lady.
She were an excellent wife for Benedick.” Leonato
replied to this suggestion, “O, my lord, my lord,
if they were but a week married, they would talk
themselves mad.” But though Leonato thought
they would make a discordant pair, the prince did
not give up the idea of matching these two keen
wits together. -
When the prince returned with Claudio from
the palace, he found that the marriage he had de-
vised 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 P” To this question Claudio replied,
“O my lord, when I was last at Messina, I looked
upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had
no leisure for loving ; but now, in this happy time
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of peace, thoughts of war have left their places
vacant in my mind, and in their room come throng-
ing 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 confes-
sion 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 com-
plained of the interval being tedious, as indeed
most young men are impatient when they are
waiting for the accomplishment of any event they
have set their hearts upon : the prince, therefore,
to make the time seem short to him, proposed as
a kind of merry pastime that they should invent
some artful scheme to make Benedick and Beatrice
fall in love with each other. Claudio entered with
great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, and
Leonato promised them his assistance, and even
Hero said she would do any modest office to help
her cousin to a good husband.
The device the prince invented was, that the
gentlemen should make Benedick believe that
Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero should
(Such Hoo Fibout ſhotbing 5.I
make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love
with her.
The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their
operations first : and watching an opportunity when
Benedick was quietly seated reading in an arbour,
the prince and his assistants took their station
among the trees behind the arbour, so near that
Benedick could not choose but hear all they said ;
and after some careless talk the prince said, “Come
hither, Leonato. What was it you told me the
other day—that your niece Beatrice was in love
with signior Benedick P I did never think that lady
would have loved any man.” “No, nor I neither,
my lord,” answered Leonato. “It is most wonder-
ful that she should so dote on Benedick, whom she
in all outward behaviour seemed ever to dislike.”
Claudio confirmed all this with saying that Hero
had told him Beatrice was so in love with Benedick,
that she would certainly die of grief, if he could
not be brought to love her; which Leonato and
Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he having
always been such a railer against all fair ladies, and
in particular against Beatrice.
The prince affected to hearken to all this with
great compassion for Beatrice, and he said, “It
were good that Benedick were told of this.” “To
what end ?” said Claudio ; “he would but make
sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse.”
“And if he should,” said the prince, “it were a
good deed to hang him ; for Beatrice is an excel-
lent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in everything
but in loving Benedick.” Then the prince mo-
tioned to his companions that they should walk on,
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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 P
Sits the wind in that corner P’’ And when they
were gone, he began to reason in this manner with
himself: “This can be no trick they were very
serious, and they have the truth from Hero, and
seem to pity the lady. Love me ! Why it must be .
requited I did never think to marry. But when
I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live to be married. They say the lady is
virtuous and fair. She is so. And wise in every-
thing but in loving me. Why, that is no great
argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice.
By this day, she is a fair lady. I do spy some
marks of love in her.” Beatrice now approached
him, and said with her usual tartness, “Against my
will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.”
Benedick, who never felt himself disposed to speak
so politely to her before, replied, “Fair Beatrice, I
thank you for your pains: ’’ and when Beatrice,
after two or three more rude speeches, left him,
Benedick thought he observed a concealed meaning
of kindness under the uncivil words she uttered,
and he said aloud, “If I do not take pity on her, I
am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a Jew. I
will go get her picture.”
The gentleman being thus caught in the net
they had spread for him, it was now Hero's turn to
play her part with Beatrice ; and for this purpose
she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen
. Tuch Hoo Hbout notbing 53
who attended upon her, and she said to Margaret,
“Good Margaret, run to the parlour; there you
will find my cousin Beatrice talking with the Prince
and Claudio. Whisper in her ear, that I and Ur-
sula are walking in the orchard, and that our dis-
course is all of her. Bid her steal into that pleas-
ant arbour, where honeysuckles, ripened by the
sun, like ungrateful minions, forbid the Sun to
enter.” This arbour, into which Hero desired
Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same
pleasant arbour where Benedick had so lately been
an attentive listener.
“I will make her come, I warrant, presently,”
said Margaret.
Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the or-
chard, said to her, “Now Ursula, when Beatrice
comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and
our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I
name him, let it be your part to praise him more
than ever man did merit. My talk to you must be
how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now
begin ; for look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs
close by the ground, to hear our conference.”
They then began ; Hero saying, as if in answer to
something which Ursula had said, “No, truly,
Ursula. She is too disdainful ; her spirits are as
coy as wild birds of the rock.” “But are you
sure,” said Ursula, “ that Benedick loves Beatrice
so entirely P” Hero replied, “So says the prince,
and my lord Claudio, and they entreated me to
acquaint her with it ; but I persuaded them, if
they loved Benedick, never to let Beatrice know
of it.” “Certainly,” replied Ursula, “it were not
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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 P. 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
signior Benedick.” “He hath an excellent good,
name,” said Hero: “indeed, he is the first man in
Italy, always excepting my dear Claudio.” And
now, Hero giving her attendant a hint that it was
time to change the discourse, Ursula said, “And
when are you to be married, madam P’’ 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 con-
sult with her on what she would wear on the mor-
row. Beatrice, who had been listening with breath-
less eagerness to this dialogue, when they went
away, exclaimed, “What fire is in mine ears P
Can this be true P Farewell, contempt and scorn,
and maiden pride, adieu ! Benedick, love on I
will requite you, taming my wild heart to your lov-
ing hand.” g
It must have been a pleasant sight to see these
old enemies converted into new and loving friends,
and to behold their first meeting after being cheated
into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the
good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the
fortunes of Hero must now be thought of. The
(ISuch Eloo Elbout ſºlotbing 55
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, dis-
contented man, whose spirits seemed to labour in
the contriving of villanies. He hated the prince
his brother, and he hated Claudio, because he was
the prince's friend, and 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 marriage, almost as much as Claudio
himself; and to effect this wicked purpose, he
employed one Borachio, a man as bad as himself,
whom he encouraged with the offer of a great
reward. This Borachio paid his court to Margaret,
Hero's attendant ; and Don John, knowing this,
prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to
talk with him from her lady's chamber window
that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to dress
herself in Hero’s clothes, the better to deceive
Claudio into the belief that it was Hero ; for that
was the end he meant to compass by this wicked
plot.
Don John then went to the prince and Claudio,
and told them that Hero was an imprudent lady,
and that she talked with men from her chamber-
window at midnight. Now this was the evening
before the wedding, and he offered to take them
that night, where they should themselves hear Hero
discoursing with a man from her window ; and
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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 con-
verted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her
in the church, as he had said he would, the next day;
and the prince agreed to this, thinking no punish-
ment could be too severe for the naughty lady, who
talked with a man from her window the very night
before she was going to be married to the noble
Claudio.
The next day, when they were all met to cele-
brate the marriage, and Claudio and Hero were
standing before the priest, and the priest, or friar,
as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce the
marriage ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate
language, proclaimed the guilt of the blameless
Hero, who, amazed at the strange words he uttered,
said meekly, “Is my lord well, that he does speak
so wide P’’ - -
Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince,
A f|Such floo Elbout fºotbing 57
“My lord, why speak not you ?” “What should
I speak?” said the prince; “I stand dishonoured,
that have gone about to link my dear friend to an
unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, my-
self, my brother, and this grieved Claudio, did see
and hear her last night at midnight talk with a man
at her chamber window.”
Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard,
said, “This looks not like a nuptial.”
“True, O God 1 '' replied the heart-struck Hero;
and then this hapless lady sunk down in a fainting
fit, to all appearance dead. The prince and
Claudio left the church, without staying to see if
Hero would recover, or at all regarding the distress
into which they had thrown Leonato. So hard-
hearted had their anger made them.
Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to re-
cover Hero from her swoon, saying, “How does the
lady ?” “Dead, I think,” replied Beatrice in great
agony, for she loved her cousin ; and knowing her
virtuous principles, she believed nothing of what
she had heard spoken against her. Not so the
poor old father ; he believed the story of his child’s
shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting
over her, as she lay like one dead before him, wish-
ing she might never more open her eyes.
But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full
of observation on human nature, and he had atten-
tively marked the lady's countenance when she
heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blush-
ing 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
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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 rhy observation;
trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling, if
this sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some
biting error.”
When Hero had recovered from the Swoon into
which she had fallen, the friar said to her, “Lady,
what man is he you are accused of P’’ Hero re-
plied, “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 mis-
understanding in the prince and Claudio;” and then
he counselled Leonato, that he should report that
Hero was dead ; and he said that the death-like
swoon in which they had left Hero would make
this easy of belief; and he also advised him that
he should put on mourning and erect a monument
for her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial.
“What shall become of this?” said Leonato;
“What will this do P” The friar replied, “This
report of her death shall change slander into pity :
that is some good ; but that is not all the good I
hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died upon
hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly
creep into his imagination. Then shall he mourn,
if ever love had interest in his heart, and wish that
he had not so accused her ; yea, though he thought
his accusation true.”
(ISuch Eloo Elbout ſºlotbing 59
Benedick now said, “Leonato, let the friar advise
you ; and thqugh you know how well I love the
prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will not
reveal this secret to them.”
Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded ; and he said
sorrowfully, “I am so grieved, that the smallest
twine may lead me.” The kind friar then led
Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console
them, and Beatrice and Benedick remained alone;
and this was the meeting from which their friends,
who contrived the merry plot against them, expected
so much diversion ; those friends who were now
overwhelmed with affliction, and from whose minds
all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.
Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said,
“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while P”
“Yea, and I will weep a while longer,” said Beatrice.
“Surely,” said Benedick, “I do believe your fair
cousin is wronged.” “Ah !” said Beatrice, “how
much might that man deserve of me who would
right her ’’ Benedick then said, “Is there any
way to show such friendship P I do love nothing
in the world so well as you : is not that strange?”
“It were as possible,” said Beatrice, “for me to
say I loved nothing in the world so well as you ;
but believe me not, and yet I lie not. I confess
nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my
cousin.” “By my sword,” said Benedick, “you
love me, and I protest I love you. Come, bid me
do anything for you.” “Kill Claudio,” said Beatrice.
“Ha not for the wide world,” said Benedick; for
he loved his friend Claudio, and he believed he
had been imposed upon. “Is not Claudio a
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f
villain, that has slandered, scorned, and dis-
honoured my cousin P’’ said Beatrice: “O that I
were a man ’’ ‘‘ Hear me, Beatrice,” said Bene-
dick. 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 Claudio's sake 1 or that I had any friend, who
would be a man for my sake but valour is melted
into courtesies and compliments. I cannot be a
man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman
with grieving.” “Tarry, good Beatrice,” said
Benedick : “ by this hand I love you.” “Use it
for my love some other way than swearing by it,”
said Beatrice. “Think you on your soul, that
Claudio has wronged Hero P” asked Benedick.
“Yea,” answered Beatrice ; “as sure as I have a
thought, or a soul.” “Enough,” said Benedick; “I
am engaged ; I will challenge him. I will kiss your
hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio
shall render me a dear account As you hear from
me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin.”
While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with
Benedick, and working his gallant temper by the
spirit of her angry words, to engage in the cause
of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend
Claudio, Leonato was challenging the prince and
Claudio to answer with their swords the injury they
had done his child, who, he affirmed, had died for
grief. But they respected his age and his sorrow,
and they said, “Nay, do not quarrel with us, good
f|Such Eloo Elbout ſºlotbíng 61
old man.” And now came Benedick, and he also
challenged Claudio to answer with his sword the
injury he had done to Hero; and Claudio and the
prince said to each other, “Beatrice has set him
on to do this.” Claudio nevertheless must have
accepted this 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 overheard talking with one of his com-
panions of the mischief he had been employed by
Don John to do.
Borachio made a full confession to the prince
in Claudio's hearing, that it was Margaret dressed
in her lady's clothes that he had talked with from
the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady
Hero herself; and no doubt continued on the
minds of Claudio and the prince of the innocence
of Hero. If a suspicion had remained it must
have been removed by the flight of Don John,
who, finding his villanies were detected, fled from
Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother.
The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he
found he had falsely accused Hero, who, he thought,
died upon hearing his cruel words; and the memory
of his beloved Hero's image came over him, in
the rare semblance that he loved it first ; and the
prince asking him if what he heard did not run like
iron through his soul, he answered, that he felt as if
he had taken poison while Borachio was speaking.
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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 believ-
ing the false accusation against his betrothed wife,
for her dear sake he would endure it. -
The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to
marry the next morning a cousin of Hero's, who,
he said, was now his heir, and in person very like
Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he
made to Leonato, said, he would marry this
unknown lady, even though she were an Ethiop:
but his heart was very sorrowful, and he passed
that night in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the
tomb which Leonato had erected for Hero.
When the morning came, the prince accom-
panied Claudio to the church, where the good
friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already
assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial ; and
Leonato presented to Claudio his promised bride;
and she wore a mask, that Claudio might not dis-
cover her face. And Claudio said to the lady in
the mask, “Give me your hand, before this holy
friar ; I am your husband, if you will marry me.”
“And when I lived I was your other wife,” said
this unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she
proved to be no niece (as was pretended), but
Leonato's very daughter, the lady Hero herself.
We may be sure that this proved a most agreeable
surprise to Claudio, who thought her dead, so that
he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes; and the
prince, who was equally amazed at what he saw,
exclaimed, “Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?”
(ISuch floo Elbout Íñotbing 63
Leonato replied, “She died, my lord, but while
her slander lived.” The friar promised them an
explanation of this seeming miracle, after the
ceremony was ended ; and was proceeding to
marry them, when, he was interrupted by Benedick,
who desired to be married at the same time to
Beatrice. Beatrice making some demur to this
match, and Benedick challenging her with her love
for him, which he had learned from Hero, a pleasant
explanation took place; and they found they had
both been tricked into a belief of love, which had
never existed, and had become lovers in truth by
the power of a false jest: but the affection, which
a merry invention had cheated them into, was
grown too powerful to be shaken by a serious
explanation ; and since Benedick proposed to
marry, he was resolved to think nothing to the
purpose that the world could say against it ; and
he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice,
that he took her but for pity, and because he heard
she was dying of love for him ; and Beatrice pro-
tested, that she yielded but upon great persuasion,
and partly to save his life, for she heard he was in
a consumption. So these two mad wits were recon-
ciled, and made a match of it, after Claudio and
Hero were married ; and to complete the history,
Don John, the contriver of the villany, was taken
in his flight, and brought back to Messina; and a
brave punishment it was to this gloomy, discon-
tented man, to see the joy and feastings which, by
the disappointment of his plots, took place at
the palace in Messina.
AS YOU LIKE IT.
URING the time that France was divided
into provinces (or dukedoms as they were
called) there reigned in one of these provinces an
usurper, who had deposed and banished his elder
brother, the lawful duke.
The duke, who was thus driven from his domin-
ions, retired with a few faithful followers to the
forest of Arden ; and here the good duke lived
with his loving friends, who had put themselves
into a voluntary exile for his sake, while their land
and revenues enriched the false usurper; and cus-
tom soon made the life of careless ease they led
here more sweet to them than the pomp and
uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Here they
lived, like the old Robin Hood of England, and
to this forest many noble youths daily resorted from
the court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as they
did who lived in the golden age. In the summer
they lay along under the fine shade of the large
forest trees, marking the playful sports of the wild
deer ; and so fond were they of these poor dappled
fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of
the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill
them to supply themselves with venison for their
6
fig lºou Like 3:t - 65
food. When the cold winds of winter made the
duke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he
would endure it patiently, and say, “These chilling
winds which blow upon my body are true coun-
sellors; they do not flatter, but represent truly to
me my condition ; and though they bite sharply,
their tooth is nothing like so keen as that of
unkindness and ingratitude. I find that howsoever
men speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses
are to be extracted from it; like the jewel, pre-
cious for medicine, which is taken from the head
of the venomous and despised toad.” In this
manner did the patient duke draw a useful moral
from everything that he saw ; and by the help of
this moralizing turn, in that life of his, remote from
public haunts, he could find tongues in trees,
books in the running brooks, sermons in stones,
and good in everything.
The banished duke had an only daughter,
named Rosalind, whom the usurper, duke Fred-
erick, when he banished her father, still retained
in his court as a companion for his own daughter
Celia. A strict friendship subsisted between these
ladies, which the disagreement between their fathers
did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving by
every kindness in her power to make amends to
Rosalind for the injustice of her own father in
deposing the father of Rosalind; and whenever
the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her
own dependence on the false usurper, made Rosa-
lind melancholy, Celia's whole care was to comfort
and console her. * >
One day, when Celia was talking in her usual
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kind manner to Rosalind, saying, “I pray you,
Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry,” a messenger
entered from the duke, to tell them that if they
wished to see a wrestling match, which was just
going to begin, they must come instantly to the
court before the palace; and Celia, thinking it
would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.
In those times wrestling, which is only practiced
now by country clowns, was a favourite sport even
in the courts of princes, and before fair ladies and
princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, Celia
and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely
to prove a very tragical sight; for a large and
powerful man, who had been long practised in the
art of wrestling, and had slain many men in con-
tests of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a
very young man, who, from his extreme youth and
inexperience in the art, the beholders all thought
would certainly be killed.
When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said,
“How now, daughter and niece, are you crept
hither to see the wrestling P You will take little
delight in it, there is such odds in the men : in
pity to this young man, I would wish to persuade
him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and see
if you can move him.”
The ladies were well pleased to perform this
humane office, and first Celia entreated the young
stranger that he would desist from the attempt;
and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and
with such feeling consideration for the danger he
was about to undergo, that instead of being per-
suaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose,
fig 12'ou Like 3t 67
all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by
his courage in this lovely lady’s eyes. He refused
the request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful
and modest words, that they felt still more concern
for him ; he concluded his refusal with saying, “I
ann sorry to deny such fair and excellent ladies any-
thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go
with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered there
is one shamed that was never gracious; if I am
killed, there is one dead that is willing to die; I
shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to
lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have
nothing; for I only fill up a place in the world
which may be better supplied when I have made
it empty.”
And now the wrestling match began. Celia
wished 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 her-
self, unfortunate ; and she pitied him so much,
and so deep an interest she took in his danger
while he was wrestling, that she might almost be
said at that moment to have fallen in love with
him. *
The kindness shown this unknown youth by
these fair and noble ladies gave him courage and
strength, so that he performed wonders; and in
the end completely conquered his antagonist, who
was so much hurt, that for a while he was unable to
speak or move.
The duke Frederick was much pleased with the
courage and skill shown by this young stranger;
l
Y
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and desired to know his name and parentage,
meaning to take him under his protection.
The stranger said his name was Orlando, and
that he was the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys.
Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had
been dead some years; but when he was living, he
had been a true subject and dear friend of the
banished duke; therefore, when Frederick heard
Orlando was the son of his banished brother’s friend,
all his liking for this brave young man was changed
into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill
humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of
his brother's friends, and yet still admiring the
valour of the youth, he said, as he went out, that
he wished Orlando had been the son of any other
Iſlal).
Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new
favourite was the son of her father's old friend ; and
she said to Celia, “My father loved Sir Rowland
de Boys, and if I had known this young man was
his son, I would have added tears to my entreaties
before he should have ventured.”
The ladies then went up to him ; and seeing
him abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by
the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words
to him ; and Rosalind, when they were going away,
turned back to speak some more civil things to the
brave young son of her father's old friend; and
taking a chain from off her neck, she said, “Gentle-
man, wear this for me. I am out of suits with for-
tune, 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
3:13 lºou Like 3:t 69
had fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler,
and she said to Rosalind, “Is it possible you should
fall in love so suddenly P’’ Rosalind replied, “The
duke, my father, loved his father dearly.” “But,”
said Celia, “ does it therefore follow that you should
love his son dearly P for then I ought to hate him,
for my father hated his father; yet I do not hate
Orlando.”
Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Row-
land de Boys' son, which reminded him of the many
friends the banished duke had among the nobility,
and having been for some time displeased with his
, niece, because the people praised her for her virtues,
and pitied her for her good father's sake, his malice
suddenly broke out against her ; and while Celia
and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick
entered the room, and with looks full of anger
ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, and
follow her father into banishment; telling Celia,
who in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suf-
fered Rosalind to stay upon her account. “I did
not then,” said Celia, “entreat you to let her stay,
for I was too young at that time to value her ; but
now that I know her worth, and that we so long
have slept together, rose at the same instant, learned,
played, and eat together, I cannot live out of her
company.” Frederick replied, “She is too subtle
for you; her smoothness, her very silence, and her
patience speak to the people, and they pity her.
You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem
more bright and virtuous when she is gone ; there-
fore open not your lips in her favour, for the
doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable.”
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When Celia found she could not prevail upon
her father to let Rosalind remain with her, she
generously resolved to accompany her ; and leaving
her father's palace that night, she went along with
her friend to seek Rosalind's father, the banished
duke, in the forest of Arden.
Before they set out, Celia considered that it
would be unsafe for two young ladies to travel in
the rich clothes they then wore ; she therefore pro-
posed that they should disguise their rank by dress-
ing themselves like country maids. Rosalind said
it would be a still greater protection if one of them
was to be dressed like a man ; and so it was quickly
agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was the
tallest, she should wear the dress of a young country-
man, 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 prin-
cesses set out on their long travel; for the forest
of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries
of the duke's dominions.
The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must
now be called) with her manly garb seemed to
have put on a manly courage. The faithful friend-
ship 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.
fig 1).ou Like 3’t 71
When at last they came to the forest of Arden,
they no longer found the convenient inns and good
accommodations they had met with on the road;
and being in want of food and rest, Ganymede, who
had so merrily cheered his sister with pleasant
speeches and happy remarks alſº 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 perished for want
of food; but providentially, as they were sitting
on the grass, almost dying with fatigue and hope-
less of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass
that way, and Ganymede once more tried to speak
with a manly boldness, saying, “Shepherd, if love
or gold can in this desert place procure us enter-
tainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest
ourselves; for this young maid, my sister, is much
fatigued with travelling, and faints for want of
food.”
The man replied, that he was only a servant to
a shepherd, and that his master's house was just
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going to be sold, and therefore they would find
but poor entertainment; but that if they would go
with him, they should be welcome to what there
was. They followed the man, the near prospect
of relief giving them fresh strength ; and bought
the house, and sheep of the shepherd, and took
the man who conducted them to the shepherd's
house to wait on them ; and being by this means
so fortunately provided with a neat cottage, and
well supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay
here till they could learn in what part of the forest
the duke dwelt.
When they were rested after the fatigue of their
journey, they began to like their new way of life,
and almost fancied themselves the shepherd and
shepherdess they feigned to be ; yet sometimes
Ganymede remembered he had once been the same
lady Rosalind who had so dearly loved the brave
Orlando, because he was the son of old Sir Rowland,
her father's friend ; and though Ganymede thought
that Orlando was many miles distant, even so
many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it
soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest
of Arden ; and in this manner this strange event
came to pass.
Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland
de Boys, who, when he died, left him (Orlando
being then very young) to the care of his eldest
brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to
give his brother a good education, and provide for
him as became the dignity of their ancient house.
Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disre-
garding the commands of his dying father, he
fig lºou Like 3 t 73
never put his brother to school, but kept him at
home untaught and entirely neglected. But in
his nature and in the noble qualities of his mind
Orlando so much resembled his excellent father,
that without any advantages of education he seemed
like a youth who had been bred with the utmost
care; and Oliver so envied the fine person and
dignified manners of his untutored brother, that at
last he wished to destroy him ; and to effect this
he set on people to persuade him to wrestle with.
the famous wrestler, who, as has been before
related, had killed so many men. Now, it was this
cruel brother's neglect of him which made Orlando
say he wished to die, being so friendless.
When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had
formed, his brother proved victorious, his envy
and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he
would burn the chamber where Orlando slept.
He was overheard making this vow by one that
had been an old and faithful servant to their father,
and that loved Orlando because he resembled Sir
Rowland. This old man went out to meet him
when he returned from the duke's palace, and when
he saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master
was in made him break out into these passionate
exclamations:—“O my gentle master, my sweet
master, O you memory of old Sir Rowland why
are you virtuous P why are you gentle, strong, and
valiant P and why would you be so fond to over-
come the famous wrestler P Your praise is come
too swiftly home before you.” Orlando, wonder-
ing what all this meant, asked him what was the
matter. And then the old man told him how his
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wicked brother, envying the love all people bore
him, and now hearing the fame he had gained by
his victory in the duke's palace, intended to destroy
him, by setting fire to his chamber that night;
and in conclusion, advised him to escape the danger
he was in by instant flight ; and knowing Orlando
had no money, Adam (for that was the good old
man’s name) had brought out with him his own
little hoard, and he said, “I have five hundred
crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under your father,
and laid by to be provision for me when my old
limbs should become unfit for service ; take that,
and he that doth the ravens feed be comfort to
my age | Here is the gold ; all this I give to
you: let me be your servant ; though I look old
I will do the service of a younger man in all your
business and necessities.” “O good old man l’’
said Orlando, “how well appears' in you the con-
stant service of the old world ! You are not for
the fashion of these times. We will go along to-
gether, and before your youthful wages are spent,
I shall light upon some means for both our main-
tenance.” 3.
Together then this faithful servant and his loved
master set out; and Orlando and Adam travelled on,
uncertain what course to pursue, till they came to
the forest of Arden, and there they found them-
selves in the same distress for want of food that
Ganymede and Aliena had been. They wandered
on, seeking some human habitation, till they were
almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at
last said, “O my dear master, I die for want of
food, I can go no farther l’’ He then laid himself
Fig 1).ou Like 3’t 75
down, thinking to make that place his grave, and .
bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, seeing him
in this weak state, took his old servant up in his
arms, and carried him under the shelter of some
pleasant trees; and he said to him, “ Cheerly, old
Adam, rest your weary limbs here awhile, and do
not talk of dying !”
Orlando then searched about to find some food,
and he happened to arrive at that part of the forest
where the duke was ; and he and his friends were
just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being
seated on the grass, under no other canopy than the
shady covert of some large trees.
Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew
his sword, intending to take their meat by force,
and said, “Forbear and eat no more ; I must have
your food l’” The duke asked him, if distress had
made him so bold, or if he were a rude despiser of
good manners? On this Orlando said, he was dying
with hunger; and then the duke told him he was
welcome to sit down and eat with them. Orlando
hearing him speak so gently, put up his Sword, and
blushed with shame at the rude manner in which
he had demanded their food. “Pardon me, I pray
you,” said he “I thought that all things had been
savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance
of stern command ; but whatever men you are, 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
º
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it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches now
move you to do me human courtesy ” The duke
replied, “True it is that we are men (as you say)
who have seen better days, and though we have now
our habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in
* towns and cities, and have with holy bell been
knolled to church, have sat at good men's feasts,
and from our eyes have wiped the drops which
sacred pity has engendered ; therefore sit you down,
and take of our refreshment as much as will minis-
ter 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 satis-
fied, 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
Bowland de Boys, he took him under his protection,
and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke
in the forest.
Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after
Ganymede and Aliena came there, and (as has been
before related) bought the shepherd's cottage.
Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to
find the name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and
w
*
As pou Like 3t 77
love-sonnets, fastened to them, all addressed to Rosa-
lind; and while they were wondering how this could
be, they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain
which Rosalind had given him about his neck.
Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair
princess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension
and favour, had so won his heart that he passed his
whole time in carving her name upon the trees,
and writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but
being much pleased with the graceful air of this
pretty shepherd-youth, he entered into conversation
with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in
Ganymede to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had
none of the dignified deportment of that noble
lady; for Ganymede assumed the forward manners
often seen in youths when they are between boys
and men, and with much archness and humour
talked to Orlando of a certain lover, “who,” said
he, “haunts our forest, and spoils our young trees
with carving Rosalind upon their barks; and he
hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on
brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I
could find this lover, I would give him some good
counsel that would soon cure him of his love.” .
Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of
whom he spoke, and asked Ganymede to give him
the good counsel he talked of. The remedy Gany-
mede proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was
that Orlando should come every day to the cot-
tage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt : “And
then,” said Ganymede, “I will feign myself to be
Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in the
same manner as you would do if I was Rosalind,
78 Caleg from ābakepeate
and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whim-
sical ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed
of your love; and this is the way I propose to cure
you.” Orlando had no great faith in the remedy,
yet he agreed to come every day to Ganymede's cot-
tage, and feign a playful courtship ; and every day
Orlando visited Ganymede and Aliena, and Orlando
called the shepherd Ganymede his Rosalind, and
every day talked over all the fine words and flatter-
ing 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 sport-
ive play (not dreaming that Ganymede was his very
Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him of Say-
ing 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 parent-
age he came. Ganymede answered that he came
of as good parentage as he did, which made the
duke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty
as wou Like st 79
shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. Then seeing
the duke look well and happy, Ganymede was con-
tent to put off all further explanation for a few
days longer.
One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ga-
nymede, he saw a man lying asleep on the ground,
and a large green snake had twisted itself about his
neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided
away among the bushes. Orlando went nearer,
and then he discovered a lioness lie crouching, with
her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch,
waiting till the sleeping man awaked (for it is said
that lions will prey on nothing that is dead or sleep-
ing). It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Prov-
idence 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 threat-
ened to destroy him by fire ; and he was almost
tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness;
but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his na-
ture soon overcame his first anger against his
brother; and he drew his sword, and attacked the
lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved his
brother's life both from the venomous snake and
from the furious lioness: but before Orlando could
conquer the lioness, she had torn one of his arms
with her sharp claws. -
While Orlando was engaged with the lioness,
Oliver awaked, and perceiving that his brother Or-
lando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was saving
him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his
8O Calcó from ābakepeate
own life, shame and remorse at once seized him,
and he repented of his unworthy conduct, and be-
sought with many tears his brother's pardon for the
injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see
him so penitent, and readily forgave him : they em-
braced 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 providential escape, he owned to them
that he was Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly
used him ; and then he told them of their recon-
ciliation. -
The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his
offences made such a lively impression on the kind
heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell in love with
him ; and Oliver observing how much she pitied
the distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as
suddenly fell in love with her. But while love was
thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver,
he was no less busy with Ganymede, who hearing of
the danger Orlando had been in, and that he was
wounded by the lioness, fainted ; and when he re-
covered, he pretended that he had counterfeited
the swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind,
Žig 1)ou Like 3’t 8I
and Ganymede said to Oliver, “Tell your brother
Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon.” But
Oliver saw by the paleness of his complexion that
he did really faint, and much wondering at the
weakness of the young man, he said, “Well, if
you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and Counter-
feit 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 favourable ear to his suit, even in this
their first interview ; and he talked to his brother,
as of a thing almost settled, that he should marry
Aliena, saying, that he so well loved her, that he
would live here as a shepherd, and settle his estate
and house at home upon Orlando.
“You have my consent,” said Orlando. “Let
your wedding be to-morrow, and I will invite the
duke and his friends. Go and persuade your shep-
herdess to agree to this: she is now alone ; for
look, here comes her brother.” Oliver went to
Aliena ; and Ganymede, whom Orlando had per-
ceived approaching, came to inquire after the health
of his wounded friend. -
When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over
the sudden love which had taken place between
Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his
brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be mar-
ried Ön the morrow, and then he added how much
6 -
82 Caleg from ābakepeate
he could wish to be married on the same day to
his Rosalind. s -
Ganymede, who well approved of this arrange-
ment, said that if Orlando really loved Rosalind as
well as he professed to do, he should have his wish ;
for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosa-
lind appear in her own person, and also that Rosa-
lind should be willing to marry Orlando.
This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Gany-
mede was the lady Rosalind, he could so easily per-
form, he pretended he would bring to pass by the
aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an
uncle who was a famous magician.
The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half
doubting what he heard, asked Ganymede if he
spoke in sober meaning. “By my life I do,” said
Ganymede ; “therefore put on your best clothes,
and bid the duke and your friends to your wedding;
for if you desire to be married to-morrow to Rosa-
lind, she shall be here.” -
The next morning, Oliver having obtained the
consent of Aliena, they came into the presence of
the duke, and with them also came Orlando.
They being all assembled to celebrate this double
marriage, and as yet only one of the brides appear-
ing, there was much of wondering and conjecture,
but they mostly thought that Ganymede was making
a jest of Orlando.
The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter
that was to be brought in this strange way, asked
Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy could
really do what he had promised ; and while Orlando
was answering that he knew not what to think, Ga-
Big 1jou Like 3t 83
nymede entered, and asked the duke, if he brought
his daughter, whether he would consent to her
marriage with Orlando. “That I would,” said the
duke, “if I had kingdoms to give with her.”
Ganymede then said to Orlando, “And you say you
will marry her if I bring her here.” “That I
would,” said Orlando, “if I were king of many
kingdoms.”
Ganymede and Aliena then went out together,
and Ganymede throwing off his male attire, and
being once more dressed in woman's apparel,
quickly became Rosalind without the power of
magic; and Aliena changing her country garb for
her own rich clothes, was with as little trouble
transformed into the lady Celia.
While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando,
that he thought the shepherd Ganymede very like
his daughter Rosalind ; and Orlando Said, he also
had observed the resemblance.
They had no time to wonder how all this would
end, for Rosalind and Celia in their own clothes
entered ; and no longer pretending that it was by
the power of magic that she came there, Rosalind
threw herself on her knees before her father, and
begged his blessing. It seemed so wonderful to
all present that she should so suddenly appear,
that it might well have passed for magic; but
Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father,
and told him the story of her banishment, and of
her dwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her
cousin Celia passing as her sister.
The duke ratified the consent he had already
given to the marriage; and Orlando and Rosalind,
84 Caleg from 5bakópeate
#
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 splen-
deur usual on Such occasions, yet a happier
wedding-day was never passed : and while they
were eating their venison under the cool shade of
the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be wanting
to complete the felicity of this good duke and the
true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to
tell the duke the joyful news, that his dukedom
was restored to him. -
The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter
Celia, and hearing that every day men of great
worth resorted to the forest of Arden to join the
lawful duke in his exile, much emvying that his
brother should be so highly respected in his ad-
versity, put himself at the head of a large force,
and advanced towards the forest, intending to
seize his brother, and put him with all his faithful
followers to the sword ; but, by a wonderful inter-
position of Providence, this bad brother was con-
verted from his evil intention ; for just as he entered
the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an old
religious man, a hermit, with whom he had much
talk, and who in the end completely turned his
heart from his wicked design. Thenceforward he
became a true penitent, and resolved, relinquishing :
his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder of
his days in a religious house. The first act of his
newly-conceived penitence was to send a mes-
senger to his brother (as has been related) to offer
to restore to him his dukedom, which he had
|
usurped so long, and with it the lands, and re-
Žig 10ou Like 3’t 85
venues of his friends, the faithful followers of his
adversity. -
This joyful news, as unexpected as it was wel-
come, came opportunely to heighten the festivity
and rejoicings at the wedding of the princesses.
Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune
which had happened to the duke, Rosalind's father,
and wished her joy very sincerely, though she herself
was no longer heir to the dukedom, but by this
restoration which her father had made, Rosalind
was now the heir : so completely was the love of
these two cousins unmixed with anything of jealousy
or of envy.
The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding
those true friends who had stayed with him in his
banishment; and these worthy followers, though
they had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were
very well pleased to return in peace and prosperity
to the palace of their lawful duke.
sº
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.
HERE lived in the city of Verona two young
gentlemen, whose names were Valentine and
Proteus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted
friendship had long subsisted. They pursued
their studies together, and their hours of leisure
were always passed in each other's company,
except when Proteus visited a lady he was in love
with ; and these visits to his mistress, and this
passion of Proteus for the fair Julia, were the
only topics on which these two friends disagreed;
for Valentine, not being himself a lover, was some-
times a little weary of hearing his friend for ever
talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at
Proteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the pas-
sion of love, and declare that no such idle ſancies
should ever enter his head, greatly preferring (as
he said) the free and happy life he led, to the
anxious hopes and fears of the lover Proteus.
One morning Valentine came to Proteus to
tell him that they must for a time be separated,
for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, un-
willing to part with his friend, used many argu-
ments to prevail upon Valentine not to leave him;
(86)
(WWO (5ent[2men of lº)etona 87
but Valentine said, “Cease to persuade me, my
loving Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear
out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping
youths have ever homely wits. If your affection
were not chained to the sweet glances of your hon-
oured Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me,
to see the wonders of the world abroad ; but since
you are a lover, love on still, and may your love be
prosperous !”
They parted with mutual expressions of unalter-
able friendship. “Sweet Valentine, adieu !” said
Proteus; “think on me, when you see some rare
object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish
me partaker of your happiness.”
Valentine began his journey that same day to-
wards Milan ; and when his friend had left him,
Proteus sat down to write a letter to Julia, which
he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mis-
treSS.
Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she
was a lady of 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 prose-
cution of his suit.
And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she
would not receive it, and chid her maid for taking
letters from Proteus, and ordered her to leave the
room. But she so much wished to see what was
written in the letter, that she soon called in her
maid again ; and when Lucetta returned, she said,
“What o'clock is it P’’ Lucetta, who knew her
mistress more desired to see the letter than to know
88 Cale3 from $5bakópeate
the time of day, without answering her question,
again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that
her maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to
know what she really wanted, tore the letter in
pieces, and threw it on the floor, ordering her
maid once more out of the room. As Lucetta was
retiring, she stopped to pick up the fragments of
the torn letter; but Julia, who meant not so to part
with them, said, in pretended anger, “Go, get you
gone, and let the papers lie ; you would be 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 Proteus; ” and lamenting
over these and such like loving words, which she
made out though they were all torn asunder, or, she
said, zeſounded (the expression “Love-wounded
Proteus” giving her that idea), she talked to these
kind words, telling them she would lodge them in
her bosom as in a bed, till their wounds were healed,
and that she would kiss each several piece, to make
amends.
In this manner she went on talking with a
pretty lady-like childishness, till finding herself
unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her
own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and
loving words, as she called them, she wrote a much
kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever done
before.
Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this
favourable answer to his letter ; and while he was
reading it, he exclaimed, “Sweet love, sweet lines,
sweet life ” In the midst of his raptures he was
(WWO (5¢nt[emen of Úetona 89
interrupted by his father. “How now !” said the
old gentleman; “what letter are you reading there?”
“My lord,” replied Proteus, “it is a letter from
my friend Valentine, at Milan.”
“Lend me the letter,” said his father: “let me
see what news.”
“There are no news, my lord,” said Proteus,
greatly alarmed, “but that he writes how well be-
loved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily graces
him with favours; and how he wishes me with him,
the partner of his fortuno.”
“And how stand you affected to his wish P”
asked the father.
“As one relying on your lordship's will, and not
depending on his friendly wish,” said Proteus.
Now it had happened that Proteus' father had
just been talking with a friend on this very subject;
his friend had said, he wondered his lordship suf-
fered his son to spend his youth at home, while
most mon were sending their sons to seek prefer-
ment abroad ; “ some,” said he, “to the wars, to
try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands
far away, and some to study in foreign universities;
and there is his companion Valentine, he is gone to
the duke of Milan’s court. Your son is fit for any
of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage
to him in his riper age not to have travelled in his
youth.”
Proteus' father thought the advice of his friend
was very good, and upon Proteus telling him that
Valentine “wished him with him, the partner of
his fortune,” he at once determined to send his
son to Milan ; and without giving Proteus any
90 (Vale3 from ābakepeate ---
reason for this sudden resolution, it being the
usual” habit of this positive old gentleman to com-
mand his son, not reason with him, he said, “My
will is the same as Valentine's wish ; ’’ and seeing
his son look astonished, he added, “Look not
amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend
some time in the duke of Milan's court ; for what
I will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow be
in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am
peremptory.”
Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections
to his father, who never suffered him to dispute his
will ; and he blamed himself for telling his father
an untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought
upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.
Now that Julia found she was going to lose Pro-
teus for so long a time, she no longer pretended in-
difference ; and they bade each other a mournful
farewell, with many vows of love and constancy.
Proteus and Julia exchanged rings, which they both
promised to keep for ever in remembrance of each
other ; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Proteus
set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his
friend Valentine.
Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned
to his father, in high favour with the duke of
Milan ; and another event had happened to him,
of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine
had given up the freedom of which he used so much
to boast, and was become as passionate a lover as
Proteus. - -
She who had wrought this wondrous change in
Valentine was the lady Silvia, daughter of the
(WWO (5entlemen of Úetona 9I
*
duke of Milan, and she also loved him ; but they
concealed their love from the duke, because
although he showed much kindness for Valentine,
and invited him every day to his palace, yet he
designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier
whose name was Thurio, Silvia despised this
Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and
excellent qualities of Valentine.
These two rivals, Thurio and Valentino, 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 Proteus' arrival. Valentine said, “If
I had wished a thing, it would have been to have
seen him here !” And then he highly praised
Proteus to the duke, saying, “My lord, though I
have been a truant of my time, yet hath my friend
made use and fair advantage of his days, and is
complete in person and in mind, in all good grace
to grace a gentleman.”
“Welcome him then according to his worth,”
said the duke. “Silvia, I speak to you, and you,
Sir Thurio ; for Valentine, I need not bid him do
so.” They were here interrupted by the entrance
of Proteus, and Valentine introduced him to Silvia,
saying, “Sweet lady, entertain him to be my fellow-
servant to your ladyship.”
When Valentine and Proteus had ended their
visit, and were alone together, Valentine said, “Now
tell mee how all does from whence you came P
How does your lady, and how thrives your
love?” Proteus replied, “My tales of love used
92 Caleg from 5bakópeate
to weary you. I know you joy not in a love dis-
course.” f
“Ay, Proteus,” returned Valentine, “but that
life is altered now. I have done penance for con-
demning love. For in revenge of my contempt of
love, love has chased sleep from my enthralled
eyes. O gentle Proteus, Love is a mighty lord,
and hath so humbled me, that I confess there is no
woe like his correction, nor no such joy on earth as
in his service. I now like no discourse except it
be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, Sup,
and sleep, upon the very name of love.”
This acknowledgment of the change which love
had made in the disposition of Valentine was a
great triumph to his friend Proteus. But “friend ''
Proteus must be called no longer, for the same
all-powerful deity Love, of whom they were speak-
ing (yea, even while they were talking of the change
he had made in Valentine), was working in the
heart of Proteus; and he, who had till this time
been a pattern of true love and perfect friendship,
was now, in one short interview with Silvia, become
a false friend and a faithless lover ; for at the first
sight of Silvia all his love for Julia vanished away
like a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valen-
tine deter him from endeavouring to supplant him
in her affections; and although, as it will always
be, when people of dispositions naturally good
become unjust, he had many scruples before he
determined to forsake Julia, and become the rival.
of Valentine; yet he at length overcame his "sense
of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without
remorse, to his new unhappy passion. -
CWO (5¢ntlemen of ljetona 93
Valentine imparted to him in confidence the
whole history of his love, and how carefully they
had concealed it from the duke her father, and
told him, that, despairing of ever being able to
obtain his consent, he had prevailed upon Silvia
to leave her father’s palace that night, and go with
him to Mantua; then he showed Proteus a ladder
of ropes, by help of which he meant to assist Silvia
to get out of one of the windows of the palace after
it was dark. -
Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend’s
dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed,
but so it was, that Proteus resolved to go to the
duke, and disclose the whole to him.
This false friend began his tale with many artful
speeches to the duke, such as that by the laws of
friendship he ought to conceal what he was going
to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke
had shown him, and the duty he owed his grace,
urged him to tell that which else no worldly good
should draw from him. He then told all he had
heard from Valentine, not onlitting the ladder of
ropes, and the manner in which Valentine meant
to conceal them under a long cloak. -
The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of
integrity, in that he preferred telling his friend's
intention, rather than he would conceal an unjust
action, highly commended him, and promised him
not to let Valentine know from whom he had learnt
this intelligence, but by some artifice to make Val-
entine betray the secret himself. For this purpose
the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the
evening, whom he soon saw hurrying towards the
94 - - Cale3 from 5bakgpeate
palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-
ladder.
The duke upon this stopped him, saying,
“Whither away so fast, Valentine?”—“May it
please your grace,” said Valentine, “there is a
messenger that stays to bear my letters to my
friends, and I am going to deliver them.” Now this
falsehood of Valentine’s had no better success in
the event than the untruth Proteus told his father.
“Be they of much import P’’ 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 com-
mands, “neither regarding,” said he, “that she is
my child, nor fearing me as if I were her father.
And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has
drawn my love from her. I had thought my age
should have been cherished by her childlike duty.
I now am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out
to whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be
her wedding dower, for me and my possessions she
esteems not.’’ *
Valentine, wondering where all this would end,
made answer, “And what would your grace have
me to do in all this P’’ - -
“Why,” said the duke, “the lady I would wish
Qwo Gentlemen of vetona 95
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 pres-
ents, frequent visits, and the like.
The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse
a present which he sent her, and that she was so
strictly kept by her father, that no man might have
access to her by day.
“Why then,” said Valentine, “you must visit
her by night.” -
“But at night,” said the artful duke, who was
now coming to the drift of his discourse, “her doors
are fast locked.”
Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the
duke should get into the lady’s chamber at night by
means of a ladder of ropes, saying he would procure
him one fitting for that purpose ; and in conclusion
advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under
such a cloak as that which he now wore. “Lend
me your cloak,” said the duke, who had feigned
this long story on purpose to have a pretence to
get off the cloak ; so upon saying these words, he
caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and throwing it
back, he discovered not only the ladder of ropes,
but also a letter of Silvia's, which he instantly
opened and read ; and this letter contained a full
account of their intended elopement. The duke,
after upbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude in thus
} }
96 Caleg from 5bakópeate
returning the favour he had shown him, by en-
deavouring to steal away his daughter, banished him
from the court and city of Milan for ever; and
Valentine was forced to depart that night, without
even seeing Silvia. .
While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Va-
lentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the absence
of Proteus; and her regard for him at last so far
overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved
to leave Verona, and seek her lover at Milan ; and
to secure herself from danger on the road, she
dressed her maiden Lucetta and herself in men's
clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and ar-
rived at Milan soon after Valentine was banished
from that city through the treachery of Proteus.
Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up
her abode at an inn ; and her thoughts being all on
her dear Proteus, she entered into conversation
with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, think-
ing by that means to learn some news of Proteus.
The host was greatly pleased that this handsome
young gentleman (as he took her to be), who from
his appearance, he concluded was of high rank,
spoke so familiarly to him ; and being a good-
natured man, he was sorry to see him look so mel-
ancholy; and to amuse his young guest, he offered
to take him to hear some fine music, with which
he said, a gentleman that evening was going to
serenade his mistress.
The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was,
that she did not well know what Proteus would
think of the imprudent step she had taken ; for she
knew he had loved her for her noble maiden pride
Cwo Gentlemen of vetona 97
and dignity of character, and she feared she should
lower herself in his esteem : and this it was that
made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.
She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go
with him, and hear the music; for she secretly
hoped she might meet Proteus by the way.
But when she came to the palace whither the host
conducted her, a very different effect was produced
to what the kind host intended ; for there, to her
heart’s sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant
Proteus, serenading the lady Silvia with music,
and addressing discourse of love and admiration to
her. And Julia overheard Silvia from a window
talk with Proteus, and reproath him for forsaking
his own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his
friend Valentine ; and then Silvia left the window,
not choosing to listen to his music and his fine
speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished
Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct
of his false friend Proteus.
Though Julia was in despair at what she had just
witnessed, yet did she still love the truant Proteus;
t
and hearing that he had lately parted with a servant,
she contrived with the assistance of her host, the
friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a
page ; and Proteus knew not she was Julia, and
he sent her with letters and presents to her rival
Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she
gave him as a parting gift at Verona.
When she went to that lady with the ring, she
was most glad to find that Silvia utterly rejected the
suit of Proteus; and Julia, or the page Sebastian
as she was called, entered into conversation with
7
98 Caleg from 5bakspeare
Silvia about Proteus' first love, the forsaken lady
Julia. She putting in (as one may say) a good
word for herself, said she knew Julia; as well she
might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke ;
telling how fondly Julia loved her master Proteus,
and how his unkind neglect would grieve her : and
then she with a pretty equivocation went on : “Julia
is about my height, and of my complexion, the
colour of her eyes and hair the same as mine: ’’ and
indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in her
boy's attire. Silvia was moved to pity this lovely
lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man she
loved ; and when Julia offered the ring which Pro-
teus had sent, refused it, saying, “The more
shame for him that he sends me that ring ; I will
not take it ; for I have often heard him say his
Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for
pitying her, poor lady | Here is a purse ; I give it
you for Julia's sake.” These comfortable words
coming from her kind rival’s tongue cheered the
drooping heart of the disguised lady.
But to return to the banished Valentine ; who
scarce knew which way to bend his course, being
unwilling to return home to his father a disgraced
and banished man : as he was wandering over a
lonely forest, not far distant from Milan, where he
had left his heart's dear treasure, the lady Silvia, he
was set upon by robbers who demanded his money.
Valentine told them that he was a man crossed
by adversity, that he was going into banishment,
and that he had no money, the clothes he had on
being all his riches. \ .
The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man,
CWO (5&ntlemen of \}ctona 99
&
and being struck with his noble air and manly be-
haviour, told him if he would live with them, and be
their chief or captain, they would put themselves
under his command ; but that if he refused to accept
their offer they would kill him.
Valentine, who cared little what became of him-
self, said he would consent to live with them and
be their captain, provided they did no outrage on
wormen or poor passengers.
Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin
Hood, of whom we read in ballads, a captain of
robbers and outlawed banditti; and in this situa-
tion he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it
came to pass.
Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom
her father insisted upon her no longer refusing,
came at last to the resolution of following Valen-
tine 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 forest where Valentine
and the banditti dwelt ; and one of these robbers
seized on Silvia, and would also have taken Egla-
mour, but he escaped.
IOO Caleg from 5bakópeate
The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the
terror she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for that
he was only going to carry her to a cave where
bis captain lived, and that she need not be afraid,
for their captain had an honourable mind, and
always showed humanity to women. Silvia found
little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried
as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless ban-
ditti. “O Valentine,” she cried, “this I endure
for thee l’’
But as the robber was conveying her to the cave
of his captain, he was stopped by Proteus, who,
still attended by Julia in the disguise of a page,
having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her
steps to this forest. Proteus now rescued her
from the hands of the robber ; but scarce had she
time to thank him for the service he had done her,
before he began to distress her afresh with his love
suit; and while he was rudely pressing her to 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 Proteus had
just done to Silvia should win her to show him
some favour, they were all strangely surprised with
the sudden appearance of Valentine, who, having
heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came
to console and relieve her.
Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so
much ashamed of being caught by his friend, that
he was all at once seized with penitence and re-
morse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for
the injuries he had done to Valentine, that Valen-
tine, whose nature was noble and generous, even
CWO (5¢ntlemen of lyetona IOI
to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored
him to his former place in his friendship, but in a
sudden flight of heroism he said, “I freely do
forgive you; and all the interest I have in Silvia,
I give it up to you.” Julia, who was standing
beside her master as a page, hearing this strange
offer, and fearing Proteus would not be able with
this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, and
they were all employed in recovering her: else would
Silvia have been offended at being thus made over
to Proteus, though she could scarcely think that
Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained
and too generous act of friendship. When Julia
recovered from the fainting fit, she said, “I had
forgot, my master ordered me to deliver this ring
to Silvia.” Proteus, 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.’’
Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly
perceived 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 Valen-
tine, who had so well deserved her.
Proteus and Valentine were expressing their
happiness in their reconciliation, and in the love
IO2 Qale3 from $5bak3peate
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 Valen-
tine said to him in a very spirited manner, “Thurio,
keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is
yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she
stands, take but possession of her with a touch
I dare you but to breathe upon my love.” 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 now in great anger, #: The more base and
degenerate in you to take such means for her as
you have done, and leave her on such slight con-
ditions.” Then turning to Valentine, he said, “I
do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think you
worthy of an empress' love. You shall have Silvia,
for you have well deserved her.” Valentine then
with great humility kissed the duke's hand, and
accepted the noble present which he had made
him of his daughter with becoming thankfulness:
taking occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the
good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves with
whom he had associated in the forest, assuring him,
that when reformed and restored to society, there
would be found among them many good, and fit for
great employment; for the most of them had been
banished, like Valentine, for state offences, rather
than for any black crimes they had been guilty of.
(WWO (5entlemen of lº)etona IO3
To this the ready duke consented: and now
nothing remained but that Proteus, 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 the presence of the duke, with high
triumphs and feasting.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
HYLOCK, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was
an usurer, who had amassed an immense for-
tune by lending money at great interest to Christian
merchants. Shylock, being a hard-hearted man,
exacted the payment of the money he lent with such
severity that he was much disliked by all good
men, and particularly by Antonio, a young mer-
chant of Venice ; and Shylock as much hated
Antonio, because he used to lend money to people
in distress, and would never take any interest for
the money he lent; therefore there was great enmity
between this covetous Jew and the generous mer-
chant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shylock
on the Rialto (or Exchange), he uscd to reproach
him with his usuries and hard dealings, which the
Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he
secretly meditated revenge.
Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best
conditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in
doing courtesies: indeed, he was one in whom the
ancient Roman honour more, appeared than in any
that drew breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved
by all his fellow-citizens; but the friend who was
nearest and dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a
(IO4)
(IMetchant of lºenice IO5
noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony,
had nearly exhausted his little fortune by living in
too expensive a manner for his slender means, as
young men of high rank with small fortunes are too
apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, An-
tonio assisted him ; and it seemed as if they had
but one heart and one purse between them.
One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him
that he wished to repair his fortune by a wealthy
marriage with a lady whom he dearly loved, whose
father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress
to a large estate; and that in her father's life-time
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 befit-
ting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought An-
tonio to add to the many favours he had shown
him, by lending him three thousand ducats.
Antonio had no money by him at that time to
lend his friend ; but expecting soon to have some
ships come home laden with merchandise, he said
he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender,
and borrow the money upon the credit of those
ships. -
Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock,
and Antonio asked the Jew to lend him three
thousand ducats upon any interest he should re-
quire, to be paid out-of the merchandise contained
in his ships at sea. On this, Shylock thought with-
in himself, “If I can once catch him on the hip, I
will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him ; he
IO6 Caleg from $bakópeate
hates our Jewish nation ; he lends out money gratis,
and among the merchants he rails at me and my
well-earned bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed
be my tribe if I forgive him ' ' Antonio finding
he was musing within himself and did not answer,
and being impatient for the money, said, “Shylock,
do you hear? will you lend the money P’’ To this
question the Jew replied, “Signior Antonio, on
the Rialto many a time and often you have railed
at me about my monies and my usuries, and I have
borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the
badge of all our tribe ; and then you have called
me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my
Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot,
as if I was a cur. Well then, it now appears you
need my help ; and you come to me, and say, Shy-
/ock, lend me monies. Has a dog money P Is it
possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats P
Shall I bend low and say, Fair sir, you spit upon
me on Wednesday last, another time you called me
dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you
monies.” Antonio replied, “I am as like to call
you so again, to Spit on you again, and spurn you
too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not
to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to
an enemy, that, if I break, you may with better face
exact the penalty.”—“Why, look you,” said Shy-
lock, “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 seem-
ingly kind offer greatly surprised Antonio ; and
then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that
(ISetchant of lº)emice Io?
all he did was to gain Antonio's love, again said he
would lend him the three thousand ducats, and take
no interest for his money; only Antonio should go
with him to a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport
a bond, that if he did not repay the money by a
certain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to
be cut off from any part of his body that Shylock
pleased.
“Content,” said Antonio : “I will sign to this
bond, and say there is much kindness in the Jew.”
Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a
bond for him ; but still Antonio insisted that he
would sign it, for that before the day of payment
came, his ships would return laden with many times
the value of the money. *
Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, “O,
father Abraham, what suspicious people these Chris-
tians are Their own hard dealings teach them to
suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell
me this, Bassanio : if he should break his day,
what should I gain by the exaction of the forfeit-
ure ? A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man,
is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the
flesh of mutton or beef. I say, to buy his favour I .
offer this friendship : if he will take it, so ; if not,
adieu.”
At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, not-
withstanding all the Jew had said of his kind inten-
tions, did not like his friend should run the hazard
of this shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio
signed the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew
said) merely in sport.
The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry
IO8 Caleg from 5bahgpeare
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 Por-
tia, 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 Belmont with a splendid train, and attended by
a gentleman of the name of Gratiano.
Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in
a short time consented to accept of him for a hus-
band. -
Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no for-
tune, 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 grace-
ful 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 accom-
plished 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 is now
converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the
lady of this fair mansion, queen of myself, and
mistress over these servants ; and now this house,
these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord ;
I give them with this ring ; ” presenting a ring to .
Bassanio.
Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude
Terchant of ljenice IO9.
and wonder at the gracious manner in which the
rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his
humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy
and reverence to the dear lady who so honoured
him, by anything but broken words of love and
thankfulness; and taking the ring, he vowed never
to part with it.
Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid,
were in attendance upon their lord and lady, when
Portia so gracefully promised to become the
obedient wife of Bassanio ; and Gratiano, wishing
Bassanio and the generous lady joy, desired per-
mission 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 Bassa-
nio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa
replied, “Madam, it is so, if you approve of it.”
Portia willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly
said, “Then our wedding-feast shall be much
honoured by your marriage, Gratiano.”
The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed
at this moment by the entrance of a messenger,
who brought a letter from Antonio containing
fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's
letter, Portia feared it was to tell him of the death .
of some dear friend, he looked so pale; and in-
quiring what was the news which had so distressed
him, he said, “O sweet Portia, here are a few of
the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper:
gentle, lady, when I first imparted my love to you,
;
y
IIO (Valèg from 5bakópeate
I freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my
veins; but I should have told you that I had less
than nothing, being in debt.” Bassanio then told
Portia what has been here related, of his borrowing
the money of Antonio, and of Antonio's 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:
and then Bassanio read Antonio's letter; the
words of which were, “Sweet Bassamio, my ships
are all lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and
since in Żaying it is impossible / should live, Y could
zvish ſo see you at my death ; moſwithstanding, use
your pleasure ; if your love for me do not persuade
you ſo come, ſet not my letter.” “O, my dear love,”
said Portia, “ despatch all business, and begone;
you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times
over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by
my Bassanio's fault ; and as you are so dearly
bought, I will dearly love you.” Portia then said
she would be married to Bassanio before he set
out, to give him a legal right to her money and
that same day they were married, and Gratiano
was also married to Nerissa ; and Bassanio and
Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out
in great haste for Venice, where Bassanio found
Antonio in prison. -
The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew
would not accept of the money which Bassanio
offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of
Antonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try
this shocking cause before the Duke of Venice,
(IISctChant Of lºenice - III
and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the
event of the trial. *
When Portia parted with her husband, she
spoke cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his
dear friend along with him when he returned ;
yet she feared it would go hard with Antonio,
and when she was left, alone, she began to think
and consider within herself, if she could by any
means be instrumental in saving the life of her
dear Bassanio's friend ; and notwithstanding when
she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said
to him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that
she would submit in all things to be governed by
his superior wisdom, yet being now called forth
into action by the peril of her honoured husband's
friend, she did nothing doubt her own powers, and
by the sole guidance of her own true and perfect
judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice,
and speak in Antonio's defence.
Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in
the law; to this gentleman, whose name was
Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to him,
desired his opinion, and that with his advice he
would also send her the dress worn by a counsellor.
When the messenger returned, he brought letters
from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also
everything necessary for her equipment. .
Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in
men’s apparel, and putting on the robes of a
counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her as her
clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived
at Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause
was just going to be heard before the duke and
II2 Caleg from 5bakópeate
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 coun-
sellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would have
come himself to plead for Antonio, but that he
was prevented by sickness, and he requested that
the learned young doctor Balthasar (so he called
Portia) might be permitted to plead in his stead.
This the duke granted, much wondering at the
youthful appearance of the stranger, who was
prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes and
her large wig.
And now began this important trial. Portia
looked around her, and she saw the merciless Jew;
and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in her
disguise. He was standing beside Antonio, in an
agony of distress and fear for his friend. s
The importance of the arduous task Portia had
engaged in gave this tender lady courage, and she
boldly proceeded in the duty she had undertaken
to perform ; and first of all she addressed herself
to Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by
the Venetian law to have the forfeit expressed in
the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble quality
of mercy, as would have softened any heart but the
unfeeling Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the
gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath;
and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed
him that gave, and him that received it ; and how
it became monarchs better than their crowns, being
an attribute of God himself; and that earthly power
came nearest to God’s, in proportion as mercy
tempered justice; and she bid Shylock remember
*
(Netchant of lºenice II3
that as we all pray for mercy, that same prayer
should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only
answered her by desiring to have the penalty for-
feited in the bond. “Is he not able to pay the
money P” asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the
Jew the payment of the three thousand ducats as
many times over as he should desire ; which Shy-
lock refusing, and still insisting upon having a
pound of Antonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the
learned young counsellor would endeavour to wrest
the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portia
gravely answered, that laws once established must
never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that
the law might not be altered, it seemed to him that
she was pleading in his favour, and he said, “A
Daniel is come to judgment O wise young judge,
how I do honour you ! How much elder are you
than your looks?”
Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the
bond ; and when she had read it, she said, “This
bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew may lawfully
claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest
Antonio's heart.” Then she said to Shylock,
“Be merciful : take the money, and bid me tear
the bond.” But no mercy would the cruel Shylock
show ; and he said, “By my soul I swear, there is
no power in the tongue of man to alter me.’’—
“Why then, Antonio,” said Portia, “ you must pre-
pare 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
8 \
II4 Cale3 from 5bakgpeate
say, for that he had prepared his mind for death.
Then he said to Bassanio, “Give me your hand,
Bassanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve not that I am
fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me
to your honourable wife, and tell her how I have
loved you ! ” Bassanio in the deepest affliction re-
plied, “Antonio, I am married to a wife, who is
as dear to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife,
and all the world, are not esteemed with me above
your life : I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to
this devil here, to deliver you.”
Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady
was not at all offended with her husband for ex-
pressing 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.
Shylock now cried out impatiently, “We trifle
time; I pray pronounce the sentence.” And now
all was awful expectation in the court, and every
heart was full of grief for Antonio. -
Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh
the flesh ; and she said to the Jew, “Shylock, you
(IMetchant Of l)enice II5
must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to death.”
Shylock, whose whole intent was that Antonio
should bleed to death, said, “It is not so named in
the bond.” Portia replied, “It is not so named in
the bond, but what of that P It were good you did
so much for charity.” To this all the answer Shy-
lock 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 some-
thing else. This bond here gives you no drop of
blood; the words expressly are, ‘a pound of flesh.’
If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed
one drop of Christian blood, your lands and goods
are by the law to be confiscated to the state of
Venice.” Now as it was utterly impossible for
Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh without shed-
ding some of Antonio's blood, this wise discovery
of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that was
named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio ;
and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young
counsellor, who had so happily thought of this
expedient, plaudits resounded from every part of
the senate-house ; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the
words which Shylock had used, “O wise and up-
116 Caleg from 5bakópeate
right judge mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to
judgment l”
Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel in-
tent, said with a disappointed look, that he would
take the money; and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond
measure at Antonio's unexpected deliverance,
cried out, “Here is the money !” But Portia
stopped him, saying, “Softly ; there is no haste;
the Jew shall have nothing but the penalty: there-
fore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh ; but
mind you shed no blood: nor do not cut off more
nor less than just a pound ; be it more or less by
one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the
weight of a single hair, you are condemned by the
laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth is for-
feited to the senate.” “Give me my money, and
let me go,” said Shylock. “I have it ready,” said
Bassanio : “here it is.”
Shylock was going to take the money, when
Portia again stopped him, saying, “Tarry, Jew ; I
have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of
Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, for
having conspired against the life of one of its citi-
zens, and your life lies at the mercy of the duke;
therefore, down on your knees, and ask him to
pardon you.”
The duke then said to Shylock, “That you may
see the difference of our Christian spirit, I pardon
you your life before you ask it ; half your wealth
belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the
state.”
The generous Antonio then said that he would
give up his share of Shylock's wealth, if Shylock
f
flyetchant c'
would sign a deed to make 1." -
to his daughter and her husband ; for Antonio'ſ
that the Jew had an only daughter who had lately
married against his consent to a young Christian,
named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio's, which had
so offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her.
The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disap-
pointed in his revenge, and despoiled of his riches,
he said, “I am ill. Let me go home; send the
deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches
to my daughter.”—“Get thee gone, then,” said the
duke, ‘‘ and sign it; and if you repent your cruelty
and turn Christian, the state will forgive you the
fine of the other half of your riches.”
he duke now released Antonio, and dismissed
the court. He then highly praised the wisdom and
ingenuity of the young counsellor, and invited him
home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to
Belmont before her husband, replied, “I humbly
thank your grace, but I must away directly.” The
duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay
and dine with him ; and turning to Antonio, he
added, “Reward this gentleman ; for in my mind
you are much indebted to him.”
The duke and his senators left the court ; and
then Bassanio said to Portia, “Most worthy gentle-
man, I and my friend Antonio have by your wis-
dom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties,
and I beg you will accept of the three thousand
ducats due unto the Jew.” “And we shall stand
indebted to you over and above,” said Antonio,
“in love and service evermore.’’
Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the



$bakópeate
* : *wuys assanio still pressing her to
of some reward, she said, “Give me your
gloves; I will wear them for your sake; ” and then
Bassanio taking off his gloves, she espied the ring
which she had given him upon his finger; now it
was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from him
to make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio
again, that made her ask him for his gloves; and
she said, when she saw the ring, “and for your
love I will take this ring from you.” Bassanio was
sadly distressed that the counsellor should ask him
for the only thing he could not part with, and he
replied in great confusion, that he could not give
him that ring, because it was his wife's gift, and
he had vowed never to part with it; but that he
would give him the most valuable ring in Venice,
and find it out by proclamation. On this Portia
affected to be affronted, and left the court, saying,
“You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be an-
Swered.”
“Dear Bassanio,” said Antonio, “let him have
the ring ; let my love and the great service he has
done for me be valued against your wife's dis-
pleasure.” Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrate-
ful, yielded, and sent Gratiano after Portia with the
ring; and then the clerk Nerissa, who had also
given Gratiano a ring, she begged his ring, and
Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity
by his lord) gave it to her. And there was laughing
among these ladies to think, when they got home,
how they would tax their husbands with giving away
their rings, and swear that they had given them as
a present to some woman.
y



merchant of venice II9
Portia, when she returned, was in that happy
temper of mind which never fails to attend the con-
sciousness of having performed a good action ; her
cheerful spirits enjoyed everything 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 Bel-
mont 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 pre-
senting his dear friend to the lady Portia, the
congratulations and welcomings of that lady were
hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her
husband quarrelling in a corner of the room. “A
quarrel already?” said Portia. “What is the
matter?” Gratiano replied, “Lady, it is about a
paltry gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words
upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife; Zoze
me, and leaze me moſ.”
“What does the poetry or the value of the ring
signify P’’ said Nerissa. “You swore to me when
I gave it to you, that you would keep it till the
hour of death ; and now you say you gave it to
the lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a
woman.”—“By this hand,” replied Gratiano, “I
I2O Caleg from 5bakepeate
gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed
boy, no higher than yourself; he was clerk to the
young counsellor that by his wise pleading saved
Antonio's life: this prating boy begged it for a
fee, and I could not for my life deny him.” Portia
said, “You were to blame, Gratiano, to part with
your wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a
ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for
all the world.” Gratiano, in excuse for his fault,
now said, “My lord Bassanio gave his ring away to
the counsellor, and then the boy, 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. Bas-
sanio was very unhappy to have so offended his
dear lady, and he said with great earnestness, “No,
by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor,
who refused three thousand ducats of me, and
begged the ring, which when I denied him, he went
displeased away. What could I do, sweet Portia?
I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingrati-
tude, 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
merchant of lºenice I2 I
husband gave the ring, I should have now been
dead. I dare be bound again, my Soul upon the
forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith
with you.”—“Then you shall be his surety,” said
Portia; “give him this ring, and bid him keep it
better than the other.’’
When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was
strangely surprised to find it was the same he gave
away; and then Portia told him how she was the
young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and
Bassanio found, to his unspeakable wonder and de-
light, 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 harbour. So these tragical beginnings of
this rich merchant's story were all forgotten in the
unexpected good fortune which ensued ; and there
was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the
rings, and the husbands that did not know their
own wives: Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort of
rhyming speech, that
while he lived, he’d fear no other thing
So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
CYMBELINE.
URING the time of Augustus Caesar, Emperor
of Rome, there reigned in England (which
was then called Britain) a king whose name was
Cymbeline. •
Cymbeline's first wife died when his three
children (two sons and a daughter) were very
young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, was
brought up in her father's court ; but by a strange
chance the two sons of Cymbeline were stolen out
of their nursery, when the eldest was but three
years of age, and the youngest quite an infant;
and Cymbeline could never discover what was
become of them, or by whom they were conveyed
away. *
Cymbeline was twice married : his second wife
was a wicked, plotting woman, and a cruel step-
mother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by his
first wife.
The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished
her to marry a son of her own by a former husband
(she also having been twice married): for by this
means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to
place the crown of Britain upon the head of her
son Cloten ; for she knew that, if the king's sons
(122)
Cymbeline I23
were not found, the princess Imogen must be the
king's heir. But this design was prevented by Imo-
gen herself, who married without the consent or
even knowledge of her father or the queen.
Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's
husband) was the best scholar and most accom-.
plished gentleman of that age. His father died
fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after
his birth his mother died also for grief at the loss of
her husband.
Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this or-
phan, took Posthumus (Cymbeline having given
him that name, because he was born after his
father's death), and educated him in his own court.
Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the
same masters, and were playfellows from their in-
fancy; they loved each other tenderly when they
were children, and their affection continuing to in-
crease with their years, when they grew up they
privately married.
The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret,
for she kept spies constantly in watch upon the
actions of her daughter-in-law, and she immediately
told the king of the marriage of Imogen with
Posthumus.
Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline
when he heard that his daughter had been so forget-
ful of her high dignity as to marry a subject. He
commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and ban-
ished him from his native country for ever.
The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for
the grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered
to procure them a private meeting before Posthumus
I24 Caleg from 5bakepeate \
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 suc-
ceed 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. Innogen gave her husband a
diamond ring, which had been her mother's, and
Bosthumus promised never to part with the ring ;
and he fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife,
which he begged she would preserve with great care,
as a token of his love ; they then bid each other
farewell, with many vows of everlasting love and
fidelity.
Innogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in
her father's court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome,
the place he had chosen for his banishment.
Posthumus fell into company at Rome with
some gay young men of different nations, who
were talking freely of ladies: each one praising the
ladies of his own country, and his own mistress.
Posthumus, who had ever his own dear lady in his
mind, affirmed that his wife, the fair Imogen, was
the most virtuous, wise, and constant lady in the
world.
One of those gentlemen, whose name was
Iachimo, being offended that a lady of Britain
should be so praised above the Roman ladies, his
country-women, provoked Prothumus by seeming
to doubt the constancy of his so highly-praised
Cymbeline I25
wife; and at length, after much altercation, Pos-
thumus consented to a proposal of Iachimo's, that
he (Iachimo) should go to Britain, and endeavour
to gain the love of the married Imogen. They
then laid a wager, that if Iachimo did not succeed
in this wicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum
of money; but if he could win Imogen's favour,
and prevail upon her to give him the bracelet
which Posthumus had so earnestly desired she
would keep as a token of his love, then the wager
was to terminate with Posthumus giving to Iachimo
the ring, which was Imogen’s love present when
she parted with her husband. Such firm faith had
Posthumus in the fidelity of Imogen, that he
thought he ran no hazard in this trial of her honour.
Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admit-
tance, and a courteous welcome from Imogen, as a
friend of her husband ; but when he began to make
professions of love to her, she repulsed him with
disdain, and he soon found that he could have no
hope of succeeding in his dishonourable design.
The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made
him now have recourse to a stratagem to impose
upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed
some of Imogen's attendants, and was by them con-
veyed into her bedchamber, concealed in a large
trunk, where he remained shut up till Imogen was
retired to rest, and had fallen asleep; and then get-
ting 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 ob-
served upon Imogen's neck, and then softly unloos-
ing the bracelet from her arm, which Posthumus
\
I26 Caleg from 5bakgpeate
had given to her, he retired into the chest again ;
and the next day he set off for Rome with great
expedition, and boasted to Posthumus that Imogen
had given him the bracelet, and likewise permitted
him to pass a night in her chamber : and in this
manner Iachimo told his false tale: “Her bed-
chamber,” said he, “was hung with tapestry of silk
and silver, the story was the proud Cleopatra when
she met her Amfony, a piece of work most bravely
wrôught.”
“This is true,” said Posthumus ; “but this you
might have heard spoken of without seeing.”
“Then the chimney,” said Iachimo, “is south of
the chamber, and the chimney-piece is ZXiana Čaſh-
ing ; never saw I figures livelier expressed.”
“This is a thing you might have likewise heard,”
said Posthumus ; “for it is much talked of.”
Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the
chamber ; and added, “I had almost forgot her
and irons; they were ſwo winking Cupid's made of
silver, each on one foot standing.” He then took
out the bracelet, and said, “Know you this jewel,
sir P. She gave me this. She took it from her arm.
I see her yet ; her pretty action did outsell her gift,
and yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and said,
she prized if once.” He last of all described the
mole he had observed upon her neck.
Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this art-
ful recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into
the most passionate exclamations against Imogen.
He delivered up the diamond ring to Iachimo,
which he had agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained
the bracelet from Imogen. -
j }
Cymbeline . 127
Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pi—
sanio, a gentleman of Britain, who was one of
Imogen's attendants, and had long been a faithful
friend of Posthumus ; and after telling him what
proof he had of his wife's disloyalty, he desired
Pisanio would take Imogen to Milford-Haven, a
seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at the
same time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen,
desiring her to go with Pisanio, for that finding he
could live no longer without seeing her, though he
was forbidden upon pain of death to return to
Britain, he would come to Milford-Haven, at which
place he begged she would meet him. She, good
unsuspecting lady, who loved her husband above all
things, and desired more than her life to see him,
hastened her departure with Pisanio, and the same
night she received the letter she set out.
When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio
who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful
to serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen
the cruel order he had received.
Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and
beloved husband, found herself doomed by that
husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond mea-
SUl]"e.
Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait
with patient fortitude for the time when Posthumus
should see and repent his injustice : in the mean-
time, as she refused in her distress to return to her
father's court, he advised her to dress herself in
boy's clothes for more security in travelling ; to
which advice she agreed, and thought in that dis-
guise she would go over to Rome, and see her hus-
128 Caleg from $5bakg peate
band, whom, though he had used her so barbarously,
she could not forget to love.
When Pisanio had provided her with her new ap-
parel, he left her to her uncertain fortune, being
obliged to return to court; but before he departed
he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the
queen had given him as a sovereign remedy in all
disorders. - .
The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a
friend to Imogen and Posthumus, gave him this
phial, which she supposed contained poison, she
having ordered her physician to give her some
poison, to try its effects (as she said) upon animals;
but the physician, knowing her malicious disposi-
tion, would not trust her with real poison, but gave
her a drug which would do no other mischief than
causing a person to sleep with every appearance of
death for a few hours. This mixture, which Pisanio
thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, desir-
ing her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to
take it ; and so, with blessings and prayers for her
safety and happy deliverance from her undeserved
troubles, he left her.
Providence strangely directed-Imogen's steps to
the dwelling of her two brothers, who had been
stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius, who stole
them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline,
and having been falsely accused to the king of trea-
son, and banished from the court, in revenge he
stole away the two sons of Gymbeline, and brought
them up in a forest, where he lived concealed in a
cave. He stole them through revenge, but he soon
loved them as tenderly as if they had been his own
Cymbeline r I29
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 al-
ways pressing their supposed father to let them seek
their fortune in the wars.
At the cave where these youths dwelt it was Imo-
gen’s fortune to arrive. She had lost her way in a 4
large forest, through which her road lay to Milford-
Haven (from which she meant to embark for Rome);
and being unable to find any place where she could
purchase food, she was with weariness and hunger
almost dying ; for it is not merely putting on a
man's apparel that will enable a young lady, ten-
derly 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 Posthu-
mus, thou art a false one !”
The two brothers of Imogen, who had been
hunting with their reputed father, Bellarius, were
by this time returned home. Bellarius had given
9.
I3O Caleg from $bakópeate
them the names of Polydore and Cadwal, and they
knew no better, but supposed that Bellarius was
their father ; but the real names of these princes
were Guiderius and Arviragus.
Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imo-
gen, stopped them, saying, “Come not in yet ; it
eats our victuals, or I should think it was a fairy.”
“What is the matter, sir?” said the young men.
“By Jupiter,” said Bellarius again, “there is an
angel in the cave, or if not, an earthly paragon.”
So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel.
She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from
the cave, and addressed them in these words:
“Good masters, do not harm me ; before I entered
your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought
what I have eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing,
nor would I, though I had found gold strewed on
the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I
would have left on the board when I had made my
meal, and parted with prayers for the provider.”
They refused her money with great earnestness. “I
see you are angry with me,” said the timid Imogen;
“but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, know that I
should have died if I had not made it.”
“Whither are you bound?” asked Bellarius,
“ and what is your name?”
“Fidele is my name,” answered Imogen. “I
have a kinsman, who is bound for Italy; he em-
barked at Milford-Haven, to whom being going,
almost spent with hunger, I am fallen into this
Offence.’’
“Prithee, fair youth,” said old Bellarius, “do
not think us churls, nor measure our good minds by
this rude place we live in. You are well encoun-
tered ; 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) Imo-
gen delighted them with her neat house-wifery, as-
sisting them in preparing their supper ; for though
it is not the custom now for young women of
high birth to understand cookery, it was then, and
Imogen excelled in this useful art ; and, as her
brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots
in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had
been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. “And
then,” said Polydore to his brother, “how angel-
like he sings I’’
They also remarked to each other, that though
Fidele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy
did overcloud his lovely face, as if grief and patience
had together taken possession of him.
For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was
their near relationship, though they knew it not)
Imogen (or, as the boys called her, Fidele) became
the doting-piece of her brothers, and she scarcely
less loved them, thinking that but for the memory
of her dear Posthumus, she could live and die in
the cave with these wild forest youths; and she
gladly consented to stay with them, till she was
enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to pur-
sue her way to Milford-Haven.
~~~~
t
ºr-rº zºº &
• I32 Caleg from £5babrezzº, * ~ * *
When the venison they had taken was all eaten,
and they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele
could not accompany them because she was unwell.
Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as
well as the fatigue of wandering in the forest, was
the cause of her illness.
They then bid her farewell, and went to their
hunt, praising all the way the noble parts and grace-
ful demeanour of the youth Fidele.
Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recol-
lected the cordial Pisanio had given her, and drank
it off, and presently fell into a sound and deathlike
sleep.
When Bellarius and her brothers returned from
hunting, Polydore went first into the cave, and sup-
posing her asleep, pulled off his heavy shoes, that
he might tread softly and not awake her ; so did
true gentleness spring up in the minds of these
princely foresters; but he soon discovered that she
could not be awakened by any noise, and concluded
her to be dead, and Polydore lamented over her
with dear and brotherly regret, as if they had never
from their infancy been parted.
Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the
forest, and there celebrate her funeral with songs
and solemn dirges, as was then the custom.
Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady
covert, and there laying her gently on the grass,
they sang repose to her departed spirit, and cover-
ing her over with leaves and flowers, Polydore said,
“While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will
daily strew thy grave. The pale primrose, that
flower most like thy face ; the blue-bell, like
*º-3. 3."
Cymbeline I33
thy clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine, which
is not sweeter than was thy breath ; all these will
I strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss in
winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy sweet
corse.”
When they had finished her funeral obsequies
they departed very sorrowful.
Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the
effect of the sleepy drug going off, she awaked,
and easily shaking off the slight covering of leaves
and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose,
and imagining she had been dreaming, she said,
“I thought I was a cave-keeper, 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 Sud-
denly broken out between the Roman emperor Au-
gustus Caesar 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
I34 Caleg from $5bakópeate
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 Im-
ogen was dead), Sat heavy on his heart, and there-
fore he returned to Britain, desiring either to be
slain in battle, or to be put to death by Cymbeline
for returning home from bani hment.
Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell
into the hands of the Roman army; and her pres-
ence and deportment recommending her, she was
made a page to Lucius, the Roman general.
Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the
enemy, and when they entered this ſorest, Polydore
and Cadwal joined the king's army. The young
men were eager to engage in acts of valour, though
they little thought they were going to fight for their
own royal father: and old Bellarius went with them
to the battle. He had long since repented of the
injury he had done to Cymbeline in carrying away
his sons; and having been a warrior in his youth,
he gladly joined the army to fight for the king he
had so injured.
And now a great battle commenced between the
two armies, and the Britons would have been de-
feated, and Cymbeline himself killed, but for the
extraordinary valour of Posthumus and Bellarius,
and the two sons of Cymbeline. They rescued the
king, and saved his life, and so entirely turned the for-
tune of the day, that the Britons gained the victory.
When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had
Cymbeline - I35
not found the death. he sought for, surrendered him-
self up to one of the officers of Cymbeline, willing
to suffer the death which was to be his punishment
if he returned from banishment.
Imogen and the master she served were taken
prisoners, and brought before Cymbeline, as was
also her old enemy Iachimo, who was an officer in
the Roman army; and when these prisoners were
before the king, Posthumus was brought in to re-
ceive his sentence of death ; and at this strange
juncture of time, Bellarius with Polydore and Cad-
wal were also brought before Cymbeline, to receive
the rewards due to the great services they had by
their valour done for the king. Pisanio, being one
of the king's attendants, was likewise present.
Therefore there were now standing in the king's
presence (but with very different hopes and fears)
Posthumus and Imogen, with her new master the
Roman general ; the faithful servant Pisanio, and
the false friend Iachimo ; and likewise the two lost
sons of Cymbeline, with Bellarius, who had stolen
them away. -
The Roman general was the first who spoke; the
rest stood silent before the king, though there was
many a beating heart among them.
Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though
he was in the disguise of a peasant; but he did
not know her in her male attire ; and she knew
Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which
she perceived to be her own, but she did not know
him as yet to have been the author of all her
troubles ; and she stood before her own father a
prisoner of war.
136 Caleg from $bakópeate
Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had
dressed her in the garb of a boy. “It is my mis-
tress,’’ thought he ; “since she is living, let the
time run on to good or bad.” Bellarius knew her
too, and softly said to Cadwal, “Is not this boy
revived from death P”—“One sand,” replied Cad-
wal, “does not more resenble another than that
sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele.”—“The
same dead thing alive,” said Polydore. “Peace,
peace,” said Bellarius; “if it were he, I am sure
he would have spoken to us,”—“But we saw him
dead,” again whispered Polydore. “Be silent,”
replied Bellarius. ---
Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome
sentence of his own death ; and he resolved not
to disclose to the king that he had saved his life in
the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to par-
don him. -
Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Im-
ogen under his protection as his page, was the first
(as has been before said) who spoke to the king.
He was a man of high courage and noble dignity,
and this was his speech to the king :-
“I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners,
but doom them all to death : I am a Roman, and
with a Roman heart will suffer death. But there
is one thing for which I would entreat.” Then
bringing Imogen before the king, he said, “This
boy is a Briton born. Let him be ransomed. He
is my page. Never master had a page so kind, so
duteous, so diligent on all occasions, so true, so
nurse-like. He hath done no Briton wrong, though
combeline - I37
he hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare
no one beside.”
Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imo-
gen. He knew her not in that disguise ; but it
seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his heart,
for he said, “I have surely seen him, his face ap-
pears familiar to me. I know not why or wherefore
I say, Live, boy; but I give you your life, and ask
of me what boon you will, and I will grant it you.
Yea, even though it be the life of the noblest pris-
oner I have.” g
“I humbly thank your highness,” said Imogen.
What was then called granting a boon was the
same as a promise to give any one thing, whatever
it might be, that the person on whom that favour
was conferred chose to ask for. They all were at-
tentive to hear what thing the page would ask for ;
and Lucius her master said to her, “I do not beg
my life, good lad, but I know that is what you will
ask for.”—“No, no, alas !” said Imogen, “I have
other work in hand, good master; your life I can-
not ask for.”
This seeming want of gratitude in the boy aston-
ished the Roman general.
Imogen then, fixing her eye on Iachimo, de-
manded no other boon than this ; that Iachimo
should be made to confess whence he had the ring
he wore on his finger.
Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened
Iachimo with the torture if he did not confess how
he came by the diamond ring on his finger.
Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all
his villany, telling, as has been before related, the
138 Caleø from 5bakópeate
whole story of his wager with Posthumus, and how
he had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity.
What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the
innocence of his lady cannot be confessed. He in-
stantly came forward, and expressed to Cymbeline
the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to
execute upon the princess ; exclaiming wildly, “O
Imogen, my queen, my life, my wife O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen ''
Imogen could not see her beloved husband in
this distress without discovering herself, to the
unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was thus re-
lieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored
to the good graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly
treated.
Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he
with joy, at finding his lost daughter so strangely
recovered, received her to her former place in his
fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband
Posthumus his life, but consented to acknowledge
him for his son-in-law. -
Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation
to make his confession. He presented Polydore
and Cadwal to the king, telling him they were his
two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus.
Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could
think of punishments at a season of such universal
happiness P To find his daughter living, and his
lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that
he had seen so bravely fight in his defence, was un-
looked for joy indeed
Imogen was now at leisure to perform good Ser-
vices for her late master, the Roman general Lucius,
Cymbeline I39
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 provoked, are events too
tragical to interrupt this happy conclusion by more
than merely touching upon. It is sufficient that all
were made happy who were deserving ; and even
the treacherous Iachimo, in consideration of his
villany having missed its final aim, was dismissed
without punishment.
|RING LEAR.
EAR, king of Britain, had three daughters;
Goneril, wife to the duke of Albany; Regan,
wife to the duke of Cornwall ; and Cordelia, a
young maid, for whose love the king of France
and duke of Burgundy were joint suitors, and were
at this time making stay for that purpose in the
court of Lear. t
The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues
of government, he being more than fourscore years
old, determined to take no further part in state
affairs, but to leave the management to younger
strengths, that he might have time to prepare for
death, which must at no long period ensue. With
this intent he called his three daughters to him, to
know from their own lips which of them loved him
best, that he might part his kingdom among them
in such proportions as their affection for him should
seem to deserve.
Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her
father more than words could give out, that he was
dearer to her than the light of her own eyes, dearer
than life and liberty, with a deal of such professing
stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no
real love, only a few fine words delivered with cons
(I40)
TRíng ILeat I41
fidence being wanted in that case. The king, de-
lighted to hear from her own mouth this assurance
of her love, and thinking truly that her heart went
with it, in a fit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon
her and her husband one third of his ample king-
dom. .
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 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 child-
ren, as he thought ; and could do no less, after
the handsome assurances which Regan had made,
than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and
her husband, equal in size to that which he had
already given away to Goneril.
Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia,
whom he called his joy, he asked what she had to
say, thinking no doubt that she would glad his ears
with the same loving speeches which her sisters had
uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so
much stronger than theirs, as she had always been
his darling, and favoured by him above either of
them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of
her sisters, whose hearts she knew were far from
their lips, and seeing that all their coaxing speeches
were only intended to wheedle the old king out of
his dominions, that they and their husbands might
\
I42 Caſeg from $bakópeate
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 in-
gratitude in his favourite child, desired her to con-
sider her words, and to mend her speech, lest it
should mar her fortunes.
Cordelia then told her father, that he was her
father, that he had given her breeding, and loved
her ; that she returned those duties back as was
most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most
honour him. But that she could not frame her
mouth to such large speeches as her sisters had
done, or promise to love nothing else in the world.
Why had her sisters husbands, if (as they said) they
had no love for anything but their father P 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 sis-
ters, to love her father all.
Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father
even almost as extravagantly as her sisters pre-
tended to do, would have plainly told him so at
any other time, in more daughter-like and loving
terms, and without these qualifications, which did
indeed sound a little ungracious ; but after the
crafty flattering speeches of her sisters, which she
had seen draw such extravagant rewards, she
thought the handsomest thing she could do was to
love and be silent. This put her affection out of
suspicion of mercenary ends, and showed that she
loved, but not for gain ; and that her profes-
sions, the less ostentatious they were, had so
‘ſking ILeat I43
much the more of truth and sincerity than her
sisters’.
This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride,
so enraged the old monarch—who in his best of
times always showed much of spleen and rashness,
and in whom the dotage incident to old age had
so clouded over his reason, that he could not dis-
cern truth from flattery, nor a gay painted speech
from words that came from the heart—that in a
fury of resentment he retracted the third part of
his kingdom which yet remained, and which he
had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away from
her, sharing it equally between her two sisters and
their husbands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall ;
whom he now called to him, and in presence of all
his courtiers bestowing a coronet between them,
invested them jointly with all the power, revenue,
and execution of government, only retaining to
himself the name of king ; all the rest of royalty
he resigned ; with this reservation, that himself,
with a hundred knights for his attendants, was to
be maintained by monthly course in each of his
daughters' palaces in turn.
So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so
little guided by reason, and so much by passion,
filled all his courtiers with astonishment and sorrow ;
but none of them had the courage to interpose
between this incensed king and his wrath, except
the earl of Kent, who was beginning to speak a
good word for Cordelia, when the passionate Lear
on pain of death commanded him to desist ; but
the good Kent was not so to be repelled. He had
been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured
I44 (Vale3 from 5Bakgpeate
as a king, loved as a father, followed as a master;
and he had never esteemed his life further than as
a pawn to wage against his royal master's enemies,
nor feared to lose it when Lear’s safety was the
motive ; nor now that Lear was most his own
enemy, did this faithful servant of the king forget
his old principles, but man fully 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 be-
sought him now, that he would see with his eyes (as
he had done in many weighty matters), and go
by his advice still; and in his best consideration
recall this hideous rashness; for he would answer
with his life, his judgment that Lear's youngest
daughter did not love him least, nor were those
empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token of
hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour
was bound to plainness. For Lear’s threats, what
could he do to him, whose life was already at his
service? That should not hinder duty from speak.
1ng.
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 pre-
parations for departure ; but if on the sixth his
hated person was found within the realm of Britain,
that moment was to be his death. And Kent
bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he
chose to show himself in such.fashion, it was but
banishment to stay there ; and before he went, he
TRíng ILeat I45
recommended Cordelia to the protection of the
gods, the maid who had so rightly thought, and
so discreetly spoken ; and only wished that her
sisters' large speeches might be answered with
deeds of love; and then he went, as he said, to
shape his old course to a new country.
The king of France and duke of Burgundy
were now called in to hear the determination of
Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know
whether they would persist in their courtship to
Cordelia, now that she was under her father's dis-
pleasure, and had no fortune but her own person
to recommend her ; and the duke of Burgundy
declined the match, and would not take her to
wife upon such conditions ; but the king of France,
understanding what the nature of the fault had
been which had lost her the love of her father,
that it was only a tardiness of speech, and the not
being able to frame her tongue to flattery like her
sisters, took this young maid by the hand, and
saying that her virtues were a dowry above a
kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her
sisters and of her father, though he had been un-
kind, and she should go with him, and be queen
of him and of fair France, and reign over fairer
possessions than her sisters: and he called the
duke of Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke,
because his love for this young maid had in a mo-
ment run all away like water.
Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of
her sisters, and besought them to love their father
well, and make good their professions: and they
sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for they
IO
I46 Caleg from $5bakópeate
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
1I].
Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish
dispositions of her sisters began to show them-
selves in their true colours. Even before the ex-
piration of the first month, which Lear was to
spend by agreement with his eldest daughter
Goneril, the old king began to find out the differ-
ence 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 private instructions, her very servants
affected to treat him with neglect, and would either
refuse to obey his orders, or still more contemptu-
ously pretend not to hear them. Lear could not
TRíng Leat I47
but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his
daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long
as he could, as people commonly are unwilling to
believe the unpleasant consequences which their
own mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon
them. -
True love and fidelity are no more to be es-
tranged by ill, than falsehood and hollow-hearted-
ness can be conciliated by good, usage. This
eminently appears in the instance of the good earl
of Kent, who, though banished by Lear, and his,
life made forfeit if he were found in Britain, chose
to stay and abide all consequences, as long as
there was a chance of his being useful to the king
his master. See to what mean shifts and disguises
poor loyalty is forced to submit sometimes; yet it
counts nothing base or unworthy, so as it can but
do service where it owes an obligation . In the
disguise of a serving man, all his greatness and
pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered his
services to the king, who, not knowing him to be
Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a certain
plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers, which
the earl put on (so different from that smooth oily
flattery which he had so much reason to be sick
of, having found the effects not answerable in his
daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, and Lear
took Kent into his service by the name of Caius,
as he called himself, never suspecting him to be
his once great favourite, the high and mighty earl
of Kent.
This Caius quickly found means to show his
fidelity and love to his royal master; for Goneril's
I48 - Caleg from 5bakøpeate
steward that same day behaving in a disrespectful
manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and
language, as no doubt he was secretly encouraged
to do by his mistress, Caius, not enduring to hear
so open an affront put upon his majesty, made no
more ado but presently tripped up his heels, and
laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel; for which
friendly service Lear became more and more at-
tached to him. *
Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his
degree, and as far as so insignificant a personage
could show his love, the poor fool, or jester, that
had been of his palace while Lear had a palace,
as it was the custom of kings and great personages
at that time to keep a fool (as he was called) to
make them sport after serious business: this poor
fool clung to Lear after he had given away his
crown, and by his witty sayings would keep up his
good humour, though he could not refrain some-
times from jeering at his master for his imprudence
in uncrowning himself, and giving all away to his
daughters; at which time, as he rhymingly ex-
pressed it, these daughters
For sudden joy did weep
And he for sorrow sung,
That such a king should play bo-peep,
And go the fools among. g
And in such wild sayings, and Scraps of Songs,
of which he had plenty, this pleasant honest foo}
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
* fing Leat I49
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 (mean-
ing that Lear's daughters, that ought to go behind,
now ranked before their father); and that Lear was
no longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear : for which
free speeches he was once or twice threatened to be
whipped.
The coolness and falling off of respect which
Lear had begun to perceive, were not all which
this foolish fond father was to suffer from his
unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that
his staying in her palace was inconvenient so long
as he insisted upon keeping up an establishment of
a hundred knights; that this establishment was use-
less and expensive, and only served to fill her court
with riot and feasting ; and she prayed him that he
would lessen their number, and keep none but
old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his
age.
Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears,
nor that it was his daughter who spoke so unkindly.
He could not believe that she who had received a
crown from him could seek to cut off his train, and
grudge him the respect due to his old age. But she
persisting in her undutiful demand, the old man’s
rage was so excited, that he called her a detested
kite, and said that she spoke an untruth ; and so in-
deed she did, for the hundred knights were all men
of choice behaviour and sobriety of manners, skilled
in all particulars of duty, and not given to rioting
or feasting, as she said. And he bid his horses to
150 Caleg from 5bahgpeate
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 con-
tempt 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, begin-
ning 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 follow-
ers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter.
And Lear thought to himself how small the fault
of Cordelia (if it was a fault) now appeared, in
comparison with her sister's, and he wept ; and then
he was ashamed that such a creature as Goneril
should have so much power over his manhood as to
make him weep.
Regan and her husband were keeping their court
in great pomp and state at their palace ; and Lear
despatched his servant Caius with letters to his
daughter, that she might be prepared for his recep-
tion, while he and his train followed after. But it
seems that Gonerik had been beforehand with him,
sending letters also to Regan, accusing her father
of waywardness and ill humours, and advising her
not to receive so great a train as he was bringing
with him. This messenger arrived at the same time
TRing ILeat I5I
with Caius, and Caius and he met : and who should
it be but Caius's old enemy the steward, whom he
had formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy
behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the fellow's
look, and Suspecting what he came for, began to re-
vile him, and challenged him to fight, which the
fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest passion,
beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and
carrier of wicked messages deserved ; which coming
to the ears of Regan and her husband, they ordered
Caius to be put in the stocks, though he was a
messenger from the king her father, and in that
character demanded the highest respect : So that
the first thing the king saw when he entered the
castle, was his faithful servant Caius sitting in that
disgraceful situation. -
This was but a bad omen of the reception which
he was to expect; but a worse followed, when, upon
inquiry for his daughter and her husband, he was
told they were weary with travelling all night, and
could not see him ; and when lastly, upon his in-
sisting in a positive and angry manner to see them,
they came to greet him, whom should he see in
their company but the hated Goneril, who had come
to tell her own story, and set her sister against the
king her father
This sight much moved the old man, and still
more to see Regan take her by the hand ; and he
asked Goneril if she was not ashamed to look upon
his old white beard. And Regan advised him to
go home again with Goneril, and live with her
peaceably, dismissing half of his attendants, and to
ask her forgiveness ; for he was old and wanted dis-
l
I52 Caleg from 5bakepeate
cretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that
had more discretion than himself. And Lear
showed how preposterous that would sound, if he
were to go down on his knees, and beg of his own
daughter for food and raiment, and he argued
against such an unnatural dependence, declaring his
resolution never to return with her, but to stay
where he was with Regan, he and his hundred
knights; for he said that she had not forgot the
half of the kingdom which he had endowed her
with, and that her eyes were not fierce like Goneril’s,
but mild and kind. And he said that rather than
return to Goneril, with half his train cut off, he
would go over to France, and beg a wretched pen-
sion of the king there, who had married his young-
est daughter without a portion.
But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treat-
ment of Regan than he had experienced from her
sister Goneril. As if willing to outdo her sister in
unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought
fifty knights too many to wait upon him : that five-
and-twenty were enough. Then Lear, nigh heart-
broken, turned to Goneril, and said that he would
go back with her, for her fifty doubled five-and-
twenty, and so her love was twice as much as Regan's.
But Goneril excused herself, and said, what need
of so many as five-and-twenty P or even ten ? or
five P when he might be waited upon by her ser-
vants, or her sister's servants P 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
TRing ILeat I53
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 com-
manding millions to be without one attendant ; and
it was the ingratitude in his daughters’ denying it,
more than what he would suffer by the want of it,
which pierced this poor king to the heart ; inso-
much, that with this double ill-usage, and vexation
for having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his
wits began to be unsettled, and while he said he
knew not what, he vowed revenge against those un-
natural hags, and to make examples of them that
should be a terror to the earth !
While he was thus idly threatening what his weak
arm could never execute, night came on, and a loud
storm of thunder and lightning with rain ; and his
daughters still persisting in their resolution not to
admit his followers, he called for his horses, and
chose rather to encounter the utmost fury of the
storm abroad, than stay under the same roof with
these ungrateful daughters: and they, saying that
the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves
are their just punishment, suffered him to go in
that condition and shut their doors upon him. '
The winds were high, and the rain and storm in-
creased, when the old man sallied forth to combat
with the elements, 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,
I54 Caleg from $bakópeate
º
or swell the waves of the sea till they drowned the
Searth, that no token might remain of any such un-
grateful animal as man. The old king was now left
with no other companion than the poor fool, who
still abided with him, with his merry conceits striv-
ing to outjest misfortune, saying it was but a naughty
night to swim in, and truly the king had better go
in and ask his daughter's blessing:—
But he that has a little tiny wit,
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day:
and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's
pride.
Thus poorly accompanied, this once great mon-
arch 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 P 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 deli-
cate; but the tempest in his mind did take all feel-
ing else from his senses, but of that which beat at
his heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and
said it was all one as if the mouth should tear the
hand for lifting food to it; for parents were hands
and food and everything to children. *
‘ſking Leat I55
But the good Caius still persisting in his entrea-
ties that the king would not stay out in the open
air, at last persuaded him to enter a little wretched
hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool
first entering, Suddenly ran back terrified, saying
that he had seen a spirit. But upon examination
this spirit proved to be nothing more than a poor
Bedlam beggar, who had crept into this deserted
hovel for shelter, and with his talk about devils
frighted the fool, one of those poor lunatics who
are either mad, or feign to be so, the better to ex-
tort charity from the compassionate country people,
who go about the country, calling themselves poor
Tom and poor Turlygood, saying, “Who gives
anything to poor Tom P’’ 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 giv-
ing them alms. This poor fellow was such a one ;
and the king seeing him in so wretched a plight,
with nothing but a blanket about his loins to cover
his nakedness, could not be persuaded but
that the fellow was some father who had given
all away to his daughters, and brought himself
to that pass : for nothing he thought could bring
a man to such wretchedness but the having unkind
daughters.
And from this and many such wild speeches
which he uttered, the good Caius plainly perceived
that he was not in his perfect mind, but that his
daughters' ill usage had really made him go mad.
And now the loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent
I56 Caleg from 5bakópeate
showed itself in more essential services than he had
hitherto found opportunity to perform. For with
the assistance of some of the king's attendants who
remained loyal, he had the person of his royal
master removed at day-break to the castle of Dover,
where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent,
chiefly lay ; and himself embarking for France,
hastened to the court of Cordelia, and did there in
such moving terms represent the pitiful condition
of her royal father, and set out in such lively
colours the inhumanity of her sisters, that this good
and loving child with many tears besought the king
her husband that he would give her leave to embark
for England, with a sufficient power to subdue these
cruel daughters and their husbands, and restore the
old king her father to his throne ; which, being
granted, she set forth, and with a royal army landed
at Dover.
Lear having by some chance escaped from the
guardians which the good earl of Kent had put over
him to take care of him in his lunacy, was found
by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the
fields near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad,
and singing aloud to himself, with a crown upon
his head which he had made of straw, and nettles,
and other wild weeds that he had picked up in the
corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, Cor-
delia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her father,
was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till by
sleep and the operation of herbs which they gave
him, he should be restored to greater composure.
By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whom
Cordelia promised all her gold and jewels for the
TRing ILeat I57
recovery of the old king, Lear was soon in a con-
dition to see his daughter.
A tender sight it was to see the meeting between
this father and daughter; to see the struggles be-
tween the joy of this poor old king at beholding
again his once darling child, and the shame at
receiving such filial kindness from her whom he
had cast off for so small a fault in his displeasure ;
both these passions struggling with the remains of
his malady, which in his half-crazed brain some-
times 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 he said that she must forget and forgive, for
he was old and foolish, and did not know what he
did ; but that to be sure she had great cause not
to love him, but her sisters had none. And Cor-
I58 Caleg from 5bakópeate
delia said that she had no cause, no more than
they had.
So we will leave this old king in the protection
of this dutiful and loving child, where, by the help
of sleep and medicine, she and her physicians at
length succeeded in winding up the untuned and
jarring senses which the cruelty of his other
daughters had so violently shaken. Let us return
to say a word or two about those cruel daughters.
These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so
false to their old father, could not be expected to
prove more faithful to their own husbands. They
soon grew tired of paying even the appearance of
duty and affection, and in an open way showed
they had fixed their loves upon another. It hap-
pened that the object of their guilty loves was the
same. It was Edmund, a natural son of the late
earl of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had
succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the
lawful heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked
practices was now earl himself; a wicked man, and
a fit object for the love of such wicked creatures
as Goneril and Regan. It falling out about this
time that the duke of Cornwall, Regan's husband,
died, Regan immediately declared her intention of
wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rousing the
jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan
this wicked earl had at Sundry times professed
love, Goneril found means to make away with her
sister by poison ; but being detected in her prac-
tices, and imprisoned by her husband, the duke of
Albany, for this deed, and for her guilty passion for
the earl which had come to his ears, she, in a fit
TRing Leat I59
of disappointed love and rage, shortly put an end
to her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at
last overtook these wicked daughters.
While the eyes of all men were upon this event,
admiring the justice displayed in their deserved
deaths, the same eyes were suddenly taken off from
this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the
same power in the melancholy fate of the young
and virtuous daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose
good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate
conclusion : but it is an awful truth, that innocence
and piety are not always successful in this world.
The forces which Goneril and Regan had sent out
under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester
were victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of
this wicked earl, who did not like that any should
stand between him and the throne, ended her life
in prison. Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady
to itself in her young years, after showing her to
the world an illustrious example of filial duty.
Lear did not long survive this kind child.
Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had
still attended his old master's steps from the first
of his daughters' ill usage to this sad period of his
decay, tried to make him understand that it was
he who had followed him under the name of Caius;
but Lear’s care-crazed brain at that time could not
comprehend how that could be, or how Kent and
Caius could be the same person : so Kent thought
it needless to trouble him with explanations at such
a time; and Lear soon after expiring, this faithful
servant to the king, between age and grief for his old
master's vexations, soon followed him to the grave.
I6o Gates trom 5bakepeate
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 encouraged his lady in
her wicked proceedings against her father, ascended
the throne of Britain after the death of Lear, is
needless here to narrate ; Lear and his Three
Daughters being dead, whose adventures alone
concern our story.
MACBETH.
HEN Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scot-
land, there lived a great thane, or lord,
called Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near kinsman
to the king, and in great esteem at court for his valour
and conduct in the wars; an example of which he
had lately given, in defeating a rebel army assisted
by the troops of Norway in terrible numbers.
The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo,
returning victorious from this great battle, their way
lay over a blasted heath, where they were stopped
by the strange appearance of three figures like
women, except that they had beards, and their
withered skins and wild attire made them look not
like any earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed
them, when they, seemingly offended, laid each one
her choppy finger upon her skinny lips, in token of
silence; and the first of them saluted Macbeth with
the title of thane of Glamis. The general was not
a little startled to find himself known by such
creatures ; but how much more, when the second
of them followed up that salute by giving him the
title of thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had
no pretensions ; and again the third bid him “All
hail I king that shalt be hereafter l’” Such a pro-
II (161)
I62 Caleø from 5bakgpeate
phetic greeting might well amaze him, who knew
that while the king's sons lived he could not hope
to succeed to the throne. Then turning to Banquo,
they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms,
to be ſesser than Macbeth and greater / not so happy,
Zuz much happier / and prophesied that though he
should never reign, yet his sons after him should
be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air,
and vanished : by which the generals knew them
to be the weird sisters, or witches.
While they stood pondering on the strangeness
of this adventure, there arrived certain messengers
from the king, who were empowered by him to
confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of
Cawdor : an event so miraculously corresponding
with the prediction of the witches astonished Mac-
beth, and he stood wrapped in amazement, unable
to make reply to the messengers; and in that point
of time swelling hopes arose in his mind that the
prediction of the third witch might in like manner
have its accomplishment, and that he should one
day reign king in Scotland.
Turning to Banquo, he said, “Do you not hope
that your children shall be kings, when what the
witches 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
Macbeth I63
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 honour Macbeth for the
triumphal success of his wars.
The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated,
and the air about it was sweet and wholesome,
which appeared by the nests which the martlet, or
swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and
buttresses of the building, wherever it found a place
of advantage; for where those birds most breed and
haunt, the air is observed to be delicate. The king
entered well-pleased with the place, and not less so
with the attentions and respect of his honoured
hostess, lady Macbeth, who had the art of covering
treacherous purposes with smiles; and could look
like the innocent flower, while she was indeed the
serpent under it. -
The king being tired with his journey, went early
I64 Caleg from $bakgpeate
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 dia-
mond to lady Macbeth, greeting her by the name
of his most kind hostess.
Now was the middle of night, when over half the
world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
men’s minds asleep, and none but the wolf and the
murderer is abroad. This was the time when lady
Macbeth waked to plot the murder of the king.
She would not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent
to her sex, but that she feared her husband's nature,
that it was too full of the milk of human kindness,
to do a contrived murder. She knew him to be am-
bitious, but withal to be scrupulous, and not yet pre-
pared for that height of crime which commonly in
the end accompanies inordinate ambition. She had
won him to consent to the murder, but she doubted
his resolution ; and she feared that the natural ten-
derness of his disposition (more humane than her
own) would come between, and defeat the purpose.
So with her own hands armed with a dagger, she
approached the king's bed ; having taken care to
ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, that
they slept intoxicated, and careless of their charge.
There lay Duncan in a sound sleep after the fatigues
of his journey, and as she viewed him earnestly,
there was something in his face, as he slept, which
resembled her own father ; and she had not the
courage to proceed.
She returned to confer with her husband. His
i
fiºacbeth I65
\
resolution had begun to stagger. He considered
that there were strong reasons against the deed. In
the first place, he was not only a subject, but a near
kinsman to the king ; and he had been his host and
entertainer that day, whose duty, by the laws of
hospitality, it was to shut the door against his mur-
derers, not bear the knife himself. Then he con-
sidered how just and merciful a king this Duncan
had been, how clear of offence to his subjects, how
loving to his nobility, and in particular to him ;
that such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, and
their subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths.
Besides, by the favours of the king, Macbeth stood
high in the opinion of all sorts of men, and how
would those honours be stained by the reputation
of so foul a murder
In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found
her husband inclining to the better part, and resolv-
ing to proceed no further. But she being a woman
not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to
pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of
her own spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon
reason why he should not shrink from what he had
undertaken ; how easy the deed was ; how soon it
would be over ; and how the action of one short
night would give to all their nights and days to
come 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
I66 Caleg from 5bakgpeate
out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn
to perform that murder. Then she added, how
practicable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon
the drunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour
of her tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolu-
tions, that he once more summoned up courage to
the bloody business.
So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole
in the dark to the room where Duncan lay ; and
as he went, he thought he saw another dagger in
the air, with the handle towards him, and on the
blade and at the point of it drops of blood ; but
when he tried to grasp at it, it was nothing but air,
a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot
and oppressed brain and the business he had in
hand.
Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's
room, whom he despatched with one stroke of his
dagger. Just as he had done the murder, one of
the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in
his sleep, and the other cried “Murder,” which
woke them both ; but they said a short prayer; one
of them said, “God bless us !” and the other an-
swered “Amen ; ’’ and addressed themselves to
sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them,
tried to say, “Amen,” when the fellow said, “God
bless us !” but, though he had most need of a bless-
ing, the word stuck in his throat, and he could not
pronounce it.
Again he thought he heard a voice which cried,
“Sleep no more : Macbeth doth murder sleep, the
innocent sleep, that nourishes life.” Still it cried,
“Sleep no more,” to all the house. “ Glamis hath
MSacbeth 167
murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep
no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more.”
With such horrible imaginations Macbeth re-
turned 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 firm-
ness, 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 pro-
duced against them and their faces smeared with
blood) were sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspi-
cion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such
a deed were so much more forcible than such poor
silly grooms could be supposed to have ; and 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,
having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next
heir was crowned king, and thus the prediction of
the weird sisters was literally accomplished.
Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen
could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters,
that, though Macbeth should be king, yet not his
children, but the children of Banquo should be
kings after him. The thought of this, and that
they had defiled their hands with blood, and done
I68 Caleg from $bakópeate
so great crimes, only to place the posterity of
Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them,
that they determined to put to death both Banquo
and his son, to make void the predictions of the
weird sisters, which in their own case had been so
remarkably brought to pass.
For this purpose they made a great supper, to
which they invited all the chief thanes; and, among
the rest, with marks of particular respect, Banquo
and his son Fleance were invited. The way by
which Banquo was to pass to the palace at night was
beset by murderers appointed by Macbeth, who
stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleance escaped.
From that Fleance descended a race of monarchs
who afterwards filled the Scottish throne, ending
with James the Sixth of Scotland and the First of
England, under whom the two crowns of England
and Scotland were united.
At supper, the queen, whose manners were in
the highest degree affable and royal, played the
hostess with a gracefulness and attention which
conciliated every one present, and Macbeth dis-
coursed freely with his thanes and nobles, saying,
that all that was honourable in the country was
under his roof, if he had but his good friend
Banquo present, whom yet he hoped he should
rather have to chide for neglect, than to lament
for any mischance. Just at these words the ghost
of Banquo, whom he had caused to be murdered,
entered the room and placed himself on the chair
which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though
Macbeth was a bold man, and one that could have
faced the devil without trembling, at this horrible
(Macbeth I69
sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he
stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the
ghost. His queen and all the nobles, who saw
nothing, but perceived him gazing (as they thought)
upon an empty chair, took it for a fit of distrac-
tion; and she reproached him, whispering that it
was but the same fancy which made him see the
dagger in the air, when he was about to kill Duncan.
But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and gave
no heed to all they could say, while he addressed
it with distracted words, yet so significant, that his
queen, fearing the dreadful secret would be dis-
closed, in great haste dismissed the guests, excus-
ing the infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was
often troubled with.
To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject.
His queen and he had their sleeps afflicted with
terrible dreams, and the blood of Banquo troubled
them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom
now they looked upon as father to a line of kings
who should keep their posterity out of the throne.
With these miserable thoughts they found no
peace, and Macbeth determined once more to seek
out the weird sisters, and know from them the
WOrSt.
He sought them in a cave upon the heath,
where they, who knew by foresight of his coming,
were engaged in preparing their dreadful charms,
by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal
to them futurity. Their horrid ingredients were
toads, bats, and serpents, the eye of a newt, and
the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the
wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the
I7o Caleg from ābakepeate
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
cauldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was
cooled with a baboon’s blood : to these they poured
in the blood of a sow that had eaten her young,
and they threw into the flame the grease that had
sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By these
charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer
their questions.
It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would
have his doubts resolved by them, or by their mas-
ters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the
dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered,
“Where are they P let me see them.” And they
called the spirits, which were three. And the first
arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he
called Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of
the thane of Fife ; for which caution Macbeth
thanked him ; for Macbeth had entertained a
jealousy of Macduff, the thane of Fife.
And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a
bloody child, and he called Macbeth by name,
and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn the
power of man, for none of woman born should
have power to hurt him ; and he advised him to
be bloody, bold, and resolute. “Then live,
Macduff, ” cried the king; “what need I fear of
thee? but yet I will make assurance doubly sure.
(IMacbeth 17I
Thou shalt not live; that I may tell pale-hearted
|Fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder.”
That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the
form of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand.
He called Macbeth by name, and comforted him
against conspiracies, saying, that he should never
be vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to
Dunsinane Hill should come against him. “Sweet
bodenients good ” cried Macbeth ; “who can
unfix the forest, and move it from its earth-bound
roots P I see I shall live the usual period of man’s
life, and not be cut off by a violent death. But
my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if
your art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue shall
ever reign in this kingdom P” Here the cauldron
sank into the ground, and a noise of music was
heard, and eight shadows, like kings, passed by
Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a glass which
showed the figures of many more, and Banquo
all bloody smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to
them ; by which Macbeth knew that these were
the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after
him in Scotland ; and the witches, with a sound
of soft music, and with dancing, making a show
of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And
from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all
bloody and dreadful.
The first thing he heard when he got out of
the witches' cave, was that Macduff, thane of Fife,
had fled to England, to join the army which was
forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest
son of the late king, with intent to displace
Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right heir, upon
I72 Caleg from $5bakópeate
the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon
the castle of Macduff, and put his wife and
children, whom the thane had left behind, to the
sword, and extended the slaughter to all who
, claimed the least relationship to Macduff.
These and such-like deeds alienated the minds
of all his chief nobility from him. Such as could,
fled to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were
now approaching with a powerful army, which they
had raised in England; and the rest secretly
wished success to their arms, though for fear of
Macbeth they could take no active part. His
recruits went on slowly. Everybody hated the
tyrant; nobody loved or honoured him ; but all
suspected him, and he began to envy the condition
of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who slept
soundly in his grave, against whom treason had
done its worst : steel nor poison, domestic malice
nor foreign levies, could hurt him any longer.
While these things were acting, the queen, who
had been the sole partner in his wickedness, in
whose bosom he could sometimes seek a moment-
ary repose from those terrible dreams which
afflicted them both nightly, died, it is supposed, by
her own hands, unable to bear the remorse of guilt,
and public hate ; by which event he was left alone,
without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend
to whom he could confide his wicked purposes.
He grew careless of life, and wished for death;
but the near approach of Malcolm's army roused
in him what remained of his ancient courage, and
he determined to die (as he expressed it), “with
armour on his back.” Besides this, the hollow
(Sacbeth I73
promises of the witches had filled him with a false
confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the
spirits, that none of woman born was to hurt him,
and that he was never to be vanquished till Birnam
wood should come to Dunsinane, which he thought
could never be. So he shut himself up in his
castle, whose impregnable strength was such as
defied a siege : here he sullenly waited the
approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there
came a messenger to him, pale and shaking with
fear, almost unable to report that which he had
seen ; for he averred, that as he stood upon his
watch on the hill, he looked towards Birnam, and
to his thinking the wood began to move | “Liar
and slave l’’ 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 besiegers, who had now
come up to the castle. A
The strange appearance, which had given the
messenger an idea of a wood moving is easily
solved. When the besieging army marched
through the wood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a
skilful general, instructed his soldiers to hew down
I74 Caleg from $5bakópeate
every one a bough and bear it before him, by way
of concealing the true numbers of his host. This
marching of the soldiers with boughs had at a
distance the appearance which had frightened the
messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit
brought to pass, in a sense different from that in
which Macbeth had understood them, and one
great hold of his confidence was gone.
And now a severe skirmishing took place, in
which Macbeth, though feebly supported by those
who called themselves his friends, but in reality
hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Mal-
colm and Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of
rage and valour, cutting to pieces all who were
opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff
was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering
the caution of the spirit who had counselled him
to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have
turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him
through the whole fight, opposed his turning, and
a fierce contest ensued ; Macduff giving him many
foul reproaches for the murder of his wife and
children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged enough
with blood of that family already, would still have
declined the combat ; but Macduff still urged him
to it, calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and
villain.
Then Macbeth remembering the words of the
spirit, how none of woman born should hurt him ;
and smiling confidently he said to Macduff, “Thou
losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayest
impress the air with thy sword, as make me vulner-
able. I bear a charmed life, which must not yield
to one of woman born.”
(ISacbeth I75
“Despair thy charm,” said Macduff, “ and let
that lying spirit whom thou hast served, tell thee,
that Macduff was never born of woman, never as
the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was
untimely taken from his mother.”
“Accursed be the tongue which tells me so,”
said the trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold
of confidence give way; “ and let never man in
future believe the lying equivocations of witches
and juggling spirits, who deceive us in words which
have double senses, and while they keep their
promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a
different meaning. I will not fight with thee.”
“Then live l’” 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 l’”
“Never,” said Macbeth, whose courage returned
with despair; “I will not live to kiss the ground
before young Malcolm's feet, and to be baited with
the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam wood
be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me,
who wast never born of woman, yet will I try
the last.” With these frantic words he threw him-
self upon Macduff, who, after a severe struggle, in
the end overcame him, and cutting off his head,
made a present of it to the young and lawful king,
Malcolm ; who took upon him the government
which, by the machinations of the usurper, he had
so long been deprived of, and ascended the throne
of Duncan the Meek, amid the acclamations of the
nobles and the people.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,
ERTRAM, count of Rousillon, had newly come
to his title and estate, by the death of his
father. The king of France loved the father of
Bertram, and when he heard of his death, he sent
for his son to come immediately to his royal court
in Paris, intending, for the friendship he bore the
late count, to grace young Bertram with his especial
favour and protection.
Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed
countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of the French
court, came to conduct him to the king. The
king of France was an absolute monarch, and the
invitation to court was in the form of a royal
mandate, or positive command, which no subject,
of what high dignity soever, might disobey; there-
fore though the countess, in parting with this dear
son, seemed a second time to bury her husband,
whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet she
dared not to keep him a single day, but gave in-
stant orders for his departure. Lafeu, who came
to fetch him, tried to comfort the countess for the
loss of her late lord, and her son's sudden absence ;
and he said, in a courtier's flattering manner, that
the king was so kind a prince, she would find in
(176)
Fill’9 U(leſſ that Enog (OleII 177
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 attend-
ance upon her) were living, for that she doubted
not he could have cured his majesty of his disease.
And she told Lafeu something of the history of
Helena, saying she was the only daughter of the
famous physician Gerard de Narbon, and that he
had recommended his daughter to her care when
he was dying, so that since his death she had taken.
Helena under her protection ; then the countess
praised the virtuous disposition and excellent
qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these
virtues from her worthy father. While she was
speaking, Helena wept in Sad and mournful silence,
which made the countess gently reprove her for
too much grieving for her father's death.
Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The
countess parted with this dear son with tears and
many blessings, and commended him to the care of
Lafeu, Saying, “Good, my lord, advise him, for he
is an unseasoned courtier.’’
Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but
they were words of mere civility, wishing her hap-
piness ; and he concluded his short farewell to her
with saying, “Be comfortable to my mother, your
mistress, and make much of her.’’
*
I2
178 Caleg from 5bakøpeate
Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she
wept in Sad and mournful silence, the tears she
shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena
loved her father, but in the present feeling of a
deeper love, the object of which she was about to
lose, she had forgotten the very form and features
of her dead father, her imagination presenting no
image to her mind but Bertram's.
Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always
remembered that he was the court of Rousillon,
descended from the most ancient family in France.
She of humble birth. Her parénts of no note at
all. His ancestors all noble. And therefore she
looked up to the high-born Bertram as to her
master and to her dear lord, and dared not form
any wish but to live his servant, and so living to
die his vassal. So great the distance seemed to
her between his height of dignity and her lowly
fortunes, that she would say, “It were all one that
I should love a bright particular star, and think to
wed it, Bertram is so far above me.”
Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears and
her heart with sorrow ; for though she loved with-
out hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see
him every hour, and Helena would sit and look
upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls
of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his portrait
on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of
retaining the memory of every line in the features
of that loved face.
Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no
other portion than some prescriptions of rare and
well-proved virtue, which by deep study and long
£ill's Uleil that Enos Uleil I79
experience in medicine he had collected as sov-
ereign and almost infallible remedies. Among
the rest, there was one set down as an approved
medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said
the king at that time languished : and when
Helena heard of the king's complaint, she, who till
now had been so humole and so hopeless, formed
an ambitious project in her mind to go herself to
Paris, and undertake the cure of the king. But
though Helena was the possessor of this choice
prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as
his physicians was 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 suc-
ceeding, if she might be permitted to make the
trial, seemed more than even her father's skill war-
ranted, though he was the most famous physician of
his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good
medicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in
heaven to be the legacy that should advance her
fortune, even to the high dignity of being count
Rousillon's wife.
Bertram had not been long gone, when the
countess was informed by her steward, that he had
overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he
understood from some words she uttered, she was
in love with Bertram, and thought of following him
to Paris. The countess dismissed the steward
with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she
wished to speak with her. What she had just heard
of Helena brought the remembrance of days long
past into the mind of the countess; those days
I8O Cale3 ftom ºbakópeate
probably when her love for Bertram's father first
began ; and she said to herself, “Even so it was
with me when I was young. Love is a thorn that
belongs to the rose of youth ; for in the season of
youth, if ever we are nature's children, these faults
are ours, though then we think not they are faults.”
While the countess was thus meditating on the
loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered,
and she said to her, “Helena, you know I am a
mother to you.” Helena replied, “You are my
honourable mistress.” “You are my daughter,”
said the countess again : “I say I am your mother.
Why do you start and look pale at my words?”
With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fear-
ing the countess suspected her love, Helena still
replied, “Pardon me, madam, you are not my
mother; the count Rousillon cannot be my brother,
nor I your daughter.” “Yet, Helena,” said the
countess, “you might be my daughter-in-law ; and
I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the words
mother and daughter so disturb you. Helena, do
you love my son P’’ ‘‘Good madam, pardon me,”
said the affrighted Helena. Again the countess
repeated her question, “Do you love my son P’’
“Do not you love him, madam?” said Helena. The
countess replied, “Give me not this evasive answer,
Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your
affections, for your love has to the full appeared.”
Helena on her knees now owned her love, and
with shame and terror implored the pardon of her
noble mistress; and with words expressive of the
sense she had of the inequality between their for-
tunes, she protested Bertram did not know she
fºLI’g (Clell that Enö3 UClell I8I
loved him, comparing her humble unaspiring love
to a poor Indian, who adores the Sun that looks
upon his worshipper, but knows of him no more.
The countess asked Helena if she had not lately
an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the
design she had formed in her mind, when she
heard Lafeu speak of the king's illness. “This
was your motive for wishing to go to Paris,” said
the countess, “was it? Speak truly.” Helena
honestly answered, “My lord your son made me
to think of this ; else Paris, and the medicine, and
the king, had from the conversation of my thoughts
been absent then.” The countess heard the whole
of this 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 made at that awful hour in regard to this
young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the
king himself, seemed to depend on the execution
of a project (which though conceived by the fond
suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the count-
ess knew not but it might be the unseen workings
of Providence to bring to pass the recovery of the
king, and to lay the foundation of the future for-
tunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free leave
she gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and
generously furnished her with ample means and
suitable attendants; and Helena set out for Paris
182 Caleg ftom 5bakópeate
with the blessings of the countess, and her kindest
wishes for her success. g
Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance
of her friend the old lord Lafeu, she obtained an
audience of the king. She had still many difficulties
to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed
on to try the medicine offered him by this fair young
doctor. But she told him she was Gerard de Nar-
bon's daughter (with whose fame the king was well
acquainted), and she offered the precious medicine
as the darling treasure which contained the essence
of all her father's long experience and skill, and she
boldly engaged to forfeit her life, if it failed to
restore his majesty to perfect health in the space
of two days. The king at length consented to try
it, and in two days' time Helena was to lose her
life if the king did not recover; but if she suc-
ceeded, he promised to give her the choice of any
man throughout all France (the princes only ex-
cepted) whom she could like for a husband ; the
choice of a husband being the fee Helena demanded
if she cured the king of his disease.
Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she
conceived of the efficacy of her father's medi-
cine. Before two days were at an end, the king
was restored to perfect health, and he assembled
all the young noblemen of his court together, in
order to confer the promised reward of a husband
upon his fair physician ; and he desired Helena to
look round on this youthful parcel of noble bache-
lors, and choose her husband. Helena was not
slow to make her choice, for among these young
lords she saw the count Rousillon, and turning to
jºl (I’6 (leſſ that IE1103 (Gleſſ I83
sº
Bertram, she said, “This is the man. I dare not
say, my lord, I take you, but I give me and my
service ever whilst I live into your guiding power.’’
“Why, then,” said the king, “young Bertram, take
her ; she is your wife.” Bertram did not hesitate
to declare his dislike to this present of the king's
of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor
physician's daughter, bred at his father's charge,
and now living a dependent on his mother's bounty.
Helena heard him speak these words of rejection
and of scorn, and she said to the king, “That you
are well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go.”
But the king would not suffer his royal command
to be so slighted; for the power of bestowing their
nobles in marriage was one of the many privileges
of the kings of France ; and that same day Bertram
was married to Helena, a forced and uneasy mar-
riage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the
poor lady, who, though she gained the noble hus-
band she had hazarded her life to obtain, seemed
to have won but a splendid blank, her husband’s
love not being a gift in the power of the king of
France to bestow.
Helena was no sooner married, than she was de-
sired by Bertram to apply to the king for him for
leave of absence from court; and when she brought
him the king’s permission for his departure, Bertram
told her that he was not prepared for this sudden
marriage, it had much unsettled him, and therefore
she must not wonder at the course he should pursue.
If Helena wondered not, she grieved when she
found it was his intention to leave her. He ordered
her to go home to his mother. When Helena
I84 Caleg from 5bak3peate
heard this unkind command, she replied, “Sir, I
can nothing say to this, but that I am your most
obedient servant, and shall ever with true observ-
ance seek to eke out that desert, wherein my homely
stars have failed to equal my great fortunes.” But
this humble speech of Helena’s did not at all move
the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he
parted from her without even the common civility
of a kind farewell.
|Back to the countess then Helena returned.
She had accomplished the purport of her journey,
she had preserved the life of the king, and she had
wedded her heart's dear lord, the count Rousillon ;
but she returned back a dejected lady to her noble
mother-in-law, and as soon as she entered the house
she received a letter from Bertram which almost
broke her heart.
The good countess received her with a cordial
welcome, as if she had been her son’s own choice,
and a lady of a high degree, and she spoke kind words
to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram
in sending his wife home on her bridal day alone.
But this gracious reception failed to cheer the sad
mind of Helena, and she said, “Madam, my lord
is gone, for ever gone.” She then read these words
out of Bertram's letter: When you can get the ring
from my ſinger, which never sha// come off, then call
2ne husband, but in such a 7%en / write a Meze”.
“This is a dreadful sentence ’’ said Helena. The
countess begged her to have patience, and said,
now Bertram was gone, she should be her child,
and that she deserved a lord that twenty such rude
boys as Bertram might tend upon, and hourly call
fºLI’g (Ulell that Enö3 (Clell I85
her mistress. But in vain by respectful conde-
scension 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, Zł// / /ave no
zwife, I have nothing in Aramce. The countess asked
her if she found those words in the letter? “Yes,
madam,” was all poor Helena could answer.
The next morning Helena was missing. She
left a letter to be delivered to the countess after
she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of
her sudden absence: in this letter she informed
her, that she was so much grieved at having driven
Bertram from his native country and his home, that
to atone for her offence, she had undertaken a
pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand,
and concluded with requesting the countess to in-
form her son that the wife he so hated had left his
house for ever.
Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence,
and there became an officer in the duke of
Florence's army, and after a successful war, in
which he distinguished himself by many brave
actions, Bertram received letters from his mother,
containing the acceptable tidings that Helena
would no more disturb him ; and he was preparing
to return home, when Helena herself, clad in her
pilgrim’s weeds, arrived at the city of Florence.
Florence was a city through which the pilgrims
used to pass on their way to St. Jaques le Grand;
and when Helena arrived at this city, she heard
that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to
186 Caleg from 5bakópeate
receive into her house the female pilgrims that were
going to visit the shrine of that saint, giving them.
lodging and kind entertainment. To this good
lady, therefore, Helena went, and the widow gave
her a courteous welcome, and invited her to see
whatever was curious in that famous city, and told
her that if she would like to see the duke's army,
she would take her where she might have a full
view of it. “And you will see a countryman of
yours,” said the widow; “his name is Count
Rousillon, who has done worthy service in the
duke's wars.” Helena wanted no second invita-
tion, when she found Bertram was to make 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 P’’ said the widow. “I
like him well,” replied Helena with great truth.
All the way they walked, the talkative widow’s dis-
course was all of Bertram : she told Helena the
story of Bertram's marriage, and how he had
deserted the poor lady his wife, and entered into
the duke's army to avoid living with her. To this
account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently
listened, and when it was ended, the history of
Bertram was not yet done, for then the widow began
another tale, every word of which sank deep into
the mind of Helena ; for the story she now told
was of Bertram's love for her daughter.
Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced
on him by the king, it seems he was not insensible
to love, for since he had been stationed with the
army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana,
jº II’9 (Gleſſ that Enö3 (Uleſſ 187
a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this
widow who was Helena's hostess ; and every night,
with music of all sorts, and songs composed in praise
of Diana’s beauty, he would come under her win-
dow, and solicit her love ; and all his suit to her
was, that she would permit him to visit her by stealth
after the family were retired to rest ; but Diana
would by no means be persuaded to grant this im-
proper 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 pru-
dent mother, who, though she was now in reduced
circumstances, was well born, and descended from
the noble family of the Capulets.
All this the good lady related to Helena, highly
praising the virtuous principles of her discreet
daughter, which she said were entirely owing to
the excellent education and good, advice she had
given her; and she further said, that Bertram had
been particularly importunate with Diana to admit
him to the visit he so much desired that night, be-
cause he was going to leave Florence early the next
morning.
Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's
love for the widow’s daughter, yet from this story
the ardent mind of Helena conceived a project
(nothing discouraged at the ill success of her former
one) to recover her truant lord. She disclosed to
the widow that she was Helena, the deserted wife
of Bertram, and requested that her kind hostess
and her daughter would suffer this visit from Ber-
tram to take place, and allow her to pass herself
upon Bertram for Diana; telling them, her chief
188 + Caleg from $bakgpeate
motive for desiring to have this secret meeting with
her husband, was to get a ring from him, which he
had said, if ever she was in possession of he would
acknowledge her as his wife.
The widow and her daughter promised to assist
her in this affair, partly moved by pity for this un-
happy 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 ear-
nest of her future favour. In the course of that
day Helena caused information to be sent to Ber-
tram that she was dead ; hoping that when he
thought himself free to make a second choice by
the news of her death, he would offer marriage to
her in her feigned character of Diana. And if she
could obtain the ring and this promise too, she
doubted not she should make some future good
come of it. &
In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was ad-
mitted into Diana's chamber, and Helena was there
ready to receive him. The flattering compliments
and love discourse he addressed to Helena were
precious sounds to her, though she knew they were
meant for Diana ; and Bertram was so well pleased
with her, that he made her a solemn promise to be
her husband, and to love her for ever ; which
she hoped would be prophetic of a real affection,
when he should know it was his own wife, the 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 re-
gardless of her; and seeing her every day, he had
jäIl’3 (Clell that Enöð (OleII 189
entirely overlooked her beauty; a face we are
accustomed to see constantly, losing the effect
which is caused by the first sight either of beauty
or of plainness; and of her understanding it was
impossible he should judge, because she felt such
reverence, mixed with her love for him, that she
was always silent in his presence : but now that
her future fate, and the happy ending of all her
love-projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a
favourable impression on the mind of Bertram
from this night's interview, she exerted all her wit
to please him ; and the simple graces of her lively
conversation and the endearing sweetness of her
manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she
should be his wife. Helena begged the ring from
off his finger as a token of his regard, and he gave
it to her ; and in return for this ring, which it was
of such 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 immedi-
ately set out on his journey towards his mother's
house. •
Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to ac-
company her to Paris, their further assistance being
necessary to the full accomplishment of the plan she
had formed. When they arrived there, they found
the king was gone upon a visit to the countess of
Rousillon, and Helena followed the king with all
the speed she could make.
The king was still in perfect health, and his grati-
tude to her who had been the means of his re-
covery was so lively in his mind, that the moment
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he saw the countess of Rousillon, he began to talk of
Helena, calling her a precious jewel that was lost by
the folly of her son ; but seeing the subject distressed
the countess, who sincerely lamented the death of
Helena, he said, “My good lady, I have forgiven
and forgotten all.” But the good-natured old Lafeu,
who was present, and could not bear that the mem-
ory of his favourite Helena should be so lightly
passed over, said, “This I must say, the young lord
did great offence to his majesty, his mother, and his
lady; but to himself he did the greatest wrong of
all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty astonished
all eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose
deep perfection made all hearts wish to serve her.”
The king said, “Praising what is lost makes the
remembrance dear. Well—call him hither ;” mean-
ing Bertram, who now presented himself before the
king : and, on his expressing deep sorrow for the
injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for his
dead father's and his admirable mother's sake, par-
doned him and restored him once more to his favour.
But the gracious countenance of the king was soon
changed towards him, for he perceived that Bertram
wore the very ring upon his finger which he had
given to Helena : and he well remembered that
Helena had called all the saints in heaven to witness
she would never part with that ring, unless she sent
it to the king himself upon some great disaster be-
failing her ; and Bertram, on the king's questioning
him how he came by the ring, told an improbable
story of a lady throwing it to him out of a window,
and denied ever having seen Helena since the day of
their marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dis-
iãII’g (Clell that Emö3 UCleII I91
like to his wife, feared he had destroyed her : and
he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying, “I
am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear the life of
Helena was foully snatched.” At this moment
Diana and her mother entered, and presented a
petition to the king, wherein they begged his
majesty to exert his royal power to compel Bertram
to marry Diana, he having made her a solemn
promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's
anger, denied he had made any such promise ; and
then Diana produced the ring (which Helena had
put into her hands) to confirm the truth of her
words; and she said that she had given Bertram
the ring he then wore, in exchange for that, at the
time he vowed to marry her. On hearing this, the
king ordered the guards to seize her also ; and her
account of the ring differing from Bertram's, the
king's suspicions were 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
requested her mother might be permitted to fetch
the jeweller of whom she bought the ring, which
being granted, the widow went out, and presently
returned leading in Helena herself.
The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld
her son’s danger, and had even dreaded that the
suspicion of his having destroyed his wife might
possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom
she loved with even a maternal affection, was still
living, felt a delight she was hardly able to support ;
and the king, scarce believing for joy that it was
Helena, said, “Is this indeed the wife of Bertram
that I see ?” Helena, feeling herself yet an un-
I92 Caleg from $5bakgpeate
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 !
O pardon ’’—“O my lord,” said Helena, “when
I personated this fair maid, 'I found you wondrous
kind; and look, here is your letter ’’ reading to
him in a joyful tone those words which she had
once repeated so sorrowfully, When from my finger
you can get this ring,-‘‘This is done ; it was to
me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now you
are doubly won P” Bertram replied, “If you can
make it plain that you were the lady I talked with
that night, I will love you dearly ever, ever dearly.”
This was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana
came with Helena to prove this fact ; and the king
was so well pleased with Diana, for the friendly
assistance she had rendered the dear lady he so
truly valued for the service she had done him, that
he promised her also a noble husband : Helena's
history giving him a hint, that it was a suitable
reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when
they perform notable services.
Thus Helena at last found that her father's leg-
acy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in
heaven ; for she was now the beloved wife of her
dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mis-
tress, and herself the countess of Rousillon.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
ATHARINE, the Shrew, was the eldest
daughter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of
Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable
spirit and fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold,
that she was known in Padua by no other name
than Katharine the Shrew. It seemed very un-
likely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman would
ever be found who would venture to marry this
lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for
deferring his consent to many excellent offers that
were made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting off
all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, that when the
eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should
have free leave to address young Bianca.
It happened, however, that a gentleman, named
Petruchio, came to Padua, purposely to look out for
a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports
of Katharine's temper, and hearing she was rich
and handsome, resolved upon marrying this famous
termagant, and taming her into a meek and man-
ageable wife. And truly none was so fit to set
about this herculean labour as Petruchio, whose
spirit was as high as Katharine's, and he was a witty
and most happy-tempered humourist, and withal so
, I 3 (193)
\
194 Caleg from 5bakópeate
wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well
knew how to feign a passionate and furious deport-
ment, when his spirits were so calm that himself
could have laughed merrily at his own angry
feigning, for his natural temper was careless and
easy ; the boisterous airs he assumed when he
became the husband of Katharine being but in
Sport, or more properly speaking, affected by his
excellent discernment, as the only means to over-
Come, in her own way, the passionate ways of the
furious Katharine.
A courting then Petruchio went to Katharine
the Shrew ; and first of all he applied to Baptista,
her father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter
Katharine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly,
that having heard of her bashful modesty and mild
behaviour, he had come from Verona to solicit
her love. Her father, though he wished her mar-
ried, was forced to confess Katharine would ill
answer this character, it being soon apparent of
what manner of gentleness she was composed, for
her music-master rushed into the room to complain
that the gentle Katharine, his pupil, had broken
his head with her lute, for presuming to find fault
with her performance; which, when Petruchio
heard, he said, “It is a brave wench ; I love her
more than ever, and long to have some chat with
her ; ” and hurrying the old gentleman for a positive
answer, he said, “My business is in haste, signior
Baptista, I cannot come every day to woo. You
knew my father: he is dead, and has left me heir
to all his lands and goods. Then tell me, if I get
your daughter's love, what dowry you will give with
Caming of the 5brew 195
her.” Baptista thought his manner was somewhat
blunt for a lover; but being glad to get Katharine
married, he answered that he would give her twenty
thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his estate
at his death ; so this odd match was quickly agreed
on, and Baptista went to apprise his shrewish
daughter of her lover's addresses, and sent her in to
Petruchio to listen to his suit. + *
In the mean time Petruchio was settling with
himself the mode of courtship he should pursue ;
and he said, “I will woo her with some spirit when
she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will tell
her she sings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if
she frowns, I will say she looks as clear as roses
newly washed with dew. If she will not speak a
word, I will praise the eloquence of her language ;
and if she bids me leave her, I will give her thanks
as if she bid me stay with her a week.” Now the
stately Katharine entered, and Petruchio first
addressed her with “Good morrow, Kate, for that
is your name, I hear.” Katharine, not liking this
plain salutation, said disdainfully, “They call me
Katharine who do speak to me.” “You lie,”
replied the lover; “for you are called plain Kate,
and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew :
but, Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christen-
dom, and therefore, Kate, hearing your mildness
praised in every town, I am come to woo you for
my wife.”
A strange courtship they made of it. She in
loud and angry terms showing him how justly she
had gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised
her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hear-
196 Cales from 5bakepeate
ing her father coming, he said (intending to make
as quick a wooing as possible), “Sweet Katharine,
let us set this idle chat aside, for your father has
consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is
agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will marry
ou.’’
And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him
his daughter had received him kindly, and that she
had promised to be married the next Sunday. This
Katharine denied, saying she would rather see him
hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for
wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as
Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not to re-
gard her angry words, for they had agreed she
should seem reluctant before him, but that when
they were alone he had found her very fond and
loving ; and he said to her, “Give me your hand,
Kate ; I will go to Venice to buy you fine apparel
against our wedding day. Provide the feast, father,
and bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to
bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, that my
Katharine may be fine; and kiss me, Kate, for we
will be married on Sunday.”
On the Sunday all the wedding guests were
assembled, but they waited long before Petruchio
came, and Katharine wept for vexation to think
that Petruchio had only been making a jest of her.
At last, however, he appeared ; but he brought
none of the bridal finery he had promised
Katharine, nor was he dressed himself like a bride-
groom, but in strange disordered attire, as if he
meant to make a sport of the serious business he
came about ; and his servants and the very horses
Caming of the 5brew I97
on which they rode were in like manner in mean
and fantastic fashion habited.
Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his
dress; he said Katharine was to be married to
him, and not to his clothes; and finding it was in
vain to argue with him, to the church they went, he
still behaving in the same mad way, for when the
priest asked Petruchio if Katharine should be his
wife, he swore so loud that she should, that, all
amazed, the priest let fall his book, and as he
stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom
gave him such a cuff, that down fell the priest and
his book again. And all the while they were being
married he stamped and swore so, that the high-
spirited Katharine trembled and shook with fear.
After the ceremony was over, while they were yet
in the church, he called for wine, and drank a loud
health to the cornpany, and threw a sop which was
at the bottom of the glass full in the sexton’s face,
giving no other reason for this strange act, than that
the sexton’s beard grew thin and hungerly, and
seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never
sure was there such a mad marriage; but Petruchio
did but put this wildness on, the better to succeed
in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish
wife.
Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast,
but when they returned from church, Petruchio,
taking hold of Katharine, declared his intention of
carrying his wife home instantly ; and no remon-
strance of his father-in-law, or angry words of the
enraged Katharine, could make him change his pur-
pose. He claimed a husband's right to dispose of
l
198 Caleg from 5bakópeate
his wife as he pleased, and away he hurried Kath-
arine off: he seeming so daring and resolute that no
one dared attempt to stop him.
Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable
horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out for
the purpose, and himself and his servant no better
mounted ; they journeyed on through rough and
miry ways, and ever when this horse of Katharine's
stumbled, he would storm and swear at the poor
jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his bur-
then, as if he had been the most passionate man
alive.
At length, after a weary journey, during which
Ratharine had heard nothing but the wild ravings
of Petruchio at the servant and the horses, they
arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly
to her home, but he resolved she should have neither
rest nor food that night. The tables were spread,
and supper soon served ; but Petruchio, pretending
to find fault with every dish, threw the meat about
the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it
away ; and all this he did, as he said, in love for his
Katharine, that she might not eat meat that was not
well dressed. And when Katharine, weary and sup-
perless, 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 hus-
band, storming at the servants for the ill-making of
his wife's bridal-bed.
The next day Petruchio pursued the same course,
still speaking kind words to Katharine, but when
Caming of the 5brew I99
she attempted to eat, finding fault with everything
that was set before her, throwing the breakfast on
the floor as he had done the Supper ; and Katharine,
the haughty Katharine, was fain to beg the servants
would bring her secretly a morsel of food ; but they
being instructed by Petruchio, replied, they dared
not give her anything unknown to their master.
“Ah,” said she, “ did he marry me to famish me?
Beggars that come to my father's door have food
given them. But I, who never knew what it was to
entreat for anything, am starved for want of food,
giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and
with brawling fed ; and that which vexes me more
than all, he does it under the name of perfect love,
pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were present
death to me.” Here the soliloquy was interrupted
by the entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning she
should be quite starved, had brought her a small
portion of meat, and he said to her, “How fares my
sweet Kate P Here, love, you see how diligent I am,
I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this
kindness merits thanks. What, not a word P Nay,
then you love not the meat, and all the pains I have
taken is to no purpose.” He then ordered the ser-
vant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger,
which had abated the pride of Katharine, made her
say, though angered to the heart, “I pray you let it
stand.” But this was not all Petruchio intended to
bring her to, and he replied, “The poorest service
is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you
touch the meat.” On this Katharine brought out a
reluctant “I thank you, sir.” And now he suffered
her to make a slender meal, saying, “ Much good
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may it do your gentle heart, Kate ; eat apace And
now, my honey love, we will return to your father's
house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken
coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and
scarfs and fans and double change of finery;” and
to make her believe he really intended to give her
these gay things, he called in a tailor and a haber-
dasher, 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 P’’
. The haberdasher presented a cap, saying “Here is
the cap your worship bespoke; ” on which Petruchio
began to storm afresh, saying the cap was moulded
in a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a
cockle or walnut shell, desiring the haberdasher to
take it away and make a bigger. Katharine said,
“I will have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps
as these.”—“When you are gentle,” replied Petru-
chio, “you shall have one too, and not till then.”
The meat Katharine had eaten had a little revived
her fallen spirits, and she said, “Why, sir, I trust
I may have leave to speak, and speak I will : I am
no child, no babe ; your betters have endured to
hear me say my mind ; and if you cannot, you had
better stop your ears.” Petruchio would not hear
these angry words, for he had happily discovered a
better way of managing his wife than keeping up a
jangling argument with her; therefore his answer
was, “Why, you say true ; it is a paltry cap, and I
love you for not liking it.”—“Love me, or love me
not,” said Katharine, “I like the cap, and I will have
this cap or none.”—“You say you wish to see the
Caming of the 5brew 2OI
gown,” said Petruchio, still affecting to misunderstand
her. The tailor then came forward and showed her
a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio, whose
intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown,
found as much fault with that. “O mercy, Heaven l’’
said he, “what stuff is here ! What, do you call
this a sleeve P it is like a demi-cannon, carved up
and down like an apple tart.” The tailor said, “You
bid me make it according to the fashion of the
times ; ’’ and Katharine said, she never saw a better
fashioned gown. This was enough for Petruchio,
and privately desiring these people might be paid
for their goods, and excuses made to them for the
seemingly strange treatment he bestowed upon
them, he with fierce words and furious gestures
drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of the
room ; and then, turning to Katharine, he said,
“Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father's
even in these mean garments we now wear.” And
then he ordered his horses, affirming they should
reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that it
was but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morn-
ing, but the very middle of the day, when he spoke
this ; therefore Katharine ventured to say, though
modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence
of his manner, “I dare assure you, sir, it is two
o'clock, and will be supper-time before we get there.”
But Petruchio meant that she should be so com-
pletely subdued, that she should assent to every-
thing 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 for-
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ward; “For,” said he, “whatever I say or do, you
still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and when
I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is.” . Another
day Katharine was forced to practice her newly-
found obedience, and not till he had brought her
proud spirit to such a perfect subjection, that she
dared not remember there was such a word as con-
tradiction, would Petruchio allow her to go to her
father's house ; and even while they were upon their
journey thither, she was in danger of being turned
back again, only because she happened to hint it
was the sun, when he affirmed the moon shone
brightly at noonday. “Now, by my mother's son,”
said he, “and that is myself, it shall be the moon,
or stars, or what I list, before I journey to your
father's house.” He then made as if he were going
back again ; but Katharine, no longer Katharine
the Shrew, but the obedient wife, said, “Let us go
forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and it
shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please, and
if you please to call it a rush candle henceforth, I
vow it shall be so for me.” This he was resolved to
prove, therefore he said again, “Isay, it is the moon.’’
—“I know it is the moon,” replied Katharine.
“You lie, it is the blessed sun,” said Petruchio.
“Then it is the blessed sun,” replied Katharine;
“but the sun it is not, when you say it is not. What
you will have it named, even so it is, and so it ever
shall be for Katharine.” Now then he suffered
her to proceed on her journey; but further to try
if this yielding humour would last, he addressed an
old gentleman they met on the road as if he had
been a young woman, saying to him, “Good
Caming of the 5brew 2O3
morrow, gentle mistress; ” and asked Katharine 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 Katharine quickly
adopted her husband's opinion, and made her
speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying to
him, “Young budding virgin, you are fair, and
fresh, and sweet : whither are you going, and where
is your dwelling P Happy are the parents of so
fair a child.”—“Why, how now, Kate,” said Pet-
ruchio ; “I hope you are not mad. This is a man,
old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not a
maiden, as you say he is.” On this Katharine said,
“Pardon me, old gentleman ; the sum has so dazzled
my eyes, that everything I look on seemeth green.
Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I hope
you will pardon me for my sad mistake.”—“Do,
good old grandsire,” said Petruchio, “ and tell us
which way you are travelling. We shall be glad of
your good company, if you are going our way.”
The old gentleman replied, “Fair sir, and you, my
merry mistress, your strange encounter has much
amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and I am go-
ing to visit a son of mine who lives at Padua.”
Then pºli, knew the old gentleman to be the
father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to
be married to Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca,
and he made Vincentio very happy, by telling him
the rich marriage his son was about to make : and
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they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they
came to Baptista's house, where there was a large
company assembled to celebrate the wedding of
Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly con-
sented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got
Katharine off his hands. -
When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to
the wedding feast, and there was present also an-
other newly married pair.
Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the
other new married man, could not forbear sly jests,
which seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition
of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms
seemed highly pleased with the mild tempers of
the ladies they had chosen, laughing at Petruchio
for his less fortunate choice. Petruchio took little
notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired
after dinner, and then he perceived Baptista him-
self joined in the laugh against him : for when
Petruchio affirmed that his wife would prove more
obedient than theirs, the father of Katharine said,
“Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you
have got the veriest shrew of all.” “Well,” said
Petruchio, “I say no, and therefore for assurance
that I speak the truth, let us each one send for
his wife, and he whose wife is most obedient to
come at first when she is sent for, shall win a
wager which we will propose.” To this the other
two husbands willingly consented, for they were
quite confident that their gentle wives would prove
more obedient than the headstrong Katharine ;
and they proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but
Petruchio merrily said, he would lay as much as
Caming of the 5brew 2O5
that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as
much upon his wife. Lucentio and Hortensio
raised the wager to a hundred crowns, and Lucentio
first sent his servant to desire Bianca would come
to him. But the servant returned and said, “Sir,
my mistress sends you word she is busy and can-
not come.”—“How,” said Petruchio, “does she
say she is busy and cannot come 2 Is that an
answer for a wife?” Then they laughed at him,
and said, it would be well if Katharine did not
send him a worse answer. And now it was
Hortensio’s turn to send for his wife; and he said
to his servant, “Go, and entreat my wife to come
to me.” “Oh ho entreat her '’ said Petruchio.
“Nay, then, she needs must come.”—“I am
afraid, sir,” said Hortensio, “ your wife will not be
entreated.” But presently this civil husband
looked a little blank, when the servant returned
without his mistress; and he said to him, “How
now ! Where is my wife P”—“Sir,” said the
servant, “my mistress says you have some goodly
jest in hand, and therefore she will not come.
She bids you come to her.”—“Worse and worse ! ”
said Petruchio ; and then he sent his servant say-
ing, “Sirrah, go to your mistress, and tell her I
command her to come to me.” The company had
scarcely time to think she would not obey this
summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, exclaimed
“Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharine !”
and she entered, saying meekly to Petruchio,
“What is your will, sir, that you send for me?”—
“Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife?” said
he. Katharine replied, “They sit conferring by
2O6 Caſeg from $5bakópeate
the parlor fire.”—“Go fetch them hither l’” said
Petruchio. Away went Katharine without reply
to perform her husband's command. “Here is a
wonder,’” said Lucentio, “if you talk of a wonder.”
—“And so it is,” said Hortensio ; “I marvel
what it bodes.”—“Marry, peace it bodes,” said
Petruchio, “and love, and quiet life, and right
Supremacy ; and, to be short, everything that is
sweet and happy.” Katharine's father, overjoyed
to see this reformation in his daughter, said, “Now,
fair befall thee, son Petruchio l you have won the
wager, and I will add another twenty thousand
crowns to her dowry, as if she were another
daughter, for she has changed as if she had never
been.”—“Nay,” said Petruchio, “I will win the
wager better yet, and show more signs of her new-
built virtue and obedience.” Katharine now
entering with the two ladies, he continued, “See
where she comes and brings your froward wives
as prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katha-
rine, that cap of yours does not become you; off
with that bauble, and throw it under foot.”
Katharine instantly took off her cap, and threw it
down. “Lord l’’ said Hortensio’s wife, “may I
never have a cause to sigh till I am brought to
such a silly pass ” And Bianca, she too said,
“Fie, what foolish duty call you this?” On this
Bianca's husband said to her, “I wish your duty
were as foolish too ! The wisdom of your duty,
fair Bianca, has cost me a hundred crowns since
dinner-time.”—“The more fool you,” said Bianca,
“for laying on my duty.”—“Katharine,” said
Petruchio, “I charge you tell these headstrong
Caming of the 5brew 2O7
women what duty they owe their lords and hus-
bands.” And to the wonder of all present, the
reformed shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in
praise of the wifelike duty of obedience, as she had
practised it implicitly in a ready submission to
Petruchio's will. And Katharine once more
became famous in Padua, not as heretofore, as
Katharine the Shrew, but as Katharine the most
obedient and duteous wife in Padua.
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.
AEgeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was dis-
covered in the streets of Ephesus, and brought
before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine, or
to receive sentence of death.
AEgeon 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.
AEgeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sor-
row 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 fol-
lowing words:
“I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the
profession of a merchant. I married a lady, with
(208)
Q be Comcop of Ettorg 209
whom I lived very happily, but being obliged
to go to Epidamnum, I was detained there
by my busin CŞs six months, and then, finding I
should be ºbliged to stay some time longer, I sent
for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, was
brought to bed of two sons, and what was very
strange, they were both so exactly alike, that it was
impossible to distinguish the one from the other.
At the same time that my wife was brought to bed
of these twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where
my wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons,
and these twins were as much like each other as
my two sons were. The parents of these children
being exceeding poor, I bought the two boys, and
brought them up to attend upon my Sons.
“My sons were very fine children, and my wife
was not a little proud of two such boys: and she
daily wishing to return home, I unwillingly agreed,
and in an evil hour we got on shipboard ; for we
had not sailed above a league from Epidamnum
before a dreadful storm arose, which continued
with such violence, that the sailors seeing no chance
of saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save
their own lives, leaving us alone in the ship, which
we every moment expected would be destroyed by
the fury of the storm.
“The incessant weeping of my wife, and the
piteous complaints of the pretty babes, who, not
knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, because
they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror
for them, though I did not for myself fear death ;
and all my thoughts were bent to contrive means
for their safety. I tied my youngest son to the
I4
{
\
2IO Caleg from $bakópeate
end of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men
provide against storms; at the other end I bound
the youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same
time I directed my wife how to fastem, the other
children in like manner to another mast. She
thus having the care of the two eldest children,
and I of the two younger, we bound ourselves
separately to these masts with the children ; and
but for this contrivance we had all been lost, for
the ship split on a mighty rock, and was dashed
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 sepa-
rated from me ; but while they were yet in my
sight, they were taken up by a boat of fishermen,
from Corinth (as I supposed), and seeing them
in safety, I had no care but to struggle with
the wild sea-waves, to preserve my dear son and
the youngest slave. At length we, in our turn, were
taken up by a ship, and the sailors, knowing me,
gave us kind welcome and assistance, and landed
us in safety at Syracuse; but from that sad hour
I have never known what became of my wife and
eldest child.
“My youngest son, and now my only care, when
he was eighteen years of age, began to be inquisi-
tive after his mother and his brother, and often
importuned me that he might take his attendant,
the young slave, who had also lost his brother, and
go in Search of them ; at length I unwillingly gave
consent, for though I anxiously desired to hear
tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending
Cbe Comcop of Ettotg 2II
my younger one to find them, I hazarded the loss
of him also. It is now seven years since my son
left me; five years have I passed in travelling
through the world in search of him ; I have been
in farthest Greece, and through the bounds of Asia,
and coasting homewards, I landed here in Ephesus,
being unwilling to leave any place unsought that
harbours men ; but this day must end the story of
my life, and happy should I think myself in my
death, if I were assured my wife and sons were
living.”
Here the hapless AEgeon ended the account of
his misfortunes; and the duke, pitying this unfor-
tunate father, who had brought upon himself this
great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it
were not against the laws, which his oath and
dignity did not permit him to alter, he would freely
pardon him ; yet, instead of dooming him to
instant death, as the strict letter of the law required,
he would give him that day to try if he could beg
or borrow the money to pay the fine.
This day of grace did seem no great favour to
AEgeon, for not knowing any man in Ephesus,
there seemed to him but little chance that any
stranger would lend or give him a thousand marks
to pay the fine; and helpless and hopeless of any
relief, he retired from the presence of the duke in
the custody of a jailor.
AEgeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus;
but at the very time he was in danger of losing his
life through the careful search he was making after
his youngest son, that son and his eldest son also
were both in the city of Ephesus.
ai. Qaleø from ābakepeate
AEgeon’s sons, besides being exactly alike in
face and person, were both named alike, being
both called Antipholus, and the two twin slaves
were also both named Dromio. AEgeon’s youngest
son, Antipholus of Syracuse, he whom the old man
had come to Ephesus to seek, happened to arrive
at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that very same
day that Ægeon did ; and he being also a mer-
chant of Syracuse, he would have been in the same
danger that his father was, but by good fortune he
met a friend who told him the peril an old mer-
chant of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass
for a merchant of Epidamnum ; this Antipholus
agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear one of his
own countrymen was in this danger, but he little
thought this old merchant was his own father.
– The eldest son of AEgeon (who must be called
Antipholus of Ephesus, to distinguish him from his
brother Antipholus of Syracuse) had lived at
Ephesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, was
well able to have paid the money for the ransom of
his father's life; but Antipholus knew nothing of
his father, being so young when he was taken out
of the sea with his mother by the fishermen that
he only remembered he had been so preserved,
but he had no recollection of either his father or
his mother ; the fisherman who took up this Anti-
pholus 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. i
Antipholus and Dromio were sold by them to
duke Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was uncle
|
Cbe Comcop of Etrotg 2I3
to the duke of Ephesus and he carried the boys
to Ephesus when he went to visit the duke his
nephew. -
The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young
Antipholus, when he grew up, made him an officer
in his army, in which he distinguished himself by
his great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life
of his patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by
marrying him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus;
with whom he was living (his slave Dromio still
attending him) at the time his father came there.
Antipholus of Syracuse, when he parted with his
friend, who advised him to say he came from
Epidamnum, gave his slave Dromio Some money
to carry to the inn where he intended to dine, and
in the mean time he said he would walk about and
view the city, and observe the manners of the
people.
Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Anti-
pholus was dull and melancholy he used to divert
himself with the odd humours and merry jests of
his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed
in Dromio were greater than is usual between mas-
ters and their servants.
When Antipholus 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 him-
self, “I am like a drop of water in the ocean, which
seeking to find its fellow drop, loses itself in the
wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and a
brother, do lose myself.”
2I4 Caleø from 5bakópeate
While he was thus meditating on his weary
travels, which had hitherto been so useless, Dromio
(as he thought) returned. Antipholus, wondering
that he came back so soon, asked him where he
had left the money. Now it was not his own
Dromio, but the twin-brother that lived with Anti-
pholus of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The two
Dromios and the two Antipholuses were still as
much alike as AEgeon had said they were in their
infancy; therefore no wonder Antipholus thought
it was his own slave returned, and asked him why
he came back so soon. Dromio replied, “My
mistress sent me to bid you come to dinner. The
capon burns, and the pig falls from the spit, and
the meat will be all cold if you do not come
home.” “These jests are out of season,” said Anti-
pholus : “where did you leave the money P’’
Dromio still answering, that his mistress had sent
him to fetch Antipholus to dinner : “What mis-
tress P’’ said Antipholus. “Why, your worship's
wife, sir,” replied Dromio. Antipholus having no
wife, he was very angry with Dromio, and said,
“Because I familiarly sometimes chat with you,
you presume to jest with me in this free manner.
I am not in a sportive humour now : where is the
money P we being strangers here, how dare you
trust so great a charge from your own custody ?”
Dromio hearing his master, as he thought him,
talk of their being strangers, supposing Antipholus
was jesting, replied merrily, “I pray you, sir, jest
as you sit at dinner. I had no charge but to fetch
you home, to dine with my mistress and her sister.”
Now Antipholus lost all patience, and beat Dromio, ,
Cbe Comcog of Ettorø 215
who ran home, and told his mistress that his master
had refused to come to dinner, and said that he had
no wife.
Adriana, the wife of Antipholus of Ephesus, was
very angry when she heard that her husband said he
had no wife ; for she was of a jealous temper, and
she said her husband meant that he loved another
lady better than herself; and she began to fret, and
say unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her
husband ; and her sister Luciana who lived with her,
tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless
Suspicions. -
Antipholus of Syracuse went to the inn, and
found Dromio with the money in safety there, and
seeing his own Dromio, he was going again to chide
him for his free jests, when Adriana came up to
him, and not doubting but it was her husband she
saw, she began to reproach him for looking strange
upon her (as well he might, never having seen this
angry lady before); and then she told him how
well he loved her before they were married, and
that now he loved some other lady instead of her.
“How comes it now, my husband,” said she, “O
how comes it that I have lost your love?”—“Plead
you to me, fair dame P’’ said the astonished Anti-
pholus. It was in vain, he told her he was not her
husband, and that he had been in Ephesus but two
hours; she insisted on his going home with her,
and Antipholus at last, being unable to get away,
went with her to his brother’s house, and dined with
Adriana and her sister, the one calling him hus-
band, and the other brother, he, all amazed, think-
ing he must have been married to her in his sleep
2I6 Caleg from ābakepeate
or that he was sleeping now. And Dromio, who
followed them, was no less surprised, for the cook-
maid, who was his brother’s wife, also claimed him
for her husband.
While Antipholus of Syracuse was dining with
his brother's wife, his brother, the real husband,
returned home to dinner with his slave Dromio ;
but the Servants would not open the door, because
their mistress had ordered them not to admit any
company ; and when they repeatedly knocked,
and said they were Antipholus and Dromio, the
maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholus
was at dinner with their mistress, and Dromio was
in the kitchen ; and though they almost knocked
the door down, they could not gain admittance,
and at last Antipholus went away very angry, and
Strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman was
dining with his wife.
When Antipholus of Syracuse had finished his
dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady's still per-
sisting in calling him husband, and at hearing that
Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid,
that he left the house, as soon as he could find any
pretence to get away ; for though he was very much
pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet the jealous-
tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was .
Dromio at all better satisfied with his fair wife in
the kitchen : therefore both master and man were
glad to get away from their new wives as fast as
they could.
The moment Antipholus of Syracuse had left the
house, he was met by a goldsmith, who mistaking
him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholus of Ephesus,
Cbe Comeby of Ettorg 217
gave him a gold chain, calling him by his name ;
and when Antipholus would have refused the chain,
saying it did not belong to him, the goldsmith replied
he made it by his own orders; and went away,
leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholus, who
ordered his man Dromio to get his things on board
a ship, not choosing to stay in a place any longer,
where he met with such strange adventures that he
surely thought himself bewitched.
The goldsmith who had given the chain to the
wrong Antipholus, was arrested innmediately after
for a sum of money he owed; and Antipholus, the
married brother, to whom the goldsmith thought he
had given the chain, happened to come to the place
where the officer was arresting the goldsmith, who,
when he saw Antipholus, asked him to pay for the
gold chain he had just delivered to him, the price
amounting to nearly the same sum as that for which
he had been arrested. Antipholus denying the
having received the chain, and the goldsmith per-
sisting to declare that he had but a few minutes
before given it to him, they disputed this matter a
long time, both thinking they were right: for Anti-
pholus knew the goldsmith never gave him the chain,
and so like were the two brothers, the goldsmith
was as certain he had delivered the chain into his
hands, till at last the officer took the goldsmith away
to prison for the debt he owed, and at the same time
the goldsmith made the officer arrest Antipholus for
the price of the chain ; so that at the conclusion of
their dispute, Antipholus and the merchant were
both taken away to prison together. -
As Antipholus was going to prison, he met Dromio
218 Caleø from 5bał3peate
of Syracuse, his brother’s slave, and mistaking him
for his own, he ordered him to go to Adriana his
wife, and tell her to send the money for which he
was arrested. Dromio wondering that his master
should send him back to the strange house where
he dined, and from which he had just before been
in such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though
he came to tell his master the ship was ready to
sail : for he saw Antipholus was in no humour to be
jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling
within himself, that he must return to Adriana’s
house, “Where,” said he, “Dowsabel claims me for
a husband : but I must go, for Servants must obey
their masters’ commands.’’ \
Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio
was returning, he met Antipholus of Syracuse, who
was still in amaze at the surprising adventures he
met with ; for his brother being well known in
Ephesus, there was hardly a man he met in the
streets but saluted him as an old acquaintance:
some offered him money which they said was owing
to him, some invited him to come and see them, and
some gave him thanks for kindnesses they said he
had done them, all mistaking him for his brother.
A tailor showed him some silks he had bought for
him, and insisted upon taking measure of him for
some clothes.
Antipholus began to think he was among a nation
of 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.
Cbe comeog of Errors 2I9
This talk of Dromio's of the arrest and of a prison,
and of the money he had brought from Adriana, per-
fectly confounded Antipholus, and he said, “This
fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wan-
der here in illusions; ” and quite terrified at his own
confused thoughts, he cried out, “Some blessed
power deliver us from this strange place }
And now another stranger came up to him, and
she was a lady, and she too called him Antipholus,
and told him he had dined with her that day, and
asked him for a gold chain which she said he had
promised to give her. Antipholus now lost all pa-
tience, and calling her a sorceress, he denied that
he had ever promised her a chain, or dined with
her, or had even seen her face before that moment.
The lady persisted in affirming he had dined with
her, and had promised her a chain, which Antipholus
still denying, she further said, that she had given
him a valuable ring, and if he would not give her
the gold chain, she insisted upon having her own ring
again. On this Antipholus became quite frantic,
and again calling her sorceress and witch, and
denying all knowledge of her or her ring, ran away
from her, leaving her astonished at his words and
his wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more
certain than that he had dined with her, and that she
had given him a ring, in consequence of his promising
to make her a present of a gold chain. But this lady
had fallen into the same mistake the others had done,
for she had taken him for his brother: the married
Antipholus had done all the things she taxed this
Antipholus with.
When the married Antipholus was denied entrance
220 Caleg from $5bakgpeate --
into his own house (those within supposing him to
be already there), he had gone away very angry,
believing it to be one of his wife's jealous freaks, to
which she was very subject, and remembering that
she had often falsely accused him of visiting other
| ladies, he, to be revenged on her for shutting him
out of his own house, determined to go and dine.
with this lady, and she receiving him with great
civility, and his wife having so highly offended him,
Antipholus promised to give her a gold chain, which
he had intended as a present for his wife; it was
the same chain which the goldsmith by mistake had
given to his brother. The lady liked so well the
thoughts of having a fine gold chain, that she gave
the married Antipholus a ring ; which when as she
supposed (taking his brother for him), he denied,
and said he did not know her, and left her in such
a wild passion, she began to think he was certainly
out of his senses; and presently she resolved to go
and tell Adriana that her husband was mad. And
while she was telling it to Adriana, he came, attended
by the jailor (who allowed him to come home to get
the money to pay the debt), for the purse of money,
which Adriana had sent by Dromio, and he had
delivered to the other Antipholus.
Adriana believed the story the lady told her of
her husband's madness must be true, when he re-
proached her for shutting him out of his own house;
and remembering how he had protested all dinner-
time that he was not her husband, and had never
been in Ephesus till that day, she had no doubt
that he was mad ; she therefore paid the jailor the
money, and having discharged him, she ordered
Cbe Comcog of Etrotá * 22I
her servants to bind her husband with ropes, and
had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent for
a doctor to come and cure him of his madness:
Antipholus all the while hotly exclaiming against
this false accusation, which the exact likeness he
bore to his brother had brought upon him. But
his rage only the more confirmed them in the
belief that he was mad ; and Dromio persisting in
the same story, they bound him also, and took him
away along with his master.
Soon after Adriana had put her husband into con-
finement, a servant came to tell her that Antipholus
and Dromio must have broken loose from their
keepers, for that they were both walking at liberty
in the next street. On hearing this, Adriana ran
out to fetch him home, taking some people with her
to secure her husband again ; and her sister went
along with her. When they came to the gates of
a convent in their neighborhood, there they saw
Antipholus and Dromio, as they thought, being
again deceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers.
Antipholus of Syracuse was still beset with the
perplexities this likeness had brought upon him.
The chain which the goldsmith had given him was
about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching
him for denying that he had it, and refusing to pay
for it, and Antipholus was protesting that the gold-
smith freely gave him the chain in the morning,
and that from that hour he had never seen the gold-
Smith 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
222 cales trom $bakgpeate
going to lay violent hands on Antipholus and Dromio;
but they ran into the convent, and Antipholus begged
the abbess to give him shelter in her house.
And now came out the lady abbess herself to in-
Quire into the cause of this disturbance. She was
a grave and venerable lady, and wise to judge of
what she saw, and she would not too hastily give
up the man who had sought protection in her house ;
so she strictly questioned the wife about the story
she told of her husband’s madness, and she said,
“What is the cause of this sudden distemper of
your husband's? Has he lost his wealth at sea?
Or is it the death of some dear friend that has dis-
turbed his mind?” Adriana replied, that no such
things as these had been the cause. “Perhaps,”
said the abbess, ‘‘ he has fixed his affections on
some other lady than you his wife ; and that has
driven him to this state.” Adriana said she had
long thought the love of some other lady was the
cause of his frequent absences from home. Now
it was not his love for another, but the teasing
jealousy of his wife's temper, that often obliged
Antipholus to leave his home; and (the abbess sus-
pecting this from the vehemence of Adriana’s
manner) to learn the truth, she said, “You should
have reprehended him for this.”—“Why, so I did,”
replied Adriana. “Ay,” said the abbess, “but
perhaps not enough.” Adriana, willing to con-
vince the abbess that she had said enough to
Antipholus on this subject, replied, “It was the
constant subject of our conversation: in bed I
would not let him sleep for speaking of it. At
table I would not let him eat for speaking of it.
Cbe Comcog of Ettorg 223
When I was alone with him, I talked of nothing
else; and in company I gave him frequent hints of
it. Still all my talk was how vile and bad it was in
him to love any lady better than me.”
The lady abbess, having drawn this full confes-
sion from the jealous Adriana, now said, “And
therefore comes it that your husband is mad. The
venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more
deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. It seems
his sleep was hindered by your railing ; no wonder
that his head is light: and his meat was sauced
with your upbraidings; unquiet meals make ill
digestions, and that has thrown him into this fever.
You say his sports were disturbed by your brawls ;
being debarred from the enjoyment of society and
recreation, what could ensue but dull melancholy
and comfortless despair P 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 re-
bukes without answering them P” But the abbess
had made her so plainly perceive her fault, that she
could only answer, “She has betrayed me to my
own reproof.”
Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct,
still insisted on having her husband delivered up
to her ; but the abbess would suffer no person to
enter her house, nor would she deliver up this un-
happy man to the care of the jealous wife, deter-
mining herself to use gentle means for his recovery,
224 Gates trom 5bakepeate
and she retired into her house again, and ordered
her gates to be shut against them. -
During the course of this eventful day, in which
so many errors had happened from the likeness the
twin brothers bore to each other, old AEgeon's day
of grace was passing away, it being now near Sun-
set ; and at sunset he was doomed to die, if he
could not pay the money.
The place of his execution was near this convent,
and here he arrived just as the abbess retired into
the convent ; the duke attending in person, that if
any offered to pay the money, he might be present
to pardon him. -
Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and
cried out to the duke for justice, telling him that
the abbess had refused to deliver up her lunatic
husband to her care. While she was speaking, her
real husband and his servant Dromio, who had got
loose, came before the duke to demand justice,
complaining that his wife had confined him on a
false charge of lunacy; and telling in what manner
he had broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance
of his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised to
see her husband, when she thought he had been
within the convent.
AEgeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the
son who had left him to go in search of his mother
and his brother; and he felt secure that this dear
son would readily pay the money demanded for his
ransom. He therefore spoke to Antipholus in
words of fatherly affection, with joyful hope that he
should now be released. But to the utter astonish-
ment of AEgeon, his son denied all knowledge of
Cbe Comcop of Ettorg 225
him, as well he might, for this Antipholus had never
seen his father since they were separated in the
storm in his infancy; but while the poor old AEgeon
was in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowl-
edge him, thinking surely that either his griefs and
the anxieties he had suffered had so strangely
altered him that his son did not know him, or else
that he was ashamed to acknowledge his father in
his misery; in the midst of this perplexity, the lady.
abbess and the other Antipholus and Dromio came
out, and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands
and two Dromios standing before her.
And now these riddling errors, which had so per-
plexed them all, were clearly made out. When the
duke saw the two Antipholuses and the two Dromios
both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright
of these seeming mysteries, for he remembered the
story AEgeon had told him in the morning ; and he
said, these men must be the two sons of Ægeon and
their twin slaves.
But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed
the history of AEgeon ; and the tale he had in the
morning told in sorrow, and under sentence of
death, before the setting sun went down was
brought to a happy conclusion, for the venerable
lady abbess made herself known to be the long-lost
wife of Ægeon, and the fond mother of the two
Antipholuses.
When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholus
and Dromio away from her, she entered a nunnery,
and by her wise and virtuous conduct, she was at
length made lady abbess of this convent, and in
discharging the rites of hospitality to an unhappy
I5 &
226 Caleg from 5bakspeate
stranger she had unknowingly protected her own
SOI] . -
Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings
between these long separated parents and their
children made them for a while forget that AEgeon
was yet under sentence of death ; but when they
were become a little calm, Antipholus of Ephesus
offered the duke the ransom money for his father's
life; but the duke freely pardoned AEgeon, and
would not take the money. And the duke went with
the abbess and her newly-found husband and children
into the convent, to hear this happy family discourse
at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse for-
tunes. And the two Dromios' humble joy must
not be forgotten ; they had their congratulations
and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly com-
plimented his brother on his good looks, being well
pleased to see his own person (as in a glass) show so
handsome in his brother.
Adriana had so well profited by the good coun-
sel of her mother-in-law, that she never after
cherished unjust Suspicions, or was jealous of her
husband.
Antipholus of Syracuse married the fair Luciana,
the sister of his brother's wife; and the good old
. AEgeon, with his wife and sons, lived at Ephesus
many years. Nor did the unravelling of these per-
plexities so entirely remove every ground of mistake
for the future, but that sometimes, to remind them
of adventures past, comical blunders would happen,
and the one Antipholus, and the one Dromio, be
mistaken for the other, making altogether a pleasant
and diverting Comedy of Errors.
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
e } *
N the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke
of such a mild and gentle temper that he suf-
fered his subjects to neglect the laws with impunity;
and there was in particular one law, the existence
of which was almost forgotten, the duke never hav-
ing 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 grow-
ing evil among his subjects ; but he thought that a
sudden change in himself from the indulgence he
had hitherto shown, to the strict severity requisite
: to check this abuse, would make his people (who
had hitherto loved him) consider him as a tyrant;
therefore he determined to absent himself a while
from his dukedom, and depute another to the full
exercise of his power, that the law against these
dishonourable lovers might be put in effect, with-
(227)
228 Caled from 5bakół)cate
out 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 impor-
tant charge ; and when the duke imparted his design
to lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said,
“If any man in Vienna be of worth to undergo
such ample grace and honour, it is lord Angelo.”
And now the duke departed from Vienna under pre-
tence of making a journey into Poland, leaving
Angelo to act as the lord deputy in his absence ;
but the duke's absence was only a feigned one, for
he privately returned to Vienna, habited like a friar,
with the intent to watch unseen the conduct of the
Saintly-seeming Angelo.
It happened just about the time that Angelo was
invested with his new dignity, that a gentleman,
whose name was Claudio, had seduced a young lady
from her parents; and for this offence, by com-
mand of the new lord deputy, Claudio was taken up
and committed to prison, and by virtue of the old
law which had been so long neglected, Angelo sen-
tenced Claudio to be beheaded. Great interest was
made for the pardon of young Claudio, and the
good old lord Escalus himself interceded for him.
“Alas,” said he, “this gentleman whom I would
save had an honourable father, for whose sake I pray
you pardon the young man’s transgression.” But
Angelo replied, “We must not make a scarecrow
of the law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey,
till custom, finding it harmless, makes it their perch,
and not their terror. Sir, he must die.’’
(ISøagute for ſISøagute 229
Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the
prison, and Claudio said to him, “I pray you,
Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my sister
Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent
of Saint Clare; acquaint her with the danger of
my state; implore her that she make friends with
the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo.
I have great hopes in that ; for she can discourse
with prosperous art, and well she can persuade ;
besides, there is a speechless dialect in youthful
sorrow, such as moves men.”
Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said,
that day entered upon her noviciate in the convent,
and it was her intent, after passing through her
probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was
inquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the con-
vent, when they heard the voice of Lucio, who, as
he entered that religious house, said, “Peace be
in this place ”—“Who is it that speaks P’’ said
Isabel. “It is a man’s voice,” replied the nun:
“Gentle Isabel, go to him, and learn his business;
you may, I may not. When you have taken the
veil, you must not speak with men but in the pre-
sence of the prioress; then if you speak you must
not show your face, or if you show your face, you
must not speak.”—“And have you nuns no further
privileges P’’ said Isabel. “Are not these large
enough P’’ replied the nun. “Yes, truly,” said Isa-
bel: “I speak not as desiring more, but rather
wishing a more strict restraint upon the sisterhood,
the votarists of Saint Clare.” Again they heard
the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, “He calls
again. I pray you answer him.” Isabel then went
230 Caleg from 5bak3peate
out to Lucio, and in answer to his Salutation, said,
“Peace and Prosperity | Who is it that calls P”
Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said,
“Hail, virgin, if such you be, as the roses on your
cheeks proclaim you are no less I can you bring
me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this place,
and the fair sister to her unhappy brother Claudio P.”
—“Why her unhappy brother P’’ said Isabel, “let
me ask for I am that Isabel, and his sister.’’—
“Fair and gentle lady,” he replied, “your brother
kindly greets you by me; he is in prison.”—“Woe
is me ! for what?’” said Isabel. Lucio then told
her, Claudio was imprisoned for Seducing a young
maiden. “Ah,” said she, “I fear it is my cousin
Juliet.” Juliet and Isabel were not related, but
they called each other cousin in remembrance of
their school days’ friendship ; and as Isabel knew
that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been
led by her affection for him into this transgression.
“She it is,” replied Lucio. “Why then, let my
brother marry Juliet,” said Isabel. Lucio replied
that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but that
the lord deputy had sentenced him to die for his
offence; “Unless,” said he, “you have the grace
by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is
my business between you and your poor brother.”
—“Alas! ” said Isabel, “what poor ability is there
in me to do him good P I doubt I have no power
to move Angelo.”—“Our doubts are traitors,” said
Lucio, “and make us lose the good we might often
win, by fearing to attempt it. Go to lord Angelo 1
When maidens sue, and kneel, and weep, men give
like gods.”—“I will see what I can do,” said Isa-
(IMeagute fot (IIScagute 23.I
\
bel: “I will but stay to give the prioress notice of
the affair, and then I will go to Angelo. Commend
me to my brother : soon at night I will send him
word of my success.”
Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself
on her knees before Angelo, saying, “I am a woful
suitor to your honour, if it will please your honour
to hear me.”—“Well, what is your suit P” said
Angelo. She then made her petition in the most
moving terms for her brother's life. But Angelo
said, “Maiden, there is no remedy ; your brother
is sentenced, and he must die.”—“O just, but
severe law,” said Isabel: “I had a brother then—
Heaven keep your honour ! ” and she was about to
depart. But Lucio, who had accompanied her,
said, “Give it not over so ; return to him again,
entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon
his gown. You are too cold ; if you should need a
pin, you could not with a more tame tongue desire
it.” Then again Isabel on her knees implored for
mercy. “He is sentenced,” said Angelo: “it is
too late.”—“Too late ” said Isabel: “Why, no:
I that do speak a word may call it back again.
Believe this, my lord, no ceremony that to great
ones belongs, not the king's crown, nor the deputed
sword, the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's
robe, becomes them with one half so good a grace
as mercy does.”—“Pray you begone,” said Angelo.
But still Isabel entreated ; and she said, “If my
brother had been as you, and you as he, you might
have slipped like him, but he, like you, would not
have been so stern. I would to heaven I had
your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then
232 Cale3 trom ābakepeate
be thus? No, I would tell you what it were to be
a judge, and what a prisoner.”—“Be content, fair
maid ’’ said Angelo : “it is the law, not I, con-
demns your brother. Were he my kinsman, my
brother, or my son, it should be thus with him.
He must die to-morrow.”—“To-morrow P'' said
Isabel; “Oh, that is sudden : spare him, spare
him ; he is not prepared for death. Even for our
kitchens we kill the fowl in season ; shall we serve
Heaven with less respect than we minister to our
gross selves? Good, good, my lord, bethink you,
none have died for my brother's offence, though
many have committed it. So you would be the
first that gives this sentence, and he the first that
suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord ;
knock there, and ask your heart what it does know
that is like my brother's fault ; if it confess a rats
ural 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
dishonourable love, such as Claudio's crime had
been ; and the conflict in his mind made him to
turn away from Isabel ; but she called him back,
saying, “Gentle my lord, turn back ; hark, how I
will bribe you. Good my lord, turn back l’’—
“How, bribe me !” said Angelo, astonished that
she should think of offering him a bribe. “Ay,”
Said Isabel, “with such gifts that Heaven itself
shall share with you; not with golden treasures,
Or those glittering stones, whose price is either rich
or poor as fancy values them, but with true prayers
f|Seagute for ſISeagute 233 .
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 honour Safe
Heaven save your honour !” Which when Angelo
heard, he said within his heart, ‘‘ Amen, I would
be saved from thee and from thy virtues: ’’ and
then, affrighted at his own evil thoughts, he said,
“What is this P What is this? Do I love her,
that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast
upon her eyes? What is it I dream on 2 The
cunning enemy of mankind, to catch a saint, with
saints does bait the hook. Never could an im-
modest woman once stir my temper, but this vir-
tuous woman subdues me quite. Even till now,
when men were fond, I smiled and wondered at
them.’’
In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered
more that night than the prisoner he had so severely
sentenced ; for in the prison Claudio was visited by
the good duke, who, in his friar's habit, taught the
young man the way to heaven, preaching to him the
words of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all
the pangs of irresolute guilt: now wishing to seduce
Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, and
now suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet
but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts
prevailed ; and he who had so lately started at the
234 Caleg from $5bakópeate
offer of a bribe, resolved to tempt this maiden with
so high a bribe, as she might not be able to resist,
even with the precious gift of her dear brother's
life.
When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired
she might be admitted alone to his presence: and
being there, he said to her, if she would yield to
him her virgin honour and transgress even as Juliet
had done with Claudio, he would give her her bro-
ther'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 my-
self; that is, were I under sentence of death, the
impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies,
and go to my death as to a bed that longing I had
been sick for, ere I would yield myself up to this
shame.” And then she told him, she hoped he
only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he
said, “Believe me, on my honour, my words express
my purpose.” Isabel, angered to the heart to hear
him use the word Honour to express such dishon-
ourable purposes, said, “Ha little honour to be
much believed ; and most pernicious purpose. I
will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for it ! Sign me a
present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the
world aloud what man thou art 1 ''—“Who will
(ISeagute fot (IŠeagute 235
believe you, Isabel ?” said Angelo; “my unsoiled
name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched
against yours, will outweigh your accusation. Re-
deem your brother by yielding to my will, or he
shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what you can,
my false will overweigh your true story. Answer
me to-morrow.”
“To whom should I complain P Did I tell this,
who would believe me?” said Isabel, as she went
towards the dreary prison where her brother was
confined. When she arrived there, her brother was
in pious conversation with the duke, who, in his
friar's habit,had also visited Juliet, and brought both
these guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault;
and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse
confessed that she was more to blame than Claudio,
in that she willingly consented to his dishonourable
solicitations. *
As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was
confined, she said, “Peace be here, grace, and good
company l’’—“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 de-
sired the provost, who had the charge of the
prisoners, to place him where he might overhear
their conversation. -
“Now, sister, what is the comfort P’’ said Clau-
dio. Isabel told him he must prepare for death on
the morrow. “Is there no remedy ?” said Claudio.
—“Yes, brother,” replied Isabel, “there is ; but
such a one, as if you consented to it would strip
your honour from you, and leave you naked.”—“Let
236 Caleg from 5bahgpeate
me know the point,” said Claudio. “O, I do fear you,
Claudio !” replied his sister; “and I quake, lest
you should wish to live, and more respect the trifling
term of six or seven winters added to your life, than
your perpetual honour ! Do you dare to die P
The sense of death is most in apprehension, and
the poor beetle that we tread upon, feels a pang as
great as when a giant dies.” “Why do you give
me this shame?” said Claudio. “Think you I
can fetch a resolution from flowery tenderness?
If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride,
and hug it in my arms.”—“There spoke my
brother,” said Isabel; “there my father's grave did
utter forth a voice. Yes, you must die; yet would you
think it, Claudio ! this outward sainted deputy, if
I would yield to him my virgin honour, would grant
your life. O, were it but my life, I would lay it
down for your deliverance as frankly as a pin ’’—
“Thanks, dear Isabel,” said Claudio. “Be ready
to die to-morrow,” said Isabel, “Death is a fear-
ful thing,” said Claudio. “And shamed life a
hateful,” replied his sister. But the thoughts of
death now overcame the constancy of Claudio's
temper, and terrors, such as the guilty only at their
deaths do know, assailing him, he cried out, “Sweet
sister, let me live | The sin you do to save a
brother's life, nature dispenses with the deed so far,
that it becomes a virtue.”—“O faithless coward
O dishonest wretch '’ said Isabel: “would you
preserve your life by your sister's shame? O fie,
, fie, fie | I thought, my brother, you had in you
Such a mind of honour, that had you twenty heads
to render up on twenty blocks, you would have
(IIScagute for flycagute 237
yielded them up all, before your sister should stoop
to such dishonour.” “Nay, hear me, Isabel !” said
Claudio. But what he would have said in defence
of his weakness, in desiring to live by the dishonour
of his virtuous sister, was interrupted by the entrance
of the duke ; who said, “Claudio, I have over-
heard what has passed between you and your sister.
Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her ;
what he said, has only been to make trial of her
virtue. She having the truth of honour in her, has
given him that gracious denial which he is most
glad to receive. There is no hope that he will
pardon you ; therefore pass your hours in prayer,
and make ready for death.” Then Claudio re-
pented of his weakness, and said, “Let me ask
my sister's pardon I am so out of love with life,
that I will sue to be rid of it.” And Claudio re-
tired, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his
fault.
The duke being now alone with Isabel, com-
mended her virtuous resolution, saying, “The hand
that made you fair, has made you good.”—“O,”
said Isabel, “how much is the good duke deceived
in Angelo l if ever he return, and I can speak to
him, I will discover his government.” Isabel knew
not that she was even now making the discovery
she threatened. The duke replied, “That shall
not be much amiss; yet as the matter now stands,
Angelo will repel your accusation; therefore lend
an attentive ear to my advisings. I believe that
you may most righteously do a poor wronged lady
a merited benefit, redeem your brother from the
angry law, do no stain to your own most gracious
238 Caleg from $bakópeate
person, and much please the absent duke, if per-
adventure he shall ever return to have notice of
this business.” Isabel said, she had a spirit to do
anything he desired, provided it was nothing wrong.
‘‘Virtue is bold, and never fearful,” said the duke :
and then he asked her, if she had ever heard of
Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier
who was drowned at sea. “I have heard of the
lady,” said Isabel, “and good words went with her
name.”—“This lady,” said the duke, “is the wife
of Angelo ; but her marriage dowry was on board
the vessel in which her brother perished, and mark
how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman
for, beside the loss of a most noble and renowned
brother, who in his love towards her was ever most
kind and natural, in the wreck of her fortune she
lost the affections of her husband, the well-seeming
Angelo ; who pretending to discover some dis-
honour in this honourable lady (though the true
cause was the loss of her dowry) left her in her
tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort.
His unjust unkindness, that in all reason should
have queñched her love, has, like an impediment
in the current, made it more unruly, and Mariana
loves her cruel husband with the full continuance
of her first affection.” The duke then more, plainly
unfolded his plan. It was, that Isabel should go
to lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to come to
him as he desired at midnight; that by this means
she would obtain the promised pardon ; and that
Mariana should go in her stead to the appointment,
and pass herself upon Angelo in the dark for Isabel.
“Nor, gentle daughter,” said the feigned friar,
f|Seagute fot (IŠeagute 239
“fear you to do this thing; Angelo is her husband,
and to bring them thus together is no sin.” Isabel
being pleased with this project, departed to do as
he directed her; and he went to apprise Mariana
of their intention. He had before this time visited
this unhappy lady in his assumed character, giving
her religious instruction and friendly consolation,
at which times he had learned her sad story from
her own lips; and now she, looking upon him as a
holy man, readily consented to be directed by him
in this undertaking.
When Isabel returned from her interview with
Angelo, to the house of Mariana, where the duke
had appointed her to meet him, he said, “Well
met, and in good time ; what is the news from this
good deputy P” Isabel related the manner in which
she had settled the affair. “Angelo,” said she,
“has a garden surrounded with a brick wall, on
the western side of which is a vineyard, and to that
vineyard is a gate.” And then she showed to the
duke and Mariana two keys that Angelo had given
her; and she said, “This bigger key opens the vine-
yard 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 musts observe P” said
the duke. “No, none,” said Isabel, “only to go
when it is dark. I have told him my time can be
\
24O Caleg from §bakópeate
but short ; for I have made him think a servant
comes along with me, and that this servant is per-
suaded 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, ſeemember now my brother /?’
Mariana was that night conducted to the ap-
pointed place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she had,
as she supposed, by this device preserved both her
brother's life and her own honour. But that her
brother’s life was safe the duke was not well satisfied,
and therefore at midnight he again repaired to the
prison, and it was well for Claudio that he did so,
else would Claudio have that night been beheaded ;
for soon after the duke entered the prison, an order
came from the cruel deputy, commanding that
Claudio should be beheaded, and his head sent to
him by five o’clock in the morning. But the duke
persuaded the provost to put off the execution of
Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, by sending him
the head of a man who died that morning in the
prison. And to prevail upon the provost to agree
to this, the duke, whom still the provost suspected
not to be anything more or greater than he seemed,
showed the provost a letter written with the duke's
hand, and sealed with his seal, which when the pro-
vost saw, he concluded this friar must have some
secret order from the absent duke, and therefore
he consented to spare Claudio ; and he cut off the
dead man’s head, and carried it to Angelo.
Then the duº'in his own name, wrote to Angelo
a letter, saying, that certain accidents had put a
flycagute for flycagute 24I
stop to his journey, and that he should be in Vienna
by the following morning, requiring Angelo to meet
him at the entrance of the city, there to deliver up
his authority ; and the duke also commanded it to
be proclaimed, that if any of his subjects craved
redress for injustice, they should exhibit their
petitions in the street on his first entrance into the
city. $
Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison,
and the duke, who there awaited her coming, for
secret reasons thought it good to tell her that
Claudio was beheaded ; therefore when Isabel in-
quired if Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother,
he said, “Angelo has released Claudio from this
world. His head is off, and sent to the deputy.”
The much-grieved sister cried out, “O unhappy
Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world, most
wicked Angelo '' The seeming friar bid her take
comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he
acquainted her with the near prospect of the duke's
return, and told her in what manner she should pro-
ceed in preferring her complaint against Angelo ;
and he bade her not fear if the cause should seem
to go against her for awhile. Leaving Isabel
sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, and
gave her counsel in what manner she also should
aCt.
Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in
his own' royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his
faithful subjects, assembled to greet his arrival,
entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by
Angelo, who delivered up his authority in the
proper form. And there came Isabel, in the
I6
242 Qales from Šbakepeate
manner of a petitioner for redress, and said,
“Justice, most royal duke I am the sister of one
Claudio, who, for the seducing a young maid, was
condemned to lose his head. I made my suit to
lord Angelo for my brother's pardon. It were
needless to tell your grace how I prayed and
kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied ; for
this was of much length. The vile conclusion I
now begin with grief and shame to utter. Angelo
would not but by my yielding to his dishonourable
love release my brother; and after much debate
within myself, my sisterly remorse overcame my
virtue, and I did yield to him. But the next morning
betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a war-
rant 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
senses. And now another suitor approached, which
was Mariana ; and Mariana said, “Noble prince,
as there comes light from heaven, and truth from
breath, as there is sense in truth and truth in
virtue, I am this man's wife, and, my good lord,
the words of Isabel are false ; for the night she
says she was with Angelo, I passed that night with
him in the garden-house. As this is true, let me in
safety rise, or else for ever be fixed here a marble
monument.” Then did Isabel appeal for the truth
of what she had said to friar Lodowick, that being
the name the duke had assumed in his disguise.
Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instruc-
tions in what they said, the duke intending that
the innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved
~
flyeagute fot (IŠeagute 243
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 Isa-
bel ; and he said, assuming the look of offended
innocence, “I did but smile till now ; but, good my
lord, my patience here is touched, and I perceive
these poor distracted women are but the instruments
of some greater one, who sets them on. Let me
have way, my lord, to find this practice out.”—
“Ay, with all my heart,” said the duke, ‘‘ and
punish them to the height of your pleasure. You,
lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend him your
pains to discover this abuse ; the friar is sent for
that set them on, and when he comes, do with your
injuries as may seem best in any chastisement. I
for a while will leave you, but stir not you, lord
Angelo, till you have well determined upon this
slander.” The duke then went away, leaving An-
gelo well pleased to be deputed judge and umpire
in his own cause. But the duke was absent only
while he threw off his royal robes and put on his
friar's habit ; and in that disguise again he pre-
sented himself before Angelo and Escalus: and the
good old Escalus, who thought Angelo had been
falsely accused, said to the supposed friar, “Come,
sir, did you set these women on to slander lord
Angelo P” He replied, “Where is the duke P
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
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of Isabel in the hands of him she had accused, and
spoke so freely of many corrupt practices he had
observed, while, as he said, he had been a looker-on
in Vienna, that Escalus threatened him with the
torture for speaking words against the state, and
for censuring the conduct of the duke, and ordered
him to be taken away to prison. . Then, to the
amazement of all present, and to the utter confu-
sion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his dis-
guise, and they saw it was the duke himself.
The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to
her, “Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your
prince, but with my habit I have not changed my
heart. I am still devoted to your service.” “O
give me pardon,” said Isabel, “that I, your vassal,
have employed and troubled your 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 further trial of her goodness. Angelo
now knew the duke had been a secret witness of
his bad deeds, and he said, “O my dread lord, I
should be guiltier than my guiltiness, to think I
can be undiscernible, when I perceive your grace,
like power divine, has looked upon my actions.
Then, good prince, no longer prolong my shame,
but let my trial be my own confession. Inmediate
sentence and death is all the grace I beg.” The
duke replied, “Angelo, thy faults are manifest.
We do condemn thee to the very block where
Claudio stooped to death ; and with like haste
away with him ; and for his possessions, Mariana,
(IIScagute fot (ISøagute 245
we do instate and widow you withal, to buy you a
better husband.”—“O my dear lord,” said Mariana,
“I crave no other, nor no better man ; ’’ and then
on her knees, even as Isabel had begged the life of
Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful husband
beg the life of Angelo; and she said, “Gentle my
liege, O good my lord | Sweet Isabel, take my
part | Lend me your knees, and all my life to
come I will lend you all my life, to do you service ”
The duke said, “Against all sense you importune
her. Should Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy,
her brother's ghost would break his paved bed, and
take her hence in horror.” Still Mariana said,
“Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold
up your hand, say nothing ! I will speak all.
They say, best men are moulded out of faults, and
for the most part become much the better for
being a little bad. So may my husband. Oh,
Isabel, will you not lend a knee P’’ The duke then
said, “He dies for Claudio.” But much pleased
was the good duke, when his own Isabel, from
whom he expected all gracious and honourable
acts, kneeled down before him, and said, “ Most
bounteous sir, look, if it please you, on this man
condemned, as if my brother lived. I partly think
a due sincerity governed his deeds, till he did look
on me. Since it is so, let him not die My
brother had but justice, in that he did the thing
for which he died ’’
The duke, as the best reply he could make to
this noble petitioner for her enemy's life, sending
for Claudio from his prison-house, where he lay
doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this
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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, Ma-
riana I Love her, Angelo l I have confessed her,
and know her virtue.” Angelo remembered, when
dressed in a little brief authority, how hard his
heart had been, and felt how sweet is mercy.
The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet,
and offered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel,
whose virtuous and noble conduct had won her
prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the veil,
was free to marry; and the friendly offices, while
hid under the disguise of a humble friar, which the
noble duke had done for her, made her with grate-
ful joy accept the honour he offered her; and when
she became duchess of Vienna, the excellent ex-
ample of the virtuous Isabel worked such a complete
reformation among the young ladies of that city,
that from that time none ever fell into the
transgression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the
reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke
long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest
of husbands and of princes.
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 in one hour,
and in one hour they were both in danger of perish-
ing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of
Illyria, as they were making a sea-voyage together.
The ship, on board of which they were, split on a
rock in a violent storm, and a very small number
of the ship's company escaped with their lives.
The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors
that were saved, got to land in a small boat, and
with them they brought Viola safe on shore, where
she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own
deliverance, began to lament her brother's loss;
but the captain comforted her with the assurance
that he had seen her brother, when the ship split,
fasten himself to a strong mast, on which, as long
as he could see anything of him for the distance,
he perceived him borne up above the waves. Viola
was much consoled by the hope this account gave
(247)
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her, and now considered how she was to dispose
of herself in a strange country, so far from home ;
and she asked the captain if he knew anything of
Illyria. “Ay, very well, madam,” replied the cap-
tain, “for I was born not three hours' travel from
this place.”—“Who governs here?” said Viola.
The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino,
a duke noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola
said, she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and
that he was unmarried then. “And he is so now,”
said the captain ; “ or was so very lately, for, but a
month ago, I went from here, and then it was the
general talk (as you know what great ones do, the
people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love
of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a
count who died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia
to the protection of her brother, who shortly after
died also ; and for the love of this dear brother,
they say, she has abjured the sight and company
of men.” Viola, who was herself in such a sad
affliction for her brother's loss, wished she could
live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a
brother's death. She asked the captain if he could
introduce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly
serve this lady. But he replied, this would be a
hard thing to accomplish, because the Lady Olivia
would admit no person into her house since her
brother’s death, not even the duke himself. Then
Viola formed another project in her mind, which
was, in a man’s habit, to serve the duke Orsino
as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady
to put on male attire, and pass for a boy; but the
forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was
Gwelttb night 249
young and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a
foreign land, must plead her excuse.
She having observed a fair behaviour in the cap-
tain, and that he showed a friendly concern for her
welfare, entrusted him with her design, and he readily
engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money, and
directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel,
ordering her clothes to be made of the same colour
and in the same fashion her brother Sebastian used
to wear, and when she was dressed in her manly
garb, she looked so exactly like her brother that
some strange errors happened by means of their be-
ing mistaken for each other ; for, as will afterwards
appear, Sebastian was also saved.
Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had
transformed this pretty lady into a gentleman, having
some interest at court, got her presented to Orsino
under the feigned name of Cesario. The duke
was wonderfully pleased with the address and grace-
ful deportment of this handsome youth, and made
Cesario one of his pages, that being the office Viola
wished to obtain : and she so well fulfilled the
duties of her new station, and showed such a ready
observance and faithful attachment to her lord, that
she soon became his most favoured attendant. To
Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love
for the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long
and unsuccessful suit he had made to one who, re-
jecting his long services, and despising his person,
refused to admit him to her presence; and for the
love of this lady who had so unkindly treated him,
the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field
and all manly exercises in which he used to delight,
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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 regard-
less of this her peerless lord and master, whom she
thought no one could behold without the deepest ad-
miration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino,
that it was pity he should affect a lady who was so
blind to his worthy qualities; and she said, “If a
lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia
(and perhaps there may be one who does), if you
could not love her in return, would you not tell
her that you could not love, and must she not be
content with this answer P’’ But Orsino would not
admit of this reasoning, for he denied that it was
possible for any woman to love as he did. He
said, no woman's heart was big enough to hold so
much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare
the love of any lady for him, to his love for Olivia.
Now, though Viola had the utmost deference for the
duke's opinions, she could not help thinking this
was not quite true; for she thought her heart had
full as much love in it, as Orsino's had ; and she
Cºwelftb Tºlígbt 25F
said, “Ah, but I know, my lord.”—“What do you
know, Cesario P” said Orsino. “Too well I know,”
replied Viola, “what love women may owe to men.
They are as true of heart as we are. My father had
a daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a.
woman, should love your lordship.”—“And what is
her history P’’ said Orsino. “A blank, my lord,”
replied Viola: “she never told her love, but let
concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her
damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a
green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience
on a monument, smiling at Grief.” The duke in-
quired if this lady died of her love, but to this
question Viola returned an evasive answer ; as prob-
ably she had feigned the story, to speak words
expressive of the secret love and silent grief she
Suffered for Orsino.
While they were talking a gentleman entered
whom the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said,
“So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted
to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you
this answer: Until seven years hence, the element
itself shall not behold her face; but like a cloistress
she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her
tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother.’’
On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, “O she that
has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this debt of
love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the
rich golden shaft has touched her heart 1 '' And
then he said to Viola, “You know, Cesario, I have
told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore, good
youth, go to Olivia's house. Be not denied access;
stand at her doors, and tell her, there your fixed
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foot shall grow till you have audience.”—“And
if I do speak to her, my lord, what then P’’ said
Viola. “O then,” replied Orsino, “unfold to her
the passion of my love. Make a long discourse to
her of my dear faith. It will well become you to
act my woes, for she will attend more to you than
to one of graver aspect.”
Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she
undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady
to become a wife to him she wished to marry : but
having undertaken the affair, she performed it with
fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at
her door who insisted upon being admitted to her
presence. “I told him,” said the servant, “that
you were sick: he said he knew you were, and
therefore he came to speak with you. I told him
that you were asleep; he seemed to have a fore-
knowledge of that too, and said, that 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 mes-
senger might be, desired he might be admitted ;
and throwing her veil over her face, she said she
would once more hear Orsino's ennbassy, not doubt-
ing but that he came from the duke, by his impor-
tunity. Viola, entering, put on the most manly air
she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier
language of great men's pages, she said to the veiled
lady, “Most radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty,
I pray you tell me if you are the lady of the house;
for I should be sorry to cast away my speech upon
another; for besides that it is excellently well
(ſwelftb ºligbt 253
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 P’’ said Olivia. “No,” replied Viola;
“ and yet I am not that which I play ; ” meaning
that she, being a woman, feigned herself to be a man.
And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady
of the house. Olivia said she was ; and then Viola,
having more curiosity to see her rival’s features,
than haste to deliver her master's message, said,
“Good madam, let me see your face.” With this
bold request Olivia was not averse to comply ; for
this haughty beauty, whom the duke Orsino had
loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived a
passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario.
When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said,
“Have you any commission from your lord and
master to negotiate with my face P” And then,
forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven
long years, she drew aside her veil, saying, “But I
will draw the curtain and show the picture. Is it
not well done?” Viola replied, “It is beauty truly
mixed ; the red and white upon your cheeks is by
Nature's own cunning hand laid on. You are
the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these
graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy.”
—“O, sir,” replied Olivia, “I will not be so cruel.
The world may have an inventory of my beauty.
As, item, two lips, indifferent red ; item, two grey
eyes, with lids to them ; one neck; one chin ; and
so forth. Were you sent here to praise me?”
Viola replied, “I see what you are: you are too
M
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proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves
you. O such a love could but be recompensed,
though you were crowned the queen of beauty : for
Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears,
with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire.”—
“Your lord,” said Olivia, “ knows well my mind.
I cannot love him ; yet I doubt not he is vir-
tuous; 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 com-
plaining 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. O you should not
rest between the elements of earth and air, but you
should pity me.”—“You might do much,” said
Olivia : “what is your parentage P” Viola replied,
“Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a
gentleman.” Olivia now reluctantly dismissed
Viola, saying, “Go to your master, and tell him, I
cannot love him. Let him send no more, unless
perchance you come again to tell me how he takes
it.” And Viola departed, bidding the lady farewell
by the name of Fair Cruelty. When she was gone,
Olivia repeated the words, Above my forfumes, yet my
state is well. I am a gentleman. And she said
aloud, “I will be sworn he is ; his tongue, his face,
his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he is a
gentleman.” And then she wished Cesario was
Cºwelftb ſºligbt 255
the duke ; and perceiving the fast hold he had
taken on her affections, she blamed herself for her
sudden love : but the gentle blame which people
lay upon their own faults has no deep root ; and
presently the noble lady Olivia so far forgot the
inequality between her fortunes and those of this
seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which
is the chief ornament of a lady's character, that she
resolved to court the love of young Cesario, and
sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under
the pretence that he had left it with her as a pres-
ent from Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully
making Cesario a present of the ring, she should
give him some intimation of her design ; and truly
It did make Viola suspect ; for knowing that Orsino
had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect
that Olivia's looks and manner were expressive of
admiration, and she presently guessed her master's
mistress had fallen in love with her. “Alas,” said
she, “the poor lady might as well love a dream.
Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to
breathe as fruitless sighs for me as I do for
Orsino.”
Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to
her lord the ill success of the negotiation, repeat-
ing the command of Olivia, that the duke should
trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted
in hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time
be able to persuade her to show some pity, and
therefore he bade him he should go to her
again the next day. In the mean time, to pass
away the tedious interval, he commanded a song
which he loved to be sung ; and he said, “My
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/
good Cesario, when I heard that song last night,
methought it did relieve my passion much. Mark
it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and
the knitters when they sit in the Sun, and the young
maids that weave their thread with bone, chant this
song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the in-
nocence of love in the old times.”
SONG.
Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it !
My part of death no one so true did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strewn :
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where
Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there !
Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old
song, which in such true simplicity described the
pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony
in her countenance of feeling what the song ex-
pressed. Her sad looks were observed by Orsino,
who said to her, “My life upon it, Cesario, though
you are so young, your eye has looked upon some
face that it loves: has it not, boy?”—“A little,
with your leave,” replied Viola. “And what kind
of woman, and of what age is she P’’ 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
Cwelftb ſºligbt 257
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. Ser-
vants soon discover when their ladies delight to con-
verse with handsome young messengers ; and the
instant Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide
open, and the duke's page was shown into Olivia's
apartment with great respect; and when Viola told
Olivia that she was come once more to plead in
her lord’s behalf, this lady said, “I desired you
never to speak of him again ; but if you would un-
dertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit,
than music from the spheres.” This was pretty
plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself
still more plainly, and openly confessed her love;
and when she saw displeasure with perplexity ex-
pressed in Viola’s face, she said, “O what a deal
of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger
of his lip ! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by
maidhood, honour, and by truth, I love you so,
that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor
reason to conceal my passion.” But in vain the
lady wooed ; Viola hastened from her presence,
threatening never more to come to plead Orsino's
love ; and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond
solicitation was, a declaration of a resolution AWever
to love any woman.
No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim
was made upon her valour. A gentleman, a re-
jected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that
lady had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged
17
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*
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 P
When she saw her formidable rival advancing
towards her with his sword drawn, she began to
think of confessing that she was a woman ; but she
was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame
of such a discovery, by a stranger that was passing
by, who made up to them, and as if he had been
long known to her, and were her dearest friend,
said to her opponent, “If this young gentleman has
done offence, I will take the fault on me; and if
you offend him, I will for his sake defy you.” Be-
fore Viola had time to thank him for his protection,
or to inquire the reason of his kind interference,
her new friend met with an enemy where his
bravery was of no use to him ; for the officers of
justice coming up in that instant, apprehended the
stranger in the duke's name, to answer for an offence
he had committed some years before ; and he said
to Viola, “This comes with seeking you: ” and
then he asked her for a purse, saying, “Now my
necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves
me much more for what I cannot do for you, than
for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but
be of comfort.” His words did indeed amaze
Viola, and she protested she knew him not, nor
had ever received a purse from him ; but for the
kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a
small sum of money, being nearly the whole she
possessed. And now the stranger spoke severe
things, charging her with ingratitude and unkind-
Cwelftb ſºligbt 259
ness. He said, “This youth, whom you see here,
I snatched from the jaws of death, and for his sake
alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this
danger.” But the officers cared little for hearken-
ing to the complaints of their prisoner, and they
hurried him off, saying, “What is that “to us?”
And as he was carried away, he called Viola by the
name of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebas-
tian for disowning his friend, as , long as he was
within hearing. When Viola heard herself called
Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away too
hastily for her to ask an explanation, she conjec-
tured that this seeming mystery might arise from
her being mistaken for her brother; and she began
to cherish hopes that it was her brother whose life
this man said he had preserved. And so indeed it
was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, was
a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into
his ship, when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was
floating on the mast to which he had fastened him-
self in the storm. Antonio conceived such a
friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to ac-
company him whithersoever he went ; and when
the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino's
court, Antonio, rather than part from him, came
to Illyria, though he knew, if his person should be
known there, his life would be in danger, because
in a sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the
duke Orsino's nephew. This was the offence for
which he was now made a prisoner.
Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but
a few hours before Antonio met Viola. He had
given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it
freely if he saw anything he wished to purchase,
26O Caleg from $5bakópeate
telling him he would wait at the inn, while Sebas-
tian went to view the town ; but Sebastian not
returning at the time appointed, Antonio had
ventured out to look for him, and Viola being
dressed the same, and in face so exactly resembling
her brother, Antonio drew his sword (as he
thought) in defence of the youth he had saved, and
when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and
denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused
him of ingratitude.
Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second
invitation to fight, slunk home as fast as she could.
She had not been long gone, when her adversary
thought he saw her return ; but it was her brother
Sebastian, who happened to arrive at this place,
and he said, “Now, sir, have I met with you again P
There's for you ; ” and struck him a blow. Sebas-
tian was no coward ; he returned the blow with in-
terest, and drew his sword.
A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia
came out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebas-
tian 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 sur-
prised at the courtesy of this lady as at the rude-
ness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly
into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find
Cesario (as she thought him) become more sensible
of her attentions; for though their features were
exactly the same, there was none of the contempt
and anger to be seen in his face, which she had
complained of when she told her love to Cesario.
Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness
the lady lavished on him. He seemed to take it
(ſwelftb ſºligbt 26 I
in very good part, yet he wondered how it had come
to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia
was not in her right senses; but perceiving that she
was mistress of a fine house, and that she ordered
her affairs and seemed to govern her family dis-
creetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him
she appeared in the full possession of her reason,
he well approved of the courtship ; and Olivia
finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing
he might change his mind, proposed that, as she
had a priest in the house, they should be instantly
married. Sebastian assented to this proposal ; and
when the marriage ceremony was over, he left his
lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his
friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met
with. In the meantime Orsino came to visit
Olivia ; and at the moment he arrived before
Olivia's house, the officers of justice brought their
prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was
with Orsino, her master; and when Antonio saw
Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he
told the duke in what manner he had rescued this
youth from the perils of the sea; and after fully
relating all the kindness he had really shown to
Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying, that
for three months, both day and night, this ungrate-
ful youth had been with him. But now the lady
Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could
no longer attend to Antonio's story; and he said,
“Here comes the countess : now Heaven walks on
earth ! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness.
Three months has this youth attended on me ; ”
and then he ordered Antonio to be taken aside.
262 Caleg from $5bakgpeate
But Orsino's heavenly countess soon gave the duke
cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as
Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear
Olivia speak were words of kindness to Cesario :
and when he found his page had obtained this high
place in Olivia's favour he threatened him with all
the terrors of his just revenge ; and as he was going
to depart, he called Viola to follow him, saying,
“Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for
mischief.” Though it seemed in his jealous rage
he was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet
her love made her no longer a coward, and she
said she’would most joyfully suffer death to give
her master ease. But Olivia would not so lose her
husband, and she cried, “Where goes my Cesario?”
‘Viola replied, “After him I love more than my
life.” Olivia, however, prevented their departure
by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her hus-
band, 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 evi-
dence of that lady and the priest made Orsino
believe that his page had robbed him of the trea-
sure 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
* Cwelftb ||aigbt 263
at seeing two persons with the same face, the same
voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister
began to question each other; for Viola could
scarce be persuaded that her brother was living,
and Sebastian knew not how to account for the
sister he supposed drowned being found in the
habit of a young man. But Viola presently ac-
knowledged that she was indeed Viola, and his
sister, under that disguise.
When all the errors were cleared up which the
extreme likeness between this twin brother and
sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady
Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in
falling in love with a woman ; and Olivia showed
no dislike to her exchange, when she found she
had wedded the brother instead of the sister.
The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by
this marriage of Olivia, and with his hopes, all his
fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and all his
thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite,
young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He
viewed Viola with great attention, and he remem-
bered 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 remem-
bered how often she had said she loved him, which
at the time seemed only the dutiful expression of a
faithful page ; but now he guessed that something
more was meant, for many of her pretty sayings,
which were like riddles to him, came now into his
mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things
than he resolved to make Viola his wife ; and he
said to her (he still could not help calling her
264 Caleg from 5baR3peate
Cesario and boy), “Boy, you have said to me a
thousand times that you should never love a woman
like to me, and for the faithful service you have
done for me so much beneath your soft" and tender
breeding, and since you have called me master so
long, you shall now be your master's mistress, and
Orsino's true duchess.”
Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that
heart, which she had so ungraciously rejected, to
Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered
the assistance of the good priest, who had married
her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the
same ceremony in the remaining part of the day for
Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister
were both wedded on the same day: the storm and
shipwreck, which had separated them, being the
means of bringing to pass their high and mighty
fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the duke
of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich
and noble countess, the lady Olivia. $º:
TIMON OF ATHENS.
IMON, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of
a princely fortune, affected a humour of liber-
ality which knew no limits. His almost infinite
wealth could not flow in so fast, but he poured it
out faster upon all sorts and degrees of people.
Not the poor only tasted of his bounty, but great
lords did not disdain to rank themselves among his
dependants and followers. His table was resorted:
to by all the luxurious feasters, and his house was
open to all comers and goers at Athens. His large
wealth combined with his free and prodigal nature
to subdue all hearts to his love ; men of all minds
and dispositions tendered their services to lord
Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose face
reflects as in a mirror the present humour of his
patron, to the rough and unbending cynic, who,
affecting a contempt of men's persons, and an indif-
ference 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
(265)
266 (Vale3 from 5bakópeate
recommendatory introduction to the world, he had
no more to do but to dedicate it to lord Timon,
and the poem was sure of sale, besides a present
purse from the patron, and daily access to his house
and table. If a painter had a picture to dispose
of, he had only to take it to lord Timon, and pre-
tend to consult his taste as to the merits of it ;
nothing more was wanting to persuade the liberal-
hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller had a stone
of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for
their costliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon’s
house was a ready mart always open, where they
might get off their wares or their jewellery at any
price, and the good-natured lord would thank them
into the bargain, as if they had done him a piece
of courtesy in letting him have the refusal of such
precious commodities. So that by this means his
house was thronged with superfluous purchases, of
no use but to swell uneasy and Ostentatious pomp ;
and his person was still more inconveniently beset
with a crowd of these idle visitors, lying poets,
painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy
courtiers, and expectants, who continually filled his
lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in whispers
in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation as to
a God, making sacred the very stirrup by which he
mounted his horse, and seeming as though they
drank the free air but through his permission and
bounty.
Some of these daily dependants were young men
of birth, who (their means not answering to their
extravagance) had been put in prison by creditors,
and redeemed thence by lord Timon ; these young
QūimOn Of Eltheng 267
prodigals thenceforward fastened upon his lordship,
as if by common sympathy he were necessarily en-
deared to all such spendthrifts and loose livers,
who, not being able to follow him in his wealth,
found it easier to copy him in prodigality and
copious spending of what was not their own. One
of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose debts,
unjustly contracted, Timon but lately had paid down
the sum of five talents.
But among this confluence, this great flood of
visitors, none were more conspicuous than the
makers of presents and givers of gifts. It was fortu-
nate 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 con-
pliments of the giver for lord Timon’s acceptance,
and apologies for the unworthiness of the gift ; and
this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, did not
fail to produce from Timon’s bounty, who would
not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or
horses, certainly presents of far richer worth, as
these pretended donors knew well enough, and that
their false presents were but the putting out of so
much money at large and speedy interest. In this
way lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a present
of four milk-white horses trapped in silver, which
this cunning lord had observed Timon upon some
occasion to commend ; and another lord, Lucullus,
had bestowed upon him in the same pretended way
of free gift a brace of greyhounds, whose make and
fleetness Timon had been heard to admire ; these
presents the easy-hearted lord accepted without sus-
268 Caleg from 5bakgpeate
picion 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 arti-
fice, which yet the credulous Timon was too blind
to see, would affect to admire and praise something
that Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought,
or some late purchase, which was sure to draw from
this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing
commended, for no service in the world done for it
but the easy expense of a little cheap and obvious
flattery. In this way Timon but the other day had
given to one of these mean lords the bay courser
which he himself rode upon, because his lordship
had been pleased to say that it was a handsome
beast and went well ; and Timon knew that no man
ever justly praised what he did not wish to possess.
For lord Timon weighed his friends' affection with
his own, and so fond was he of bestowing, that he
could have dealt kingdoms to these supposed friends,
and never have been weary.
Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these
wicked flatterers; he could do noble and praise-
worthy actions; and when a servant of his once
loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not
hope to obtain her by reason that in wealth and rank
the maid was so far above him, lord Timon freely
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
Oſim On Of Eitbel13 269
--~~
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 for-
tune 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 kind-
ness, and poured out his bounty, as if Plutus, the
god of gold, had been but his steward ; while thus
he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of
expense that he would neither inquire how he
could maintain it, nor cease his wild flow of riot ;
his riches, which were not infinite, must needs
melt away before a prodigality which knew no
limits. But who should tell him so P his flatterers?
they had an interest in shutting his eyes. In vain
did his honest steward Flavius try to represent to
him his condition, laying his accounts before him,
begging of him, praying of him, with an importunity
that on any other occasion would have been un-
mannerly in a servant, beseeching him with tears
27o Caleg from 5bak9peate
|
to look into the state of his affairs. Timon would
still put him off, and turn the discourse to some-
thing else; for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as
riches turned to poverty, nothing is so unwilling to
believe its situation, nothing so incredulous to its
own true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse.
Often had this good steward, this honest creature,
when all the rooms of Timon's great house have
been choked up with riotous feeders at his master’s
cost, when the floors have wept with drunken spill-
ing of wine, and every apartment has blazed with
lights and resounded with music and feasting, often
had he retired by himself to some solitary spot and
wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful
casks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord,
and to think, when the means were gone which
brought him praises from all sorts of people, how
quickly the breath would be gone of which the
praise was made ; praises won in feasting would be
lost in fasting, and at one cloud of winter-showers
these flies would disappear.
But now the time was come that Timon could
shut his ears no longer to the representations of
this faithful steward. Money must be had ; and
when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land
for that purpose, Flavius informed him, what he
had in vain endeavoured at several times before to
make him listen to, that most of his land was
already sold or forfeited, and that all he possessed
at present was not enough to pay the one half of
what he owed. Struck with wonder at this repre-
sentation, Timon hastily replied, “My lands extend
from Athens to Lacedaemon. ” “O my good
Cimon of Eltheng 27I
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 every man’s fortune (that had ever
tasted his bounty) in this extremity, as freely as
his own. Then with a cheerfül look, as if confi-
dent of the trial, he severally despatched messengers
to lord Lucius, to lords Lucullus and Sempronius,
men upon whom he had lavished his gifts in past
times without measure or moderation ; and to
Ventidius, whom he had lately released out of
prison by paying his debts, and who, by the death
of his father, was now come into the possession of an
ample fortune, and well enabled to requite Timon’s
courtesy: to request of Ventidius the return of
those five talents which he had paid for him, and
of each of those noble lords the loan of fifty talents;
nothing doubting that their gratitude would supply
his wants (if he needed it) to the amount of five
hundred times fifty talents.
Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean
lord had been dreaming overnight of a silver bason
and cup, and when Timon's servant was announced,
his sordid mind suggested to him that this was
272 Caleø from 5bakgpeate
surely a making out of his dream, and that Timon
had sent him such a present: but when he under-
stood the truth of the matter, and that Timon
wanted money, the quality of his faint and watery
friendship showed itself, for with many protestations
he vowed to the servant that he had long foreseen
the ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time
had he come to dinner to tell him of it, and had
come again to supper to try to persuade him to
spend less, but he would take no counsel nor
warning by his coming : and true it was that he
had been a constant attender (as he said) at Timon's
feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his bounty;
but that he ever came with that intent, or gave
good counsel or reproof to Timon, was a base un-
worthy lie, which he suitably followed up with
meanly offering the servant a bribe, to go home to
his master and tell him that he had not found
Lucullus at home.
As little success had the messenger who was
sent to lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was full
of Timon's meat, and enriched almost to bursting
with Timon's costly presents, when he found the
wind changed, and the fountain of so much bounty
suddenly stopped, at first could hardly believe it;
but on its being confirmed, he affected great regret
that he should not have it in his power to serve
lord Timon, for unfortunately (which was a base
falsehood) he had made a great purchase the day
before, which had quite disfurnished him of the
means at present, the more beast he, he called
himself, to put it out of his power to serve so good
a friend ; and he counted it one of his greatest
Oſim On Of Eitbøng 273
afflictions that his ability should fail him to pleasure
such an honourable gentleman.
Who can call any man friend that dips in the same
dish with him P just of this metal is every flatterer.
In the recollection of everybody Timon had been a
father to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with
his purse ; Timon’s money had gone to pay the
wages of his servants, to pay the hire of the
labourers who had sweat to build the fine houses
which Lucius's pride had made necessary to him:
yet, oh! the monster which man makes himself
when he proves ungrateful this Lucius now denied
to Timon a sum, which, in respect of what Timon
had bestowed on him, was less than charitable men
afford to beggars.
Sempromius, and every one of these mercenary
lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, returned
the same evasive answer or direct denial ; even
Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius,
refused to assist him with the loan of those five
talents which Timon had not lent but generously
given him in his distress. ”
Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty
as he had been courted and resorted to in his riches.
Now the same tongues which had been loudest in
his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and
open-handed, were not ashamed to censure that
very bounty as folly, that liberality as profuseness,
though it had shown itself folly in nothing so truly
as in the selection of Such unworthy creatures as
themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's
princely mansion forsaken, and become a shunned
and hated place, a place for men to pass by, not a
I8
274 Caleg from 5baRøpeate
$
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, mort-
gages; iron-hearted men that would take no denial
nor putting off, that Timon’s house was now his
jail, which he could not pass, nor go in nor out for
them ; one demanding his due of fifty talents,
another bringing in a bill of five thousand crowns,
which if he would tell out his blood by drops, and
pay them so, he had not enough in his body to
discharge, drop by drop.
In this desperate and irremediable state (as it
seemed) of his affairs, the eyes of all men were sud-
denly 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 ac-
Customed guests, lords, ladies, all that was great or
fashionable in Athens. Lords Lucius and Lucullus
came, Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who
more Sorry now than these fawning wretches, when
they found (as they thought) that lord Timon's
poverty was all pretence, and had been only put
on to make trial of their loves, to think that they
should not have seen through the artifice at the
time, and have had the cheap credit of obliging
his lordship 2 yet who more glad to find the foun-
tain of that noble bounty, which they had thought
dried up, still fresh and running P They came dis-
sembling, protesting, expressing deepest Sorrow and
shame, that when his lordship sent to them, they
Cimon of Eitbeng 275
should have been so unfortunate as to want the
present means to oblige so honourable a friend.
But Timon begged them not to give such trifles a
thought, for he had altogether forgotten it. And
these base fawning lords, though they had denied
him money in his adversity, yet could not refuse
their presence at this new blaze of his returning
prosperity. For the swallow follows not summer
more willingly than men of these dispositions follow
the good fortunes of the great, nor more willingly
leaves winter than these shrink from the first appear-
ance of a reverse ; such summer birds are men.
But now with music and state the banquet of smok-
ing dishes was served up ; and when the guests had
a little done admiring whence the bankrupt Timon
could find means to furnish so costly a feast, some
doubting whether the scene which they saw was
real, as scarce trusting their own eyes; at a signal
given, the dishes were uncovered, and Timon’s
drift appeared: instead of those varieties and far-
fetched dainties which they expected, that Timon’s
epicurean table in past times had so liberally pre-
sented, now appeared under the covers of these
dishes a preparation more suitable to Timon's
poverty, nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm
water, fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose
professions were indeed smoke, and their hearts
lukewarm and slippery as the water with which
Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding
them, “Uncover, dogs, and lap ; ’’ and before they
could recover their surprise, sprinkling it in their
faces, that they might have enough, and throwing
dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling
276 Caleg from 5bakópeate
out, lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in
haste, a splendid confusion, Timon pursuing them,
still calling them what they were, “smooth smiling
parasites, destroyers under the mask of courtesy,
affable wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, feast
friends, time-flies.” They, crowding out to avoid
him, left the house more willingly than they had
entered it ; Some losing their gowns and caps, and
Some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape
out of the presence of such a mad lord, and from
the ridicule of his mock banquet.
This was the last feast which ever Timon made,
and in it he took farewell of Athens and the society
of men ; for, after that, he betook himself to the
woods, turning his back upon the hated city and
upon all mankind, wishing the walls of that detest-
able city might sink, and the houses fall upon their
owners, wishing all plagues which infest humanity,
war, outrage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon
its inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound
all Athenians, both young and old, high and low ;
so wishing, he went to the woods, where he said he
should find the unkindest beast much kinder than
mankind. He stripped himself naked, that he
might retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave
to live in, and lived solitary in the manner of a
beast, eating the wild roots, and drinking water,
flying from the face of his kind, and choosing rather
to herd with wild beasts, as more harmless and
friendly than man.
What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord
Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon the naked,
Timon the man-hater | Where were his flatterers
QVimon of Eitbeng 277
now P Where were his attendants and retinue P
. Would the bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his
chamberlain, to put his shirt on warm P Would
those stiff trees that had outlived the eagle, turn
'young and airy pages to him, to skip on his errands
when he bade them P 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 P Or would the creatures that lived in
those wild woods come and lick his hand and flatter
him P
Here on a day, when he was digging for roots,
his poor sustenance, his spade struck against Some-
thing 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 Con-
cealment ; so it lay, doing neither good nor harm,
in the bowels of the earth, its mother, as if it had
never come from thence, till the accidental striking
of Timon's spade against it once more brought it to
light. . .
Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon had
retained his old mind, was enough to have purchased
him friends and flatterers again ; but Timon was sick
of the false world, and the sight of gold was poison-
ous to his eyes; and he would have restored it to
the earth, but that, thinking of the infinite calami-
ties which by means of gold happen to mankind,
how the lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, in-
justice, briberies, violence, and murder, among men,
he had a pleasure in imagining (such a rooted hatred
278 Caleg from 5bak3peate
did he bear to his species) that out of this heap,
which in digging he had discovered, might arise
Some mischief to plague mankind. And some
Soldiers passing through the woods near to his cave
at that instant, which proved to be a part of the
troops of the Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon
Some disgust taken against the Senators of Athens
(the Athenians were ever noted to be a thankless
and ungrateful people, giving disgust to their gene-
rals and best friends), was marching at the head of
the same triumphant army which he had formerly
headed in their defence, to war against them; Timon,
who liked their business well, bestowed upon their
Captain the gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no
other service from him, than that he should with his
conquering army lay Athens level with the ground,
and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants; not sparing
the old men for their white beards, for (he said)
they were usurers, nor the young children for their
seeming innocent smiles, for those (he said) would
live, if they grew up, to be traitors; but to steel his
eyes and ears against any sights or sounds that
might awaken compassion ; and not to let the cries
of virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him from mak-
ing one universal massacre of the city, but to con-
found them all in his conquest ; and when he had
conquered, he prayed that the gods would confound
him also, the conqueror : so thoroughly did Timon
hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind.
While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life
more brutal than human, he was suddenly surprised
one day with the appearance of a man standing in
an admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was
(ſimon Of Eltbeng 279
Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous
affection to his master had led to seek him out at
his wretched dwelling, and to offer his services;
and the first sight of his master, the once noble
Timon, in that abject condition, naked as he was
born, living in the manner of a beast among beasts,
looking like his own sad ruins and a monument of
decay, so affected this good servant, that he stood
speechless, wrapped up in horror, and confounded.
And when he found utterance at last to his words,
they were so choked with tears, that Timon had
much ado to know him again, or to make out who
it was that had come (so contrary to the experience
he had had of mankind) to offer him service in ex-
tremity. And being in the form and shape of a
man, he suspected him for a traitor, and his tears
for false ; but the good servant by so many tokens
confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and made it clear
that nothing but love and zealous duty to his once
dear master had brought him there, that Timon was
forced to confess that the world contained one
honest man ; yet, being in the shape and form of a
man, he could not look upon his man’s face without
abhorrence, or hear words uttered from his man’s
lips without loathing ; and this singly honest man
was forced to depart, because he was a man, and be-
cause, with a heart more gentle and compassionate
than is usual to man, he bore man's detested form
and outward feature.
But greater visitants than a poor steward were
about to interrupt the savage quiet of Timon's soli-
tude. For now the day was come when the un-
grateful lords of Athens Sorely repented the injus-
28o Cale3 from 5baR3peate
tice which they had done to the noble Timon. For
Alcibiades, like an incensed wild boar, was raging
at the walls of their city, and with his hot siege
threatened to lay fair Athens in the dust. And now
the memory of lord Timon's former prowess and
military conduct came fresh into their forgetful
minds, for Timon had been their general in past
times, and a valiant and expert soldier, who alone
of all the Athenians was deemed able to cope with
a besieging army such as then threatened them, or
to drive back the furious approaches of Alcibiades.
A deputation of the senators was chosen in this
emergency to wait upon Timon. To him they come
in their extremity, to whom, when he was in ex-
tremity, 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
treatnent.
Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him
with tears, to return and save that city, from which
their ingratitude had so lately driven him; now they
offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for
past injuries, and public honours, and the public
love ; their persons, lives, and fortunes, to be at his
disposal, if he will but come back and save them.
But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was
no longer lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower
of valour, their defence in war, their ornament in
peace. If Alcibiades killed his countrymen, Timon
cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her
old men and her infants, Timon would rejoice. So
he told them ; and that there was not a knife in
Cimon of Eſtbøng 281
the unruly camp which he did not prize above the
reverendest throat in Athens.
This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the
weeping disappointed Senators; only at parting he
bade them commend him to his countrymen, and
tell them, that to ease them of their griefs and
anxieties, and to prevent the consequences of fierce .
Alcibiades’ wrath, there was yet a way left, which
he would teach them, for he had yet so much affec-
tion left for his dear countrymen as to be willing
to do them a kindness before his death. These
words a little revived the senators, who hoped that
his kindness for their city was returning. Then
Timon told them that he had a tree, which grew
near his cave, which he should shortly have occa-
sion to cut down, and he invited all his friends in
Athens, high or low, of what degree soever, who
wished to shun affliction, to come and take a taste
of his tree before he cut it down ; meaning, that
they might come and hang themselves on it, and
escape affliction that way.
And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble
bounties, which Timon showed to mankind, and this
the last sight of him which his countrymen had : for
not many days after, a poor soldier passing by the
sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the
woods which Timon frequented, found a tomb on
the verge of the sea, with an inscription upon it
purporting that it was the grave of Timon the man-
hater, who “While he lived, did hate all living men,
and dying wished a plague might consume all caitiffs
left '' *
Whether he finished his life by violence, or
282 Caſeg from $bakópeate
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 had made of the sea-beach for his place of
burial, where the vast sea might weep for ever upon
his grave, as in contempt of the transient and shal-
low tears of hypocritical and deceitful mankind.
º
ROMEO AND JULIET.
HE two chief families in Verona were the rich
Capulets and the Montagues. There had
been an old quarrel between these families,
which was grown to such a height, and so deadly
was the enmity between them, that it extended to
the remotest kindred, to the followers and retainers
of both sides, insomuch that a servant of the house
of Montague could not meet a servant of the house
of Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter with a Mon-
tague by chance, but fierce words and sometimes
bloodshed ensued; and frequent were the brawls
from such accidental meetings, which disturbed the
happy quiet of Verona’s streets.
Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which
many fair ladies and many noble guests were invited.
All the admired beauties of Verona were present,
and all comers were made welcome if they were
not of the house of Montague. At this feast of
Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the
old lord Montague, was present ; and though it
was dangerous for a Montague to be seen in this
assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, per-
suaded the young lord to go to this assembly in
the disguise of a mask, that he might see his Rosa-
(283)
284 Cale3 from $bakgpeate
line, and seeing her, compare her with some choice
beauties of Verona, who (he said) would make him
think his swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in
Benvolio’s words; nevertheless, for the love of
Rosaline, he was persuaded to go. For Romeo
was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that
lost his sleep for love, and fled society to be alone,
thinking on Rosaline, who disdained him, and
never requited his love with the least show of cour-
tesy or affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his
friend of this love by showing him diversity of ladies
and company. To this feast of Capulets then young
Romeo with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio
went masked. Old Capulet bid them welcome, and
told them that ladies who had their toes unplagued
with corns would dance with them. And the old
man was light-hearted and merry, and said that he
had worn a mask when he was young, and could
have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear.
And they fell to dancing, and Romco was suddenly
struck with the exceeding beauty of a lady who
danced there, who seemed to him to teach the
torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by
night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor;
beauty too rich for use, too dear for earth ! like a
snowy dove trooping with crows (he said), so richly
did her beauty and perfections shine above the
ladies her companions. While he uttered these
praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of
lord Capulet, who knew him by his voice to be
Romeo. And this Tybalt, being of a fiery and
passionate temper, could not endure that a Mon-
tague should come under cover of a mask, to fleer
iRomeo amo 3 uliet 285
and scorn (as he said) at their solemnities. And
he stormed and raged exceedingly, and would have
struck young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the
old lord Capulet, would not suffer him to do any
injury at that time, both out of respect to his guests,
and because Romeo had borne himself like a
gentleman, and all tongues in Verona bragged of
him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth.
Tybalt, forced to be patient against his will, re-
strained 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 favour of
his masking habit, which might seem to excuse in
part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest man-
ner to take her by the hand, calling it a shrine,
which if he profaned by touching it, he was a blush-
ing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atonement.
“Good pilgrim,” answered the lady, “ your devotion
shows by far too mannerly and too courtly : Saints
have hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss
not.”—“Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?”
said Romeo. “Ay,” said the lady, “lips which they
must use in prayer.”—“O then, my dear saint,”
said Romeo, “hear my prayer, and grant it, lest
I despair.” In such like allusions and loving con-
ceits they were engaged, when the lady was called
away to her mother. And Romeo inquiring who
her mother was, discovered that the lady whose
peerless beauty he was so much struck with, was
young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet,
the great enemy of the Montagues; and that he
had unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe.
286 Caleø from 5bakópeate
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 inconsider-
ate passion for Romeo, which he had conceived
for her ; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed
to her, that she must love her enemy, and that her
affections should settle there, where family considera-
tions should induce her chiefly to hate.
It being midnight, Romeo with his companions
departed ; but they soon missed him, for, unable to
stay away from the house where he had left his
heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was
at the back of Juliet's house. Here he had not
been long, ruminating on his new love, when Juliet
appeared above at a window, through which her
exceeding beauty seemed to break like the light of
the sun in the east ; and the moon, which shone
in the orchard with a faint light, appeared to Romeo
as if sick and pale with grief at the superior lustre
of this new sun. And she, leaning her cheek upon
her hand, he passionately wished himself a glove
upon that hand, that he might touch her cheek.
She all this while thinking herself alone, fetched a
deep sigh, and exclaimed, “Ah me !” Romeo,
enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and un-
heard by her, “O speak again, bright angel, for
Such you appear, being over my head, like a winged
messenger from heaven whom mortals fall back to
gaze upon.” She, unconscious of being overheard,
and full of the new passion which that night's adven-
turn had given birth to, called upon her lover by
TRomeo ano 3 uſićt 287
*
name (whom she supposed absent): “O Romeo,
Romeo! ” said she, “wherefore art thou Romeo P
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 Mon-
tague, and wishing him some other name, or that
he would put away that hated name, and for that
name which was no part of himself, he should take
all herself. At this loving word Romeo could
no longer refrain, but taking up the dialogue as if
her words had been addressed to him personally,
and not merely in fancy, he bade her call him
Love, or by whatever other name she pleased, for
he was no longer Romeo, if that name was dis-
pleasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear a man’s
voice in the garden, did not at first know who it
was, that by favour of the night and darkness had
thus stumbled upon the discovery of her secret;
but when he spoke again, though her ears had not
yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's utter-
ing, yet so nice is a lover's hearing, that she
immediately knew him to be young Romeo, and
she expostulated with him on the danger to which
he had exposed himself by climbing the orchard
walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find him
there, it would be death to him, being a Montague.
“Alack,” said Romeo, “there is more peril in your
eye, than in twenty of their swords. Do you but
look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof against
|
288 Caleg from 5bakópeate
their enmity. Better my life should be ended by
their hate, than that hated life should be prolonged,
to live without your love.”—“How came you into
this place,” said Juliet, “ and by whose direction ?”
—“Love directed me,’’ answered Romeo : “I am
no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that
vast shore which is washed with the farthest sea,
I should venture for such merchandise.” A crimson
blush came over Juliet's face, yet unseen by Romeo
by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the
discovery which she had made, yet not meaning to
make it, of her love to Romeo. She would fain
have recalled her words, but that was impossible:
fain would she have stood upon form, and have
kept her lover at a distance, as the custom of dis.
creet ladies is, to frown and be perverse, and give
their suitors harsh denials at first ; to stand off, and
affect a coyness or indifference, where they most
love, that their lovers may not think them too lightly
or too easily won ; for the difficulty of attainment
increases the value of the object. But there was
no room in her case for denials, or puttings off, or
any of the customary arts of delay and protracted
courtship. 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 frank-
ness, which the novelty of her situation excused, she
confirmed the truth of what he had before heard,
and addressing him by the name of fair Montague
(love can sweeten a sour name), she begged him
not to impute her easy yielding to levity or an un-
worthy mind, but that he must lay the fault of it
(if it were a fault) upon the accident of the night
iRomeo an O 3 uſiet tº 289
which had so strangely discovered her thoughts.
And she added, that though her behaviour to him
might not be sufficiently prudent, measured by the
custom of her sex, yet that she would prove more
true than many whose prudence was dissembling,
and their modesty artificial cunning.
Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to wit-
ness, that nothing was farther from his thoughts
than to impute a shadow of dishonour to such an
honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging him
not to swear; for although she joyed in him, yet
she had no joy of that night’s contract : it was too
rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But he being
urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with him
that night, she said that she already had given him
hers before he requested it; meaning, when he
overheard her confession ; but she would retract
what she then bestowed, for the pleasure of giving
it again, for her bounty was as infinite as the sea,
and her love as deep. From this loving conference
she was called away by her nurse, who slept with
her, and thought it time for her to be in bed, for
it was near to daybreak ; but hastily returning, she
said three or four words more to Romeo, the purs
port of which was, that if his love was indeed
honourable, and his purpose marriage, she would
send a messenger to him to-morrow, to appoint a
time for their marriage, when she would lay all her
fortunes at his feet, and follow him as her lord
through the world. While they were settling this
i
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
I9
26
290 Caleg from 5pakgpeate
from her, as a young girl of her bird, which she
will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it
back with a silken thread; and Romeo was as loath
to part as she ; for the sweetest music to lovers is
the sound of each other's tongues at night. But at
last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and
rest for that night.
The day was breaking when they parted, and
Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of his mistress
and that blessed meeting to allow him to sleep, in-
stead of going home, bent his course to a monastery
hard by, to find friar Lawrence. The good friar
was already up at his devotions, but seeing young
Romeo abroad so early, he conjectured rightly that
he had not been abed that night, but that some
distemper of youthful affection had kept him wak-
ing. He was right in imputing the cause of
Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he made a wrong
guess at the object, for he thought that his love for
Rosaline had kept him waking. But when Romeo
revealed his new passion for Juliet, and requested
the assistance of the friar to marry them that day,
the holy man lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort.
of wonder at the sudden change in Romeo's affec-
tions, for he had been privy to all Romeo's love for
Rosaline, and his many complaints of her disdain :
and he said, that young men's love lay not truly
in their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo
replying, that he himself had often chidden him for
doting on Rosaline, who could not love him again,
whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by him,
the friar assented in some measure to his reasons;
and thinking that a matrimonial alliance between
TROmeo and 3 uſict 291
|
young Juliet and Romeo might happily be the
means of making up the long breach between the
Capulets and the Montagues; which no one more
lamented than this good friar, who was a friend to
both the families and had often interposed his
mediation to make up the quarrel without effect;
partly moved by policy, and partly by his fondness
for young Romeo, to whom he could deny nothing,
the old man consented to join their hands in mar-
riage.
Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who
knew his intent from a messenger which she had de-
spatched according to promise, did not fail to be
early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands
were joined in holy marriage; the good friar pray-
ing the heavens to smile upon that act, and in the
union of this young Montague and young Capulet
to bury the old strife and long dissensions of their
families.
The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home,
where she stayed impatient for the coming of night,
at which time Romeo promised to come and meet
her in the orchard, where they had met the night
before ; and the time between seemed as tedious to
her, as the night before some great festival seems to
an impatient child, that has got new finery which it
may not put on till the morning.
That same day, about noon, Romeo's friends,
Benvolio and Mercutio, walking through the streets
of Verona, were met by a party of the Capulets
with the impetuous Tybalt at their head. This
was the same angry Tybalt who would have fought
with Romeo at old lord Capulet’s feast. He,
292 x Caleg from 5bałłópeate
seeing Mercutio, accused him bluntly of associating
with Romeo, a Montague. Mercutio, who had as
much fire and youthful blood in him as Tybalt, re-
plied to this accusation with some sharpness; and
in spite of all Benvolio could say to moderate their
wrath, a quarrel was beginning, when Romeo him-
self passing that way, the fierce Tybalt turned from
Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful
appellation of villaih. Romeo wished to avoid a
quarrel with Tybalt above all men, because he was
the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved by her;
besides, this young Montague had never thoroughly
entered into the family quarrel, being by nature
wise and gentle, and the name of a Capulet, which
was his dear lady's name, was now rather a charm
to allay resentment, than a watchword to excite
fury. So he tried to reason with Tybalt, whom he
saluted mildly by the name of good Capulet, as if
he, though a Montague, had some secret pleasure
in uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all
Montagues as he hated hell, would hear no reason,
but drew his weapon ; and Mercutio, who knew
not of Romeo's secret motive for desiring peace
with Tybalt, but looked upon his present forbear-
ance as a sort of calm dishonourable submission,
with many disdainful words provoked Tybalt to
the prosecution of his first quarrel with him ; and
Tybalt and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio fell,
receiving his death's wound while Romeo and
Benvolio were vainly endeavouring to part the com-
batants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo kept his tem-
per no longer, but returned the scornful appellation
of villain which Tybalt had given him ; and they
TRomeo ano 3-uIíet 293
fought till Tybalt was slain by Romeo. This deadly
broil falling out in the midst of Verona at noonday,
the news of it quickly brought a crowd of citizens
to the spot, and among them the old lords Capulet
and Montague, with their wives; and soon after
arrived the prince himself, who being related to
Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and having had
the peace of his government often disturbed by
these brawls of Montagues and Capulets, came
determined to put the law in strictest force against
those who should be found to be offenders. Ben-
volio, who had been eyewitness to the fray, was
commanded by the prince to relate the origin of it;
which he did, keeping as near the truth as he could
without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing
the part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet,
whose extreme grief for the loss of her kinsman
Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her revenge,
exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his
murderer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio's
representation, who, being Romeo's friend and a
Montague, spoke partially. Thus she pleaded
against her new son-in-law, but she knew not yet
that he was her son-in-law and Juliet's husband.
On the other hand was to be seen lady Montague
pleading for her child's life, and arguing with some
justice that Romeo had done nothing worthy of
punishment in taking the life of Tybalt, which was
already forfeited to the law by his having slain
Mercutio. The prince, unmoved by the passionate
exclamations of these women, on a careful examin-
ation of the facts, pronounced his sentence, and
by that sentence Romeo was banished from Verona.
*
294 Caleg from 5bakgpeate
Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but
a few hours a bride, and now by this decree seemed
everlastingly divorced . When the tidings reached
her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo,
who had slain her dear cousin : she called him a
beautiful tyrant, a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove,
a lamb with a wolf's nature, a serpent-heart hid
with a flowering face, and other like contradictory
names, which denoted the struggles in her mind
between her love and her resentment : but in the
end love got the mastery, and the tears which she
shed for grief that Romeo had slain her cousin,
turned to drops of joy that her husband lived whom
Tybalt would have slain. Then came fresh tears,
and they were , altogether of grief for Romeo's
banishment. That word was more terrible to her
than the death of many Tybalts.
Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar
Lawrence's cell, where he was first made acquainted
with the prince's sentence, which seemed to him far
more terrible than death. To him it appeared
there was no world out of Verona’s walls, no living
out of the sight of Juliet. Heaven was there where
Juliet lived and all beyond was purgatory, torture,
hell. The good friar would have applied the con-
solation of philosophy to his grief: but this frantic
young man would hear of none, but like a madman
he tore his hair, and threw himself all along upon
the ground, as he said, to take the measure of his
grave. From this unseemly state he was roused by
a message from his dear lady, which a little revived
him; and then the friar took the advantage to ex-
postulate with him on the unmanly weakness which
4
}
TRomeo ano. 3 uliet 295
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 banish-
ment. He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have
slain him : there was a sort of happiness in that.
Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) had become
his dear wife; therein he was most happy. All these
blessings, as the friar made them out to be, did
Romeo put from him like a sullen misbehaved wench.
And the friar bade him beware, for such as de-
spaired (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
fit occasion to publish his marriage, which might be
a joyful means of reconciling their families; and
then he did not doubt but the prince would be moved
to pardon him, and he would return with twenty
times more joy than he went forth with grief.
Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the
friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lady,
proposing to stay with her that night, and by day-
break pursue his journey alone to Mantua; to which
place the good friar promised to send him letters
from time to time, acquainting him with the state
of affairs at home.
That night Romeo passed with his dear wife,
gaining secret admission to her chamber, from the
296 (Vaſcº from 5bakepeate
orchard in which he had heard her confession of love
the night before. That had been a night of un-
mixed 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 pros
-pect of parting, and the fatal adventures of the past
day. The unwelcome daybreak seemed to come
too soon, and when Juliet heard the morning song
of the lark, she would have persuaded herself
that it was the nightingale, which sings by night ;
but it was too truly the lark which sang, and a
discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her ;
and the streaks of day in the east too certainly
pointed out that it was time for these lovers to part.
Romeo took his leave of his dear wife with a heavy
heart, promising to write to her from Mantua every
hour in the day; and when he had descended from
her chamber-window, as he stood below her on the
ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in
which she was, he appeared to her eyes as one dead
in the bottom of a tomb. Romeo's mind misgave
him in like manner; but now he was forced hastily
to depart, for it was death for him to be found
within the walls of Verona after daybreak.
This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this
pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been
gone many days, before the old lord Capulet pro-
posed a match for Juliet. The husband he had
chosen for her, not dreaming that she was married
already, was count Paris, a gallant, young, and noble
gentleman, no unworthy suitor to the young Juliet,
if she had never seen Romeo.
The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her
iRomeo amo 3 uſićt 297
father's offer. She pleaded her youth unsuitable to
marriage, the recent death of Tybalt, which had left
her spirits too weak to meet a husband with any
face of joy, and how indecorous it would show for
the family of the Capulets to be celebrating a nup-
tial feast, when his funeral solemnities were hardly
over : she pleaded every reason against the match,
but the true one, namely, that she was married al-
ready. But lord Capulet was deaf to all her ex-
cuses, 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 hus-
band, rich, young, and noble, such as the proudest
maid in Verona might joyfully accept, he could not
bear that out of an aſſected coyness, as he construed
her denial, she should oppose obstacles to her own
good fortune.
In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly
friar, always her counsellor in distress, and he ask-
ing her if she had resolution to undertake a des-
perate 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; and when the bridegroom
came to fetch her in the morning, he would find her
to appearance dead ; that then she would be borne,
as the manner in that country was, uncovered on a
298 Caleg from 5bakópeate
bier, to be buried in the family vault; that if she
could put off womanish fear, and consent to this
terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the
liquid (such was its certain operation) she would be
sure to awake, as from a dream ; and before she
should awake, he would let her husband know their
drift, and he should come in the night, and bear her
thence to Mantua. Love, and the dread of marry-
ing Paris, gave young Juliet strength to undertake
this horrible adventure; and she took the phial of
the friar, promising to observe his directions.
Going from the monastery, she met the young
count Paris, and modestly dissembling, promised to
become his bride. This was joyful news to the lord
Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth into
the old man ; and Juliet, who had displeased him
exceedingly, by her refusal of the count, was his
darling again, now she promised to be obedient.
All things in the house were in a bustle against the
approaching nuptials. No cost was spared to pre-
pare such festival rejoicings as Verona had never be-
fore witnessed.
On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the po-
tion. 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
*
TRomeo ano. 3 uliet 299
of spirits haunting the places where their bodies
were bestowed. But then her love for Romeo,
and her aversion for Paris returned, and she
desperately swallowed the draught, and became in-
sensible.
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 detest-
able death had beguiled him of, had divorced from
him even before their hands were joined. But still
more piteous it was to hear the mournings of the old
lord and lady Capulet, who having but this one,
one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel
death had snatched her from their sight, just as these
careful parents were on the point of seeing her ad-
vanced (as they thought) by a promising and ad-
vantageous match. Now all things that were or-
dained for the festival were turned from their
properties to do the office of a black funeral. The
wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the
bridal hymns were changed for sullen dirges, the
sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, and the
flowers that should have been strewed in the bride's
path, now served but to strew her corse. Now, in-
stead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed
to bury her; and she was borne to church indeed,
not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but
to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.
Bad news, which always travels faster than good,
now brought the dismal story of his Juliet's death
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to Romeo, at Mantua, before the messenger could
arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprise
him that these were mock funerals only, and but
the shadow and representation of death, and that
his dear lady lay in the tomb but for a short while,
expecting when Romeo would come to release her
from that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo
had been unusually joyful and light-hearted. He
had dreamed in the night that he was dead (a
strange dream, that gave a dead man leave to
think), and that his lady came and found him dead,
and breathed such life with kisses in his lips, that
he revived, and was an emperor And now that
a messenger came from Verona, he thought surely
it was to confirm some good news which his
dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to
this flattering vision appeared, and that it was his
lady who was dead in truth, whom he could not
revive by any kisses, he ordered horses to be got
ready, for he determined that night to visit Verona,
and to see his lady in her tomb. And as mischief
is swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate men,
he called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop
in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beg-
garly 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 ex-
treme wretchedness, he had said at the time (per-
haps having some misgivings that his own disastrous
life might haply meet with a conclusion so desper-
ate), “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
TRomeo and 3 uliet 3OI:
his now came into his mind, and he sought out
the apothecary, who after some pretended scruples,
Romeo offering him gold, which his poverty coufd
not resist, sold him a poison, which, if he swallowed,
he told him, if he had the strength of twenty men,
would quickly despatch him.
With this poison he set out for Verona, to have
a sight of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning,
when he had satisfied his sight, to swallow the
poison, and be buried by her side. He reached
Verona at midnight, and found the churchyard, in
the midst of which was situated the ancient tomb
of the Capulets. He had provided a light, and a
spade, and wrenching iron, and was proceeding to
break open the monument, when he was interrupted
by a voice, which by the name of vile Montague,
bade him desist from his unlawful business. It was
the young count Paris, who had come to the tomb of
Juliet at that unseasonable time of night, to strew
flowers and to weep over the grave of her that should
have been his bride. He knew not what an interest
Romeo had in the dead, but knowing him to be a
Montague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all
the Capulets, he judged that he was come by night
to do some villanous shame to the dead bodies;
therefore in an angry tone he bade him desist ; and
as a criminal, condemned by the laws of Verona
to die if he were found within the walls of the city,
he would have apprehended him. Romeo urged
Paris to leave him, and warned him by the fate of
Tybalt, who lay buried there, not to provoke his
anger, or draw down another sin upon his head,
by forcing him to kill him. But the count in scorn
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refused his warning, and laid hands on him as a
felon, which Romeo resisting, they fought, and
Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light,
came to see who it was that he had slain, that it
was Paris, who (he learned in his way from Mantua)
... should have married Juliet, he took the dead youth
by the hand, as one whom misfortune had made a
companion, and said that he would bury him in a
triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet's grave, which
he now opened : and there lay his lady, as one
whom death had no power upon to change a
feature or complexion in her matchless beauty; or
as if Death were amorous, and the lean abhorred
monster kept her there for his delight; for she lay
yet fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to
sleep when she swallowed that benumbing potion ;
and near her lay Tybalt in his bloody shroud,
whom Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his lifeless
corse, and for Juliet's sake called him cousin, and
said that he was about to do him a favour by put-
ting 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, hav-
ing learned that his letters which he had sent to
z
{ TRomeo amo 3 uliet 3O3
Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messen-
ger, had never reached Romeo, came himself, pro-
vided with a pickaxe and lantern, to deliver the
lady from her confinement ; but he was surprised
to find a light already burning in the Capulets'
monument, and to see Swords and blood near it,
and Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the
InOnument. e. -
Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine
how these fatal accidents had fallen out, Juliet
awoke out of her trance, and seeing the friar near
her, she remembered the place where she was, and
the occasion of her being there, and asked for
Romeo, but the friar, hearing a noise, bade her
come out of that place of death, and of unnatural
sleep, for a greater power than they could con-
tradict had thwarted their intents; and being
frightened by the noise of people coming, he
fled : but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her
true love's hands, she guessed that poison had been
the cause of his end, and she would have swallowed
the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed his
still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang
upon them; then hearing a nearer noise of people
coming, she quickly unsheathed a dagger which she
wore, and stabbing herself, died by her true Romeo's
side. L.
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 1 a
3O4 Calea from 5bakópeate
*
Juliet ! as the rumour had imperfectly reached them,
till the uproar brought lord Montague and lord
Capulet out of their beds, with the prince, to inquire
into the causes of the disturbance. The friar had
been apprehended by some of the watch, coming
from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, and weep-
ing, in a suspicious manner. A great multitude
being assembled at the Capulets' monument, the
friar was demanded by the prince to deliver what
he knew of these strange and disastrous accidents.
And there, in the presence of the old lords
Montague and Capulet, he faithfully related the
story of their children's 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 faith-
ful wife; how before he could find a fit opportunity
to divulge their marriage, another match was pro-
jected for Juliet, who, to avoid the crime of a
second marriage, swallowed the sleeping draught
(as he advised), and all thought her dead; how
meantime he wrote to Romeo, to come and take
her thence when the force of the potion should
cease, and by what unfortunate miscarriage of the
messenger the letters never reached Romeo: further
than this the friar could not follow the story, nor
knew more than that coming himself, to deliver
Juliet from that place of death, he found the count
Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of the
transactions was supplied by the narration of the
page who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by
the servant who came with Romeo from Verona,
TRomeo amo 3 uliet 3O5
to whom this faithful lover had given letters to be
delivered to his father in the event of his death,
which made good the friar's words, confessing his
marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of
his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison
of the poor apothecary, and his intent in coming
to the monument, to die, and lie with Juliet. All
these circumstances agreed together to clear the .
friar from any hand he could be supposed to have
in these complicated slaughters, further than as the
unintended consequences of his own well meant,
yet too artificial and subtle contrivances.
And the prince, turning to these old lords, Mon-
tague and Capulet, rebuked them for their brutal
and irrational enmities, and showed them what a
scourge Heaven had laid upon such offences, that
it had found means even through the love of their
children to punish their unnatural hate. And these
old rivals, no longer enemies, agreed to bury their
long strife in their children’s graves; and lord
Capulet requested lord Montague to give him his
hand, calling him by the name of brother, as if in
acknowledgment of the union of their families, by
the marriage of the young Capulet and Montague;
and 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
2O
306 Qaleg from Šbakepeate
lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo each
other in mutual courtesies; while so deadly had
been their rage and enmity in past times, that no-
thing but the fearful overthrow of their children
(poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions)
could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of
the noble families.
HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.
ERTRUDE, queen of Denmark, becoming a
widow by the sudden death of King Hamlet,
in less than two months after his death married his
brother Claudius, which was noted by all people at
the time for a strange act of indiscretion, or unfeel-
ingness, or worse: for this Claudius did no ways
resemble her late husband in the qualities of his
person or his mind, but was as contemptible in out-
ward appearance, as he was base and unworthy in
disposition ; and suspicions did not fail to arise in
the minds of some, that he had privately made
away with his brother, the late king, with the view
of marrying his widow, and ascending the throne of
Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the
son of the buried king, and lawful successor to the
throne.
But upon no one did this unadvised action of the
queen make such impression as upon this young
prince, who loved and venerated the memory of his
dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a nice
sense of honour, and a most exquisite practiser of
propriety himself, did sorely take to heart this un-
worthy conduct of his mother Gertrude : insomuch
that, between grief for his father's death and shame
(307)
308 Caleg from 5bakgpeate
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 exer-
cises and sports, proper to his youth, were no longer
acceptable ; he grew weary of the world, which
seemed to him an unweeded garden, where all the
wholesome flowers were choked up, and nothing but .
weeds could thrive. Not that the prospect of ex-
clusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance,
weighed so much upon his spirits, though that to a
young and high-minded prince was a bitter wound
and a sore indignity; but what so galled him, and
took away all his cheerful spirits, was, that his
mother had shown herself so forgetful to his father’s
memory: and such a father who had been to her
so loving and so gentle a husband and then she al-
ways appeared as loving and obedient a wife to him,
and would hang upon him as if her affection grew
to him ; and now within two months, or as it seemed
to young Hamlet, less than two months, she had
married again, married his uncle, her dear husband’s
brother, in itself a highly improper and unlawful
marriage, from the nearness of relationship, but
made much more so by the indecent haste with
which it was concluded, and the unkingly character
of the man whom she had chosen to be the partner
of her throne and bed. This it was, which more
than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits
and brought a cloud over the mind of this honour-
able young prince.
In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the
king could do-to contrive to divert him; he still ap-
-*. 'ſſ)amlet 3O9
peared in court in a suit of deep black, as mourning
for the king his father's death, which mode of dress
he had never laid aside, not even in compliment to
his mother upon the day she was married, nor could
he be brought to join in any of the festivities or
rejoicings of that (as appeared to him) disgraceful
dav.
what mostly troubled him was an uncertainty
about the manner of his father’s death. It was
given out by Claudius that a serpent had stung him ;
but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that
Claudius himself was the serpent ; in plain English,
that he had murdered him for his crown, and that
the serpent who stung his father did now sit on the
throne.
How far he was right in this conjecture, and what
he ought to think of his mother, how far she was
privy to this murder, and whether by her consent or
knowledge, or without, it came to pass, were the
doubts which continually harassed and distracted
him.
A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet,
that an apparition, exactly resembling the dead king
his father, had been seen by the soldiers upon
watch, on the platform before the palace at midnight,
for two or three nights successively. The figure
came constantly clad in the same Suit of armour,
from head to foot, which the dead king was known
to have worn ; and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom
friend Horatio was one) agreed in their testimony
as to the time and manner of its appearance : that
it came just as the clock struck twelve ; that it
looked pale, with a face more of sorrow than of
3IO Cale3 from 5pakópeate
anger ; that its beard was grisly, and the colour a
sable silvered, as they had seen it in his life-time:
that it made no answer when they spoke to it; yet
once they thought it lifted up its head, and ad-
dressed 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 re-
lation, which was too consistent and agreeing with
itself to disbelieve, concluded that it was his father's
ghost which they had seen, and determined to take
his watch with the soldiers that night, that he might
have a chance of seeing it; for he reasoned with
himself, that such an appearance did not come for
nothing, but that the ghost had something to im-
part, and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it
would speak to him. And he waited with impa-
tience for the coming of night.
When night came he took his stand with Horatio,
and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon the platform,
where this apparition was accustomed to walk: and
it being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and
nipping, Hamlet and Horatio and their companion
fell into some talk about the coldness of the night,
which was suddenly broken off by Horatio announc-
ing that the ghost was coming.
At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was
struck with a sudden surprise and fear. He at first
called upon the angels and heavenly ministers to
defend them, for he knew not whether it were a
good spirit or bad ; whether it came for good or evil:
but he gradually assumed more courage ; and his
Tſ)amlet 3II
father (as it seemed to him) looked upon him so
piteously, and as it were desiring to have conversa-
tion with him, and did in all respects appear so like
himself as he was when he lived, that Hamlet could
not help addressing him : he called him by his name,
Hamlet, King, Father and conjured him that he
would tell the reason why he had left his grave,
where they had seen him quietly bestowed, to come
again and visit the earth and the moonlight: and
besought him that he would let them know if there
was anything which they could do to give peace to
his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to Hamlet,
that he should go with him to some more removed
place, where they might be alone; and Horatio and
Marcellus would have dissuaded the young prince
from following it, for they feared lest it should be
some evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neigh-
bouring sea, or to the top of some dreadful cliff, and
there put on some horrible shape which might de-
prive the prince of his reason. But their counsels
and entreaties could not alter Hamlet’s determina-
tion, who cared too little about life to fear the los-
ing of it ; and as to his soul, he said, what could
the spirit do to that, being a thing immortal as it-
self? 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' mur-
dered, and he told the manner of it ; that it was
done by his own brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle,
as Hamlet had already but too much suspected, for
i
3I2 Caleg from $5bakøpeate
}
the hope of succeeding to his bed and crown. That
as he was sleeping in his garden, his custom always
in the afternoon, his treasonous brother stole upon
him in his sleep, and poured the juice of poisonous
henbane into his ears, which has such an antipathy
to the life of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses
through all the veins of the body, baking up the
blood, and spreading a crust-like leprosy all over the
skin : thus sleeping, by a brother's hand he was cut
off at once from his crown, his queen, and his life :
and he adjured Hamlet, if he did ever his dear
father love, that he would revenge his foul murder.
And the ghost lamented to his son, that his mother
should so fall off from virtue, as to prove false to
the wedded love of her first husband, and to marry
his murderer ; but he cautioned Hamlet, howsoever
he proceeded in his revenge against his wicked
uncle, by no means to act any violence against the
person of his mother, but to leave her to heaven,
and to the stings and thorns of conscience. And
Hamlet promised to observe the ghost's direction in
all things, and the ghost vanished.
And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a
solemn resolution, that all he had in his memory,
all that he had ever learned by books or observa-
tion, should be instantly forgotten by him, and
nothing live in his brain but the memory of what
the ghost had told him, and enjoined him to do.
And Hamlet related the particulars of the conversa-
tion which had passed to none but his dear friend
Horatio ; and he enjoined both to him and Marcel-
lus the strictest secrecy as to what they had seen
that night.
TOamlet 313
The terror which the sight of the ghost had left
upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak and
dispirited before, almost unhinged his mind, and
drove him beside his reason. And he, fearing that
it would continue to have this effect, which might
subject him to observation, and set his uncle upon
his guard, if he suspected that he was meditating
anything against him, or that Hamlet really knew
more of his father’s death than he professed, took
up a strange resolution, from that time to counter-
feit as if he were really and truly mad; thinking
that he would be less an object of suspicion when
his uncle should believe him incapable of any serious
project, and that his real perturbation of mind would
be best covered and pass concealed under a disguise
of pretended lunacy.
From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness
and strangeness in his apparel, his speech, and be-
haviour, and did so excellently counterfeit the mad-
man, that the king and queen were both deceived,
and not thinking his grief for his father's death a
sufficient cause to produce such a distemper, for
they knew not of the appearance of the ghost, they
concluded that his malady was love, and they
thought they had found out the object.
Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way
which has been related, he had dearly loved a fair
maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius, the
king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had
sent her letters and rings, and made many tenders
of his affection to her, and importuned her with love
in honourable fashion : and she had given belief to
his vows and importunities. But the melancholy
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which he fell into latterly had made him neglect
her, and from the time he conceived the project of
counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat her with
unkindness, and a sort of rudeness: but she, good
lady, rather than reproach him with being false to
her, persuaded herself that it was nothing but the
disease in his mind, and no settled unkindness,
which had made him less observant of her than for-
merly ; and she compared the faculties of his once
noble mind and excellent understanding, impaired
as they were with the deep melancholy that op-
pressed him, to sweet bells which in themselves are
capable of most exquisite music, but when jangled
out of tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh
and unpleasing sound.
Though the rough business which Hamlet had in
hand, the revenging of his father's death upon his
murderer, did not suit with the playful state of
courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion
as love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder
but that soft thoughts of his Ophelia would come
between, and in one of these moments, when he
thought that his treatment of this gentle lady had
been unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full-
of wild starts of passion, and in extravagant terms,
such as agreed with his supposed madness, but
mixed with some gentle touches of affection, which
could not but show to this honoured lady that a deep
love for her yet lay at the bottom of his heart. He
bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and to doubt
that the sun did move, to doubt truth to be a liar,
but never to doubt that he loved ; with more of
such extravagant phrases. This letter Ophelia duti-
\
10amlet 3I5
fully showed to her father, and the old man thought
himself bound to communicate it to the king and
queen, who from that time supposed that the true
cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And the
queen wished that the good beauties of Ophelia
might be the happy cause of his wildness, for so she
hoped that her virtues might happily restore him
to his accustomed way again, to both their honours.
But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she sup-
posed, or than could be so cured. His father's
ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his imagina-
tion, and the sacred injunction to revenge his mur-
der gave him no rest till it was accomplished.
Every hour of delay seemed to him a sin, and a
violation of his father’s commands. Yet how to
compass the death of the king, surrounded as he
constantly was with his guards, was no easy matter.
Or if it had been, the presence of the queen, Ham-
let’s mother, who was generally with the king, was
a restraint upon his purpose, which he could not
break through. Besides, the very circumstance
that the usurper was his mother's husband filled
him with some remorse, and still blunted the edge
of his purpose. The mere act of putting a fellow-
creature to death was in itself odious and terrible
to a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet’s
was. His very melancholy, and the dejection of
spirits he had so long been in, produced an irres-
oluteness and wavering of purpose, which kept
him from proceeding to extremities. Moreover,
he could not help having some scruples upon his
mind, whether the spirit which he had seen was
indeed his father, or whether it might not be the
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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 weak-
ness 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
..qf
go upon than a vision, or apparition, which might
be a delusion. *
While he was in this irresolute mind there came
to the court certain players, in whom Hamlet for-
merly used to take delight, and particularly to
hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing
the death of old Priam, king of Troy, with the
grief of Hecuba his queen. Hamlet welcomed his
old friends, the players, and remembering how
that speech had formerly given him pleasure,
requested the player to repeat it ; which he did in
so lively a manner, setting forth the cruel murder
of the feeble old king, with the destruction of his
people and city by fire, and the mad grief of the
old queen, running barefoot up and down the
palace, with a poor clout upon that head where
a crown had been, and with nothing but a blanket
upon her loins, snatched up in haste, where she
had worn a royal robe; that not only it drew tears
from all that stood by, who thought they saw the
real scene, so lively was it represented, but even the
player himself delivered it with a broken voice and
real tears. This put Hamlet upon thinking, if that
player could so work himself up to passion by a
mere fictitious speech, to weep for one that he
had never seen, for Hecuba, that had been dead
so many hundred years, how dull was he, who
*\v.
'iſ)amlet 3I7.
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 mur-
der on the stage, was by the mere force of the
scene and resemblance of circumstances so affected,
that on the spot he confessed the crime which he
had committed. And he determined that these
players should play something like the murder of
his father before his uncle, and he would watch
narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and
from his looks he would be able to gather with
more certainty if he were the murderer or not.
To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, to
the representation of which he invited the king and
queen.
The story of the play was of a murder done in
Vienna upon a duke. The duke's name was
Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play showed how
one Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned
him in his garden for his estate, and how the mur-
derer 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 : Ham-
let sitting attentively near him to observe his looks.
The play began with a conversation between Gon-
zago and his wife, in which the lady made many
3.18 Cale3 from 5bakópeate
protestations of love, and of never marrying a
second husband, if she should outlive Gonzago;
wishing she might be accursed if she ever took a
second husband, and adding that no woman did
so, but those wicked women who kill their first
husbands. Hamlet observed the king his uncle
change colour at this expression, and that it was
as bad as wormwood both to him and to the queen.
But when Lucianus, according to the story, came to
poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden, the strong
resemblance which it bore to his own wicked act
upon the late king, his brother, whom he had
poisoned in his garden, so struck upon the con-
science of this usurper, that he was unable to sit
out the rest of the play, but on a sudden calling
for lights to his chamber, and affecting or partly
feeling a sudden sickness, he abruptly left the
theatre. The king being departed, the play was
given over. Now Hamlet had seen enough to be
satisfied that the words of the ghost were true,
and no illusion ; and in a fit of gaiety, like that
which comes over a man who suddenly has some
great doubt or scruple resolved, he swore to Hor-
atio, that he would take the ghost’s word for a
thousand pounds. But before he could make up
his resolution as to what measure 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 confer-
ence in her closet.
It was by desire of the king that the queen sent
for Hamlet, that she might signify to her son how
much his late behaviour had displeased them both ;
Thamlet 3I9
and the king, wishing to know all that passed at
that conference, and thinking that the too partial
report of a mother might let slip some part of
Hamlet’s words, which it might much import the
king to know, Polonius, the old counsellor of state,
was ordered to plant himself behind the hangings
in the queen's closet, where he might unseen hear
all that passed. This artifice was particularly
adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was
a man grown old in crooked maxims and policies
of state, and delighted to get at the knowledge of
matters in an indirect and cunning way.
Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to
tax him in the roundest way with his actions and
behaviour, and she told him that he had given
great offence to his father, meaning the king, his
uncle, whom, because he had married her, she called
Hamlet’s father. Hamlet, sorely indignant that
she should give so dear and honoured a name as
father seemed to him, to a wretch who was indeed
no better than the murderer of his true father, with
some sharpness replied, “Mother, you have much
offended my father.” The queen said that was but
an idle answer. “As good as the question de-
served,” said Hamlet. The queen asked him if he
had forgotten who it was he was speaking to ?
“Alas!” replied Hamlet, “I wish I could forget.
You are the queen, your husband's brother's wife ;
and you are my mother : I wish you were not what
you are.” “Nay, then,” said the queen, “if you
show me so little respect, I will set those to you
that can speak,’’ and was going to send the king or
Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her
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go, now he had her alone, till he had tried if his
words could not bring her to some sense of her
wicked life; and, taking her by the wrist, he held
her fast, and made her sit down. She, affrighted
at his earnest manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy
he should do her a mischief, cried out ; and a voice
was heard from behind the hangings, “Help, help,
the queen ” which Hamlet hearing, and verily
thinking that it was the king himself there con-
cealed, he drew his sword and stabbed at the place
where the voice came from, as he would have
stabbed a rat that ran there, till the voice ceasing,
he concluded the person to be dead. But when
he dragged forth the body, it was not the king, but
Polonius, the old officious counsellor, that had
planted himself as a spy behind the hangings.
“Oh me !” exclaimed the queen, “what a rash and
bloody deed have you done ” “A bloody deed,
mother,” replied Hamlet, “but not so bad as yours,
who killed a king, and married his brother.”
Hamlet had gone too far to leave off here. He
was now in the humour to speak plainly to his
mother, and he pursued it. And though the faults
of parents are to be tenderly treated by their chil-
dren, 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 re-
present to the queen the heinousness of her offence,
in being so forgetful of the dead king, his father, as
in so short a space of time to marry with his brother
10am Let 32I
and reputed murderer: such an act as, after the
vows which she had sworn to her first husband, was
enough to make all vows of women suspected, and
all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding Con-
tracts to be less than gamester’s oaths, and religion
to be a mockery and a mere form of words. He
said she had done such a deed, that the heavens
blushed at it, and the earth was sick of her because
of it. And he showed her two pictures, the one of
the late king, her first husband, and the other of the
present king, her second husband, and he bade her
mark the difference ; what a grace was on the brow
of his father, how like a god he looked the curls
of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter, the eye of Mars,
and a posture like to Mercury newly alighted on
some heaven-kissing hill this man, he said, had
&een her husband. And then he showed her whom
she had got in his stead : how like a blight or a
mildew he looked, for so he had blasted his whole-
some brother. And the queen was sore ashamed
that he should so turn her eyes inward upon her
soul, which she now saw so black and deformed.
And he asked her how she could continue to live
with this man, and be a wife to him, who had
murdered her first husband, and got the crown by
as false means as a thief—and just as he
spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he was in his
lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, entered
the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, asked what
it would have ; and the ghost said that it came
to remind him of the revenge he had promised,
which Hamlet seemed to have forgot ; and the
ghost bade him speak to his mother, for the grief
!
2I
322 Caleg from 5bakgpeate
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 con-
versing, as it seemed to her, with nothing; and she
imputed it to the disorder of his mind. But Ham-
let 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 a son. And she promising to observe his
directions, the conference ended.
And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who
it was that in his unfortunate rashness he had
killed : and when he came to see that it was Po-
lonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so
dearly loved, he drew apart the dead body, and,
his spirits being now a little quieter, he wept for
what he had done.
The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king
a pretence for sending Hamlet out of the kingdom.
He would willingly have put him to death, fearing
him as dangerous ; but he dreaded the people, who
loved Hamlet, and the queen, who, with all her
faults, doted upon the prince, her son. So this
'ſpam Let 323
subtle king, under pretence of providing for Ham-
let's safety, that he might not be called to actount
for Polonius' death, caused him to be conveyed on
board a ship bound for England, under the care of
two courtiers, by whom he despatched letters to the
English court, which in that time was in 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 Com-
menced ; in the course of which Hamlet, desirous
to show his valour, with sword in hand singly
boarded the enemy's vessel; while his own ship, in
a cowardly manner, bore away, and leaving him to
his fate, the two courtiers made the best of their
way to England, charged with those letters the sense
of which Hamlet had altered to their own deserved
destruction.
The pirates, who had the prince in their power,
showed themselves gentle enemies; and knowing
whom they had got prisoner, in the hope that the
prince might do them a good turn at court in re-
compense for any favour they might show him,
they set Hamlet on shore at the nearest port in
Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to the
king, acquainting him with the strange chance
which had brought him back to his own country,
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and saying that on the next day he should present
himself before his majesty. When he got home, a
sad spectacle offered itself the first thing to his
eyes.
This was the funeral of the young and beautiful
Ophelia, his once dear mistress. The wits of this
young lady had begun to turn ever since her poor
father's death. That he should die a violent death,
and by the hands of the prince whom she loved, so
affected this tender young maid, that in a little time
she grew perfectly distracted, and would go about
giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and
saying that they were for her father's burial, sing-
ing 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 re-
flected its leaves on the stream. To this brook she
came one day when she was unwatched, with gar-
lands she had been making, mixed up of daisies and
nettles, flowers and weeds together, and clambering
up to hang her garland upon the boughs of the wil-
low, a bough broke, and precipitated this fair young
maid, garland, and all that she had gathered, into
the water, where her clothes bore her up for a while,
during which she chanted scraps of old tunes, like
one insensible to her own distress, or as if she were
a creature natural to that element : but long it was
not before her garments, heavy with the wet, pulled
her in from her melodious singing to a muddy and
miserable death. It was the funeral of this fair
maid which her brother Laertes was celebrating, the
king and queen and whole court being present,
'ſºamlet 325
when Hamlet arrived. He knew not what all this
show imported, but stood on one side, not inclining
to interrupt the ceremony. He saw the flowers
strewed upon her grave, as the custom was in maiden
burials, which the queen herself threw in ; and as
she threw them she said, “Sweets to the sweet ! I
thought to have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid,
not to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst
have been my Hamlet’s wife.” And he heard her
brother wish that violets might spring from her
grave: and he saw him leap into the grave all fran-
tic with grief, and bid the attendants pile mountains
of earth upon him, that he might be buried with
her. And Hamlet’s love for this fair maid came back
to him, and he could not bear that a brother should
show so much transport of grief, for he thought
that he loved Ophelia better than forty thousand
brothers. Then discovering himself, he leaped into
the grave where Laertes was, all as frantic or more
frantic than he, and Laertes knowing him to be
Hamlet, who had been the cause of his father’s and
his sister's death, grappled him by the throat as an
enemy, till the attendants parted them : and Ham-
let, after the funeral, excused his hasty act in throw-
ing 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 re-
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conciliation, to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial
of skill at fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day
was appointed to try the match. At this match all
the court was present, and Laertes, by direction of
the king, prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this
match great wagers were laid by the courtiers, as
both Hamlet and Laertes were known to excel at
this sword play; and Hamlet taking up the foils
chose one, not at all suspecting the treachery of
Laertes, or being careful to examine Laertes' wea-
pon, 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 pauses, Laertes growing warm made
a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned weapon,
and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet incensed, but
not knowing the whole of the treachery, in the scuffle
exchanged his own innocent weapon for Laertes'
deadly one, and with a thrust of Laertes' own sword
repaid Laertes home, who was thus justly caught
in his own treachery. In this instant the queen
shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had in-
advertently drunk out of a bowl which the king
had prepared for Hamlet, in case, that being warm
in fencing, he should call for drink: into this the
treacherous king had infused a deadly poison, to
make sure of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. He
had forgotten to warn the queen of the bowl, which
she drank of, and immediately died, exclaim-
ing with her last breath that she was poisoned.
Damlet - 327
Hamlet suspecting some treachery, ordered the
doors to be shut, while he sought it out. Laertes
told him to seek no farther, for he was the traitor ;
and feeling his life go away with the wound which
Hamlet had given him, he made confession of the
treachery he had used, and how he had fallen a
victim to it : and he told Hamlet of the envenomed
point, and said that Hamlet had not half an hour
to live, for no medicine could cure him ; and beg-
ging forgiveness 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, fulfilling the
promise which he had made to his father's spirit,
whose injunction was now accomplished, and his
foul murder revenged upon the murderer. Then
Hamlet, feeling his breath fail and life departing,
turned to his dear friend Horatio, who had been spec-
tator of this fatal tragedy; and with his dying breath
requested him that he would live to tell his story
to the world (for Horatio had made a motion as if
he would slay himself to accompany the prince in
death), and Horatio promised that he would make a
true report, as one that was privy to all the circum-
stances. And, thus satisfied, the noble heart of
Hamlet cracked ; and Horatio and the bystanders
with many tears commended the spirit of this sweet
prince to the guardianship of angels. For Hamlet
was a loving and a gentle prince, and greatly beloved
for his many noble and princelike qualities ; and if
he had lived, would no doubt have proved a most
royal and complete king to Denmark.
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 con-
demned for the unsuitableness of the person whom
she selected for her lover. Bating that Othello was
black, the noble Moor wanted nothing which might
recommend him to the affections of the greatest
lady. He was a soldier, and a brave one ; and
by his conduct in bloody wars against the Turks,
had risen to the rank of general in the Venetian
service, and was esteemed and trusted by the
State. *
He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is
the manner of ladies) loved to hear him tell the
story of his adventures, which he would run through
(328)
() the ILO 329
from his earliest recollection; the battles, sieges,
and encounters, which he had passed through ; the
perils he had been exposed to by land and by
water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he had
entered a breach, or marched up to the mouth of
a cannon ; and how he had been taken prisoner
by the 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 coun-
tries, the vast wilderness and romantic caverns, the
quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads are
in the clouds; of the Savage nations, the cannibals
who are man-eaters, and a race of people in Africa
whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders: these
travellers' stories would so enchain the attention of
Desdemona, that if she were called off at any
time by household affairs, she would despatch with
all haste that business, and return, and with a greedy
ear devour Othello's discourse. And once he took
advantage of a pliant hour, and drew from her a
prayer, that he would tell her the whole story of
his life at large, of which she had heard so much,
but only by parts: to which he consented, and be-
guiled her of many a tear, when he spoke of some
distressful stroke which his youth had suffered.
His story being done, she gave him for his pains
a world of sighs: she swore a pretty oath, that it
was all passing strange, and pitiful, wondrous piti-
ful: 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
33O Caleg from $5bakópeate ;
him how to tell his story, and that would woo her.
Upon this hint, delivered not with more frankness
than modesty, accompanied with certain bewitching
prettiness, and blushes, which Othello could not
but understand, he spoke more openly of his love,
and in this golden opportunity gained the consent
of the generous lady Desdemona privately to marry
him. -
Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were
such that it could be hoped Brabantio would accept
him for a son-in-law. He had left his daughter
free ; but he did expeqt that, as the manner of
noble Venetian ladies was, she would choose ere
long a husband of Senatorial rank or expectations;
but in this he was deceived ; Desdemona loved the
Moor, though he was black, and devoted her heart
and fortunes to his valiant parts and qualities; so
was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion to
the man she had selected for a husband, that his
very colour, which to all but this discerning lady
would have proved an insurmountable objection,
was by her esteemed above all the white skins and
clear complexions of the young Venetian nobility,
her suitors. -
Their marriage, which, though privately carried,
could not long be kept a secret, came to the ears
of the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in a
solemn council of the senate, as an accuser of the
Moor Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he
maintained) had seduced the affections of the fair
Desdemona to marry him, without the consent
of her father, and against the obligations of
hospitality.
()tbelſo 33E
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 in-
tent to regain that strong post from the Venetians,
who then held it; in this emergency the state turned
its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed ade-
quate to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the
Turks. So that Othello, now summoned before the
Senate, stood in their presence at once as a candi-
date for a great state employment, and as a culprit,
charged with offences which by the laws of Venice
were made capital. -
The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio
commanded a most patient hearing from that grave
assembly; but the incensed father conducted his
accusation with so much intemperance, producing
likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when
Othello was called upon for his defence, he had only
to relate a plain tale of the course of his love; which
he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting
the whole story of his wooing, as we have related it
above, and delivered his speech with so noble a
plainness (the evidence of truth), that the duke, who
sat as chief judge, could not help confessing that a
tale so told would have won his daughter too: and the
spells and conjurations which Othello had used in
his courtship, plainly appeared to have been no
more than the honest arts of men in love ; and the
only witchcraft which he had used, the faculty of
telling a soft tale to win a lady's ear.
This statement of Othello was confirmed by the
*.
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testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, who ap-
peared in Court, and professing a duty to her father
for life and education, challenged leave of him to
profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband,
even so much as her mother had shown in preferring
him (Brabantio) above 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 beha-
viour of Desdemona would have taught him to be a
tyrant, and hang clogs on them for her desertion.
This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom
custom had rendered the hardships of a military life
as natural as food and rest are to other men, readily
undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus :
and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord
(though with danger) before the indulgence of
those idle delights in which new-married people
usually waste their time, cheerfully consented to his
going.
No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in
Cyprus, than news arrived, that a desperate tempest
had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and thus the island
was secure from any immediate apprehension of an
attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer,
was now beginning; and the enemies, which malice
stirred up against his innocent lady, proved in their
nature more deadly than strangers or infidels.
Among all the general's friends no one possessed
()tbølſo 333
the confidence of Othello more entirely than Cassio.
Michael Cassio was a young soldier, a Florentine,
gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite
qualities with women ; he was handsome and elo-
quent, and exactly such a person as might alarm the
jealousy of a man advanced in years (as Othello in
some measure was), who had married a young and
beautiful wife; but Othello was as free from jealousy
as he was noble, and as incapable of suspecting as
of doing a base action. He had employed this
Cassio in his love affair with Desdemona, and Cassio
had been a sort of go-between in his suit : for
Othello, fearing that himself had not those soft parts
of conversation which please ladies, and finding
these qualities in his friend, would often depute
Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a courting for him :
such innocent simplicity being rather an honour than
a blemish to the character of the valiant Moor. So
that no wonder, if next to Othello himself (but at
far distance, as beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle
Desdemona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had the
marriage of this couple made any difference in their
behaviour to Michael Cassio. He frequented their
house, and his free and rattling talk was no unpleas-
ing variety to Othello, who was himself of a more
serious temper: for such tempers are observed often
to delight in their contraries, as a relief from the
oppressive excess of their own ; and Desdemona and
Cassio would talk and laugh together, as in the days
when he went a courting for his friend.
Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the
lieutenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the gen-
eral’s person. This promotion gave great offence to
334 Calcó from ābakepeate
Iago, an older officer who thought he had a better
claim than Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio
as a fellow fit only for the company of ladies, and
one that knew no more of the art of war or how to
set an army in array for battle, than a girl. Iago
hated Cassio, and he hated Othello, as well for fa-
vouring Cassio, as for an unjust suspicion, which he
had lightly taken up against Othello, that the Moor
was too fond of Iago's wife Emilia. From these
imaginary provocations, the plotting mind of Iago
conceived a horrid scheme of revenge, which should
involve both Cassio, the Moor, and Desdemona, in
one common ruin. *
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 tor-
ture), the pains of jealousy were the most intole-
rable, and had the sorest sting. If he could succeed
in making Othello jealous of Cassio, he thought it
would be an exquisite plot of revenge, and might
end in the death of Cassio or Othello, or both ; he
cared not. .
The arrival of the general and his lady in Cyprus,
meeting with the news of the dispersion of the
enemy's fleet, made a sort of holiday in the island.
Everybody gave themselves up to feasting and mak-
ing merry. Wine flowed in abundance, and cups
went round to the health of the black Othello, and
his lady the fair Desdemona.
Cassio had the direction of the guard that night,
with a charge from Othello to keep the soldiers
from excess in drinking, that no brawl might arise,
to fright the inhabitants, or disgust them with the
()tbeſſo 335
new-landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-
laid plans of mischief: under colour of loyalty and
love to the general, he enticed Cassio to make rather
too free with the bottle (a great fault in an officer
upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he
could not long hold out against the honest freedom
which Iago knew how to put on, but kept swallow-
ing glass after glass (as Iago still plied him with
drink and encouraging songs), and Cassio’s tongue
ran over in praise of the lady Desdemona, whom he
again and again toasted, affirming that she was a
most exquisite lady: until at last the enemy which
he put into his mouth stole away his brains; and
upon some provocation given him by a fellow whom
Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano,
a worthy officer, who interfered to appease the dis-
pute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot now
began to be general, and Iago, who had set on foot
the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm,
causing the castle-bell to be rung (as if some dan-
gerous mutiny instead of a 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.
Gassio was now come to himself, the effect of the
wine having a little gone off, but was too much
ashamed to reply; and Iago, pretending a great
reluctance to accuse Cassio, but, as it were, forced
into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth,
gave an account of the whole matter (leaving out
his own share in it, which Cassio was too far gone
to remember) in such a manner, as while he seemed
to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it
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appear greater than it was. The result was, that
Othello, who was a strict observer of discipline, was
compelled to take away Cassio’s place of lieutenant
from him. - -
Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely;
he had now undermined his hated rival, and thrust
him out of his place : but a further use was hereafter
to be made of the adventure of this disastrous night.
Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered,
now lamented to his seeming friend Iago that he
should have been such a fool as to transform him-
self into a beast. He was undone, for how could he
ask the general for his place again P he would tell
him he was a drunkard. He despised himself.
Iago, affecting to make light of it, said, that he, or
any man living, might be drunk upon occasion ; it
remained now to make the best of a bad bargain ;
the general’s wife was now the general, and could
do anything with Othello ; that he were best to ap-
ply to the lady Desdemona to mediate for him with
her lord ; that she was of a frank, obliging disposi-
tion, and would readily undertake a good office of
this sort, and set Cassio right again in the general’s
favour ; and then this crack in their love would be
made stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago,
if it had not been given for wicked purposes, which
will after appear.
Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made appli-
cation to the lady Desdemona, who was easy to be
won over in any honest suit; and she promised
Cassio that she should be his solicitor with her lord,
and rather die than give up his cause. This she
immediately set about in so earnest and pretty a
()the ILO - 337
manner, that Othello, who was mortally offended
with Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded
delay, and that it was too soon to pardon such an
offender, she would not be beat back, but insisted
that it should be the next night, or the morning
after, or the next morning to that at farthest. Then
she showed how penitent and humbled poor Cassio
was, and that his offence did not deserve so sharp a
check. And when Othello still hung back, “What
my lord,” said she, “that I should have so much to
do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio, that came a
courting for you, and oftentimes, when I have spoken
in dispraise of you, has taken your part 1 I count
this but a little thing to ask of you. When I mean
to try your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty
matter.” Othello could deny nothing to such a
pleader, and only requesting that Desdemona would
leave the time to him, promised to receive Michael
Cassio again in favour.
It happened that Othello and Iago had entered
into the room where Desdemona was, just as Cassio,
who had been imploring her intercession, was de-
parting at the opposite door: and Iago, who was
full of art, said in a low voice, as if to himself, “I
like not that.” Othello took no great notice of
what he said ; indeed, the conference which imme-
diately 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 be-
22
338 Caleg from $5bakgpeate
tween them very often during the courtship, Iago
knitted his brow, as if he had got fresh light on
some terrible matter, and cried, “Indeed l’’ This
brought into Othello's mind the words which Iago
had let fall upon entering the room, and seeing Cassio
with Desdemona ; and he began to think there was
some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago to be
a just man, and full of love and honesty, and what in
a false knave would be tricks, in him seemed to be
the natural workings of an honest mind, big with
something too great for utterance: and Othello
prayed Iago to speak what he knew, and to give his
worst thoughts words. “And what,” said Iago,
“if some thoughts very vile should have intruded
into my breast, as where is the palace into which
foul things do not enter P’’ Then Iago went on to
say, what a pity it were, if any trouble should arise
to Othello out of his imperfect observation ; 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 Othel-
lo's curiosity was raised almost to distraction with
these hints and Scattered words, Iago, as if in
earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, besought
him to beware of jealousy : with such art did this
villain raise suspicions in the unguarded Othello, by
the very caution which he pretended to give him
against suspicion. “I know,” said Othello, “that
my wife is fair, loves company and feasting, is free
of speech, sings, plays, and dances well; but where
virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must have
proof before I think her dishonest.” Then Iago, as
if glad that Othello was slow to believe ill of his
(W)tbell'O 339
lady, frankly declared that he had no proof, but
begged Othello to observe her behaviour well, when
Cassio was by ; not to be jealous nor too secure
neither, for that he (Iago) knew the dispositions of
the Italian ladies, his countrywomen, better than
Othello could do ; and that in Venice the wives let
heaven see many pranks they dared not show their
husbands. Then he artfully insinuated that Des-
demona deceived her father in marrying with
Othello, and carried it so closely, that the poor old
man thought that witchcraft had been used. Othello
was much moved with this argument, which brought
the matter home to him, for if she had deceived
her father, why might she not deceive her husband P
Iago begged pardon for having moved him ; but
Othello, assuming an indifference, while he was
really shaken with inward grief at Iago's words,
begged him to go on, which Iago did with many
apologies, as if unwilling to produce anything
against Cassio, whom he called his friend ; he then
came strongly to the point, and reminded Othello
how Desdemona had, refused many suitable matches
of her own clime and complexion, and had married
him, a Moor, which showed unnatural in her, and
proved her to have a headstrong will ; and when
her better judgment returned, how probable it was
she should fall upon comparing Othello with the
fine forms and clear white complexions of the
young Italians her countrymen. He concluded
with advising Othello to put off his reconcilement
with Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile
to note with what earnestness Desdemona should
intercede in his behalf; for that much would be
34O Qales from 5bakspeare
seen in that. So mischievously did this artful
villain lay his plots to turn the gentle qualities of
this innocent lady into her destruction, and make
a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap
her: first setting Cassio on to entreat her media-
tion, and then out of that very mediation contriving
stratagems for her ruin. *
The conference ended with Iago's begging
Othello to account his wife innocent, until he had
more decisive proof; and Othello promised to be
patient ; but from that moment the deceived
Othello never tasted content of mind. Poppy,
nor the juice of mandragora, nor all the sleeping
potions in the world, could ever again restore to
him that sweet rest, which he had enjoyed but
yesterday. His occupation sickened upon him.
He no longer took delight in arms. His heart,
that used to be roused at the sight of troops, and
banners, and battle-array, and would stir and leap
at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neigh-
ing war-horse, seemed to have lost all that pride
and ambition which are a soldier's virtue ; and his
military ardour and all his old joys forsook him.
Sometimes he thought his wife honest, and at times
he thought her not so ; sometimes he thought Iago
just, and at times he thought him not so ; then he
would wish that he had never known of it; he was
not the worse for her loving Cassio, so long as he
knew it not : torn to pieces with these distracting
thoughts, he once laid hold on 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
otbello 34I
taken for a vice, asked Othello, if he had not some-
times seen a handkerchief spotted with strawberries
in his wife's hand. Othello answered, that he had
given her such a one, and that it was his first gift.
“That same handkerchief,” said Iago, “...did I see
Michael Cassio this day wipe his face with.” “If
it be as you say,” said Othello, “I will not rest till
a wide revenge swallow them up ; and first, for a
token of your fidelity, I expect that Cassio shall be
put to death within three days; and for that fair
devil (meaning his lady), I will withdraw and devise
some swift means of death for her.’’
Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as
strong as holy writ. A handkerchief of his wife's
seen in Cassio’s hand, was motive enough to the
deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon
them both, without once inquiring how Cassio
came by it. Desdemona had never given such a
present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady have
wronged her lord with doing so naughty a thing
as giving his presents to another man ; both Cassio
and Desdemona were innocent of any offence
against Othello: but the wicked Iago, whose spirits
never slept in contrivance of villany, had made his
wife (a good, but a weak woman) steal this hand-
kerchief from Desdemona, under pretence of getting
the work copied, but in reality to drop it in Cassio’s
way, where he might find it, and give a handle to
Iago's suggestion that it was Desdemona's present.
Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended
that he had a headache (as he might indeed with
truth), and desired her to lend him her handker-
chief to hold to his temples. She did so. “ Not
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this,” said Othello, “but that handkerchief I gave
you.” Desdemona had it not about her (for indeed
it was stolen, as we have related). “How P’’ said
Othello, “this is a fault indeed. That handker-
chief an Egyptian woman gave to my mother ; the
woman was a witch and could read people's
thoughts: she told my mother, while she kept it,
it would make her amiable, and my father would
love her ; but if she lost it, or gave it away, my
father's fancy would turn, and he would loathe her
as much as he had loved her. She dying gave it to
me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it to
my wife. I did so ; take heed of it. Make it a
darling as precious as your eye.” “Is it possible P’’
said the frighted lady. “'Tis true; ” continued
Othello; “it is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that
had lived in the world two hundred years, in a fit
of prophetic fury worked it ; the silkworms that
furnished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in
a mummy of maidens' hearts conserved.” Desde-
mona, hearing the wondrous virtues of the hand-
kerchief, was ready to die with fear, for she plainly
perceived she had lost it, and with it, she feared,
the affections of her husband. Then Othello
started, and looked as if he were going to do some
rash thing, and still he demanded the handkerchief,
which when she could not produce, she tried to
divert her husband from too serious thoughts, and
cheerfully told him she saw all his talk about
the handkerchief was only to put her off from her
suit about Michael Cassio, whom she went on to
praise (as Iago had foretold), till Othello in perfect
distraction burst out of the room, and then Desde-
.*.*
, 24: .
(W)the Iſo 343
mona, though unwillingly, began to suspect that her
lord was jealous. ve
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 un-
kindness. 4
Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he ac-
cused her more plainly of being unfaithful, and of
loving another man, but he did not name whom ;
and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, “Alas !
the heavy day ! why do you weep?” And Othello
told her, he could have borne all sorts of evils
with fortitude—poverty, and disease, and disgrace;
but her infidelity had broken his heart ; and he
called her a weed, that looked so fair, and smelled
so sweet, that the sense ached at it ; and wished
she had never been born. And when he had left
her, this innocent lady was so stupefied with wonder
at her lord’s untrue suspicion of her, that a weight-
like sleep came over her, and she only desired her
attendant to make her bed, and to lay her wedding-
sheets upon it, saying, that when people teach their
babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks,
and Othello might have chid her so ; for in good
faith she was but a child when she was chidden.
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And this was all the complaint which this gentle
lady made.
Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her
lord would follow her, soon fell into a slumber, the
effect of her troubled spirits, when Othello entered
the chamber, full of the black purpose which he
had meditated of putting his lady to death. But
when he saw her asleep, he thought he would not
shed her blood, nor scar that white skin of hers,
more white than alabaster. But he was resolved
she should die; else (as he said) she would live to
betray more men, as she had done him. Then
he kissed her for the last time (as he said), and
that kiss was so sweet that he must needs kiss her
again ; and he wept, but he said they were cruel
tearS.
Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and
she looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his
under lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was
always fatal when he looked so : and he bade her
prepare for death, and to say her prayers, for he
would not kill her soul. And this innocent wife, as
she lay at his mercy, begged for compassion, and to
know her fault, and then he named Cassio, and
the handkerchief which (he said) she had given
him ; and as the guiltless lady was proceeding to
clear herself he suddenly would hear no more, but
covering her up in the bed-clothes, stifled her till
she died.
In this instant of time was brought into the house
Cassio, wounded and bleeding, whom Iago had set
one of his creatures on to assassinate ; but the
fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cassio
Qtbølſo 345
(whom he wounded, but not mortally), and being
himself killed by Iago to prevent discovery, in his
pockets were found certain letters, which made the
guilt of Iago, and the innocence of Cassio, clear
beyond all doubt ; and Cassio now came to beg
pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he had
offended him, that he had employed Iago to murder
him.
This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello,
who now plainly saw that he was no better than a
murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent lady)
had been ever faithful to him ; the extreme anguish
of which discovery making life insupportable, he fell
upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body
of his dear injured lady, expired.
These rash acts raised much passion of horror and
amazement in the bystanders, for Othello had borne
a fair reputation, and until he was wrought upon by
the arts of a villain, which his own noble nature
never gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and
a doting husband. He had loved not wisely, but
too well; and his manly eyes (when he learned his
mistake), though not used to weep on every small
occasion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian trees
their gum. And when he was dead all his former
merits and his valiant acts were remembered. Noth-
ing 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.
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, threatened to bring upon his subjects and
city of Tyre, in revenge for a discovery which the
prince had made of a shocking deed which the
emperor had done in secret ; as commonly it proves
dangerous to pry into the hidden crimes of great
ones. Leaving the government of his people in the
hands of his able and honest minister, Helicanus,
Pericles set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent him-
self till the wrath of Antiochus, who was mighty,
should be appeased.
The first place which the prince directed his
course to was Tarsus, and hearing that the city of
Tarsus was at that time suffering under a severe
famine, he took with him store of provisions for its
relief. On his arrival he found the city reduced to
the utmost distress; and, he coming like a mes-
senger from heaven with his unhoped-for succour,
Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, welcomed him
with boundless thanks. Pericles had not been
here many days, before letters came from his faith-
ful minister, warning him that it was not safe for
(346)
|)éticle3 347
him to stay at Tarsus, for Antiochus knew of his
abode, and by secret emissaries despatched for that
purpose sought his life. Upon receipt of these
letters Pericles put out to sea again, amidst the
blessings and prayers of a whole people who had
been fed by his bounty.
He had not sailed far, when his ship was over-
taken by a dreadful storm, and every man on board
perished except Pericles, who was cast by the sea-
waves naked on an unknown shore, where he had
not wandered long before he met with some poor
fishermen, who invited him to their homes, giving
him clothes and provisions. The fishermen told
Pericles the name of their country was Pentapolis,
and that their king was Simonides, commonly
called the good Simonides, because of his peace-
able reign and good government. From them he
also learned that king Simonides had a fair young
daughter, and that the following day was her birth-
day, when a grand tournament was to be held at
court, many princes and knights being come from
all parts to try their skill in arms for the love of
Thaisa, this fair princess. While the prince was
listening to this account, and secretly lamenting
the loss of his good armour, which disabled him
from making one among these valiant knights,
another fisherman brought in a complete suit of
armour that he had taken out of the sea with his
fishing-net, which proved to be the very armour he
had lost. When Pericles beheld his own armour,
he said, “Thanks, Fortune; after all my crosses,
you give me somewhat to repair myself. This
armour was bequeathed to me by my dead father,
348 Caleg from 5bakópeate
for whose dear sake I have so loved it, that whither-
soever I went, I still have kept it by me, and the
rough sea that parted it from me, having now be-
come calm, hath given it back again, for which I
thank it, for, since I have my father's gift again, I
think my shipwreck no misfortune.”
The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's
armour, repaired to the royal court of Simonides,
where he performed wonders at the tournament,
vanquishing with ease all the brave knights and
valiant princes who contended with him in arms for
the honour 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 valour were undertaken, to
bestow all her respect upon the conqueror, and
Thaisa did not depart from this custom, for she
presently dismissed all the princes and knights whom
Pericles had vanquished, and distinguished him by
her especial favour and regard, crowning him with
the wreath of victory, as king of that day's happi-
ness; and Pericles became a most passionate lover
of this beauteous princess from the first moment he
beheld her.
The good Simonides so well approved of the
valour and noble qualities of Pericles, who was in-
deed a most accomplished gentleman, and well
learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew
not the rank of this royal stranger (for Pericles for
fear of Antiochus gave out that he was a private
gentleman of Tyre), yet did not Simonides disdain
to accept of the valiant unknown for a son-in-law,
Dęticle3 349
when he perceived his daughter's affections were
firmly fixed upon him. e
Pericles had not been many months married to
Thaisa, before he received intelligence that his
enemy Antiochus was dead ; and that his subjects
of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened
to revolt, and talked of placing Helicanus upon
his vacant throne. This news came from Heli-
canus himself, who, being a loyal Subject to his
royal master, would not accept of the high dignity
offered him, but sent to let Pericles know their
intentions, that he might return home and resume
his lawful right. It was matter of great surprise
and joy to Simonides, to find that his son-in-law
(the obscure knight) was the renowned prince of
Tyre; yet again he regretted that he was not the
private gentleman he supposed him to be, seeing
that he must now part both with his admired son-
in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he feared
to trust to the perils of the sea, because Thaisa
was with child ; and Pericles himself wished her
to remain with her father till after her confinement,
but the poor lady so earnestly desired to go with
her husband, that at last they consented, hoping
she would reach Tyre before she was brought to
bed.
The sea was no friendly element to unhappy
Pericles, for long before they reached Tyre another
dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified Thaisa
that she was taken ill, and in a short space of time
her nurse Lychorida came to Pericles with a little
child in her arms, to tell the prince the sad tidings
that his wife died the moment her little babe was
so ! I Caleg from 5bakópeate
“.
born. She held the babe towards its father, saying,
“Here is a thing too young for such a place. This
is the child of your dead queen.” No tongue can
tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles when he heard
his wife was dead. As soon as he could speak, he
Said, “O you gods, why do you make us love your
goodly gifts, and then Snatch those gifts away P’’
“Patience, good sir,” said Lychorida, “here is all
that is left alive of our dead queen, a little daughter,
and for your child's sake be more manly. Patience,
good sir, even for the sake of this precious charge.”
Pericles took the new-born infant in his arms, and
he said to the little babe, “Now may your life be
mild, for a more blusterous birth had never babe
May your condition be mild and gentle, for you
have had the rudest welcome that ever prince's
child did meet with ! May that which follows be
happy, for you have had as Chiding a nativity as
fire, air, water, wearth, and heaven could make to
herald you from the womb | Even at the first, your
loss,” meaning in the death of her mother, “is
more than all the joys, which you shall find upon
this earth to which you are come a new visitor,
shall be able to recompense.”
The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and
the sailors having a superstition that while a dead
body remained in the ship the storm would never
cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his
queen should be thrown overboard ; and they said
“What courage, sir? God save you !” “Courage
enough,” said the sorrowing prince: “I do not fear
the storm ; it has done to me its worst ; yet for the
love of this poor infant, this fresh new seafarer, I
|Octicle3 35I
wish the storm was over.’’ “Sir,” said the sailors,
“your queen must overboard. The sea works high,
the wind is loud, and the storm will not abate till
the ship be cleared of the dead.” Though Pericles
knew how weak and unfounded this superstition was,
yet he patiently submitted, saying, “As you think
meet. Then she must overboard, most wretched
queen ’’ And now this unhappy prince went to
take a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked
on his Thaisa, he said, “A terrible childbed hast
thou had, my dear; no light, no fire; the unfriendly
elements forget thee utterly, nor have I time to bring
thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee
scarcely coffined into the sea, where for a monument
upon thy bones the humming waters must overwhelm
thy corpse, lying with simple shells. O Lychorida,
bid Nestor bring me spices, ink, and paper, my
casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me
the satin coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and
go about this suddenly, Lychorida, while I say a
priestly farewell to my Thaisa.”
They brought Pericles a large chest, in which
(wrapped in a satin shroud) he placed his queen,
and sweet-smelling spices he strewed over her, and
beside her he placed rich jewels, and a written
paper, telling who she was, and praying if haply any
one should find the chest which contained the body
of his wife, they would give her burial : and then
with his own hands, he cast the chest into the sea.
When the storm was over, Pericles ordered, the
sailors to make for Tarsus. “ For,” said Pericles,
“ the babe cannot hold out till we come to Tyre.
At Tarsus I will leave it at careful nursing.”
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After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was
thrown into the sea, and while it was yet early
morning, as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman of Ephe-
Sus, and a most skilful physician, was standing by
the sea-side, his servants brought to him a chest,
which they said the sea-waves had thrown on the
land. “I never saw,” said one of them, “so huge
a billow as cast it on our shore.” Cerimon ordered
the chest to be conveyed to his own house, and
when it was opened he beheld with wonder the body
of a young and lovely lady; and the sweet-smelling
spices and rich casket of jewels made him conclude
it was some great person who was thus strangely
entombed : searching farther, he discovered a paper,
from which he learned that the corpse which lay as
dead before him had been a queen, and wife to
Pericles, prince of Tyre; and much admiring at the
Strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the
husband who had lost this sweet lady, he said, “If
you are living, Pericles, you have a heart that even
cracks with woe.” Then observing attentively
Thaisa's face, he saw how fresh and unlike death
her looks were, and he said, “They were too hasty
that threw you into the sea : ” for he did not believe
her to be dead. He ordered a fire to be made, and
proper cordials to be brought, and soft music to be
played, which might help to calm her amazed spirits
if she should revive; and he said to those who
crowded round 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
r;
|\cticle3 - 353
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 P What
world is this?” By gentle degrees Cerimon let her
understand what had befallen her ; and when he
thought she was enough recovered to bear the sight,
he showed her the paper written by her husband,
and the jewels; and she looked on the paper, and
said, “It is my lord’s writing. That I was shipped
at sea, I well remember, but whether there delivered
of my babe, by the holy gods I cannot rightly say ;
but since my wedded lord I never shall see again, I
will put on a vestal livery, and never more have
joy.” “Madam,” said Cerimon, “if you purpose
as you speak, the temple of Diana is not far distant
from hence; there you may abide as a vestal. More-
over, if you please, a niece of mine shall there at-
tend you.” This proposal was accepted with thanks
by Thaisa ; and when she was perfectly recovered,
Cerimon placed her in the temple of Diana, where
she became a vestal or priestess of that goddess, and
passed her days in sorrowing for her husband's sup-
posed loss, and in the most devout exercises of those
times.
Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he
named Marina, because she was born at sea) to
Tarsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the gov-
ernor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking,
for the good he had done to them at the time of
23
354. Caleg from 5bakepeate
their famine, they would be kind to his little mother-
less 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, be-
seeching 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 remember
you) must in your child be thought on. If I should
neglect your child, my whole people that were by
you relieved would force me to my duty; but if to
that I need a spur, the gods revenge it on me and
mine to the end of generation.” Pericles, being
thus assured that his child would be carefully
attended to, left her to the protection of Cleon
and his wife Dionysia, and with her he left the
nurse Lychorida. When he went away, the little
Marina knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept Sadly
at parting with her royal master. “O, no tears,
Lychorida,” said Pericles: “no tears; look to your
|Octicle3 355
little mistress, on whose grace you may depend
hereafter.’’
Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once
more settled in the quiet possession of his throne,
while his woeful queen, whom he thought dead, re-
mained at Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, whom
this hapless mother had never seen, was brought
up by Cleon in a manner suitable to her high birth.
He gave her the most careful education, so that by
the time Marina attained the age of fourteen years,
the most deeply-learned men were not more studied
in the learning of those times than was Marina.
She sang like one immortal, and danced as goddess-
like, and with her needle she was so skilful that she
seemed to compose nature's own shapes, in birds,
fruits, or flowers, the natural roses being scarcely
more like to each other than they were to Marina's
silken flowers. But when she had gained from edu-
cation all these graces, which made her the general
wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, became her
mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason that her own
daughter, from the slowness of her mind, was not
able to attain to that perfection wherein Marina
excelled : and finding that all praise was bestowed
on Marina, whilst her daughter, who was of the
same age, and had been educated with the same
care as Marina, though not with the same success,
was in comparison disregarded, she formed a project
to remove Marina out of the way, vainly imagining
that her untoward daughter would be more respected
when Marina was no more seen. To encompass
this she employed a man to murder Marina, and
she well timed her wicked design, when Lychorida,
356 Caleg from 5bakópeate
the faithful nurse, had just died. Dionysia was
discoursing with the man she had commanded to
commit this murder, when the young Marina was
weeping over the dead Lychorida. Leonine, the
man she employed to do this bad deed, though he
was a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded
to undertake it, so had Marina won all hearts to
love her. He said, “She is a goodly creature ''
“The fitter then the gods should have her,” replied
her merciless enemy: “here she comes weeping for
the death of her nurse Lychorida: are you resolved
to obey me?” Leonine, fearing to disobey her,
replied, “I am resolved.” And so, in that one
short sentence, was the matchless Marina doomed
to an untimely death. She now approached, with
a basket of flowers in her hand, which she said
she would daily strew over the grave of good
Lychorida. The purple violet and the marigold
should as a carpet hang upon her grave, while
summer days did last. “Alas, for me !” she said,
“poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my
mother died. This world to me is like a lasting
storm, hurrying me from my friends.” “How now,
Marina,” said the dissembling Dionysia, “ do you
weep alone? How does it chance my daughter is
not with you? Do not sorrow for Lychorida, you
have a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite changed .
with this unprofitable woe. Come, give me your
flowers, the sea air will spoil them ; and walk with
Leonine: the air is fine, and will enliven you. Come,
Leonine, take her by the arm, and walk with her.”
“No, madam,” said Marina, “I pray you let me
not deprive you of your servant : ” for Leonine was
r
flycticle3 357
one of Dionysia's attendants. “Come, come,” said
‘this artful woman, who wished for a pretence to
leave her alone with Leonine, “I love the prince,
your father, and I love you. We every day expect
your father here; and when he comes, and finds
you so changed by grief from the paragon of beauty
we reported you, he will think we have taken no
care of you. Go, I pray you, walk, and be cheerful
once again. Be careful of that excellent com-
plexion, which stole the hearts of old and young.”
Marina, being thus importuned, said, “Well, I will
go, but yet I have no desire to it.” As Dionysia
walked away, she said to Leonine, ‘‘A’emember what
A 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 P”
“South-west,” replied Leonine. “When I was born
the wind was north,’’ said she and then the storm
and tempest, and all her father's sorrows, and her
mother's death, came full into her mind ; and she
said, “My father, as Lychorida told me, did never
fear, but cried, Courage, good seamen, to the Sailors,
galling his princely hands with the ropes, and,
clasping to the masts, he endured a sea that almost
split the deck.” “When was this?” said Leonine.
“When I was born,” replied Marina: “never were
wind and waves more violent ; ’’ and then she de-
scribed the storm, the action of the sailors, the
boatswain's whistle, and the loud call of the master,
“which,” said she, “trebled the confusion of the
ship.” Lychorida had so often recounted to Marina
the story of her hapless birth that these things seemed
Ç
358 Caleg from 5bakepeate
ever present to her imagination. But here Leonine
interrupted her with desiring her to say her prayers.
“What mean you?” said Marina, who began to fear,
she knew not why. “If you require a little space for
prayer, I grant it,” said Leonine ; “but be not tedi-
Ous, the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn to
do my work in haste.” “Will you kill me?” said
Marina: “alas ! why?” “To satisfy my lady,”
replied Leonine. “Why would she have me killed P”
said Marina : ‘‘ now, as I can remember, I never
hurt her in all my life. I never spake bad word,
nor did any ill turn to any living creature. Believe
me now, I never killed a mouse, nor hurt a fly. I
trod upon a worm once against my will, but I wept
for it. How have I offended ?” The murderer
replied, “My commission is not to reason on the
deed, but to do it.” And he was just going to kill
her, when certain pirates happened to land at that
very moment, who seeing Marina, bore her off as a
prize to their ship.
The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried
her to Mitylene, and sold her for a slave, where,
though in that humble condition, Marina soon be-
came known throughout the whole city of Mitylene
for her beauty and her virtues; and the person to
whom, she was sold became rich by the money she
earned for him. She taught music, dancing, and
fine needleworks, and the money she got by her
Scholars she gave to her master and mistress; and
the fame of her learning and her great industry came
to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman
who was governor of Mitylene, and Lysimachus
went himself to the house where Marina dwelt, to
|DetíCIć3 359
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, say-
ing, he hoped she would persevere in her industrious
and virtuous course, and that if ever she heard from
him again it should be for her good. Lysimachus
thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine
breeding, and excellent qualities, as well as for
beauty and all outward graces, that he wished to
marry her, and notwithstanding her humble situa-
tion, he hoped to find that her birth was noble ; but
ever when they asked her parentage she would sit
still and weep.
Meantime, at Tarsus, Leonine, fearing the anger
of Dionysia, told her he had killed Marina ; and
that wicked woman gave out that she was dead, and
made a pretended funeral for her, and erected a
stately monument ; and shortly after Pericles, ac-
companied by his loyal minister Helicanus, made
a voyage from Tyre to Tarsus, 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 thought of seeing
this dear child of his buried queen but when they
told him Marina was dead, and showed the monu-
ment 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 en-
360 Caleg from 5bahgpeate
• tombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from
Tarsus. From the day he entered the ship a dull
and heavy melancholy seized him. He never spoke,
and seemed totally insensible to everything around
him.
Sailing from Tarsus to Tyre, the ship in its
course passed by Mitylene, where Marina dwelt;
the governor of which place, Lysimachus, observing
this royal vessel from the shore, and desirous of
knowing who was on board, went in a barge to the
side of the ship, to satisfy his curiosity. Helicanus
received him very courteously and told him that
the ship came from Tyre, and that they were con-
ducting thither Pericles, their prince ; “A man,
sir,” said Helicanus, “who has not spoken to any
one these three months, nor taken any sustenance,
but just to 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 af-
flicted prince, and when he beheld Pericles, he saw
he had been once a goodly person, and he said to
him, “Sir king, all hail, the gods preserve you, hail,
royal sir!” But in vain Lysimachus spoke to
him ; Pericles made no answer, nor did he appear
to perceive any stranger approached. And then
Lysimachus bethought him of the peerless maid Ma-
rina, that haply with her sweet tongue she might win
some answer from the silent prince : and with the
consent of Helicanus he sent for Marina, and when
she entered the ship in which her own father sat
motionless with grief, they welcomed her on board
as if they had known she was their princess; and
Peticle3 361
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
beautifu/AZarina, telling her a great prince on board
that ship had fallen into a sad and mournful silence;
and, as if Marina had the power of conferring
health and felicity, he begged she would undertake
to cure the royal stranger of his melancholy. “Sir,”
said Marina, “I will use my utmost skill in his
recovery, provided none but I and my maid be
suffered to come near him.”
She, who at Mitylene had so carefully concealed
her birth, ashamed to tell that one of royal ancestry
was now a slave, first began to speak to Pericles of
the wayward changes in her own fate, telling him
from what a high estate herself had fallen. As if
she had known it was her royal father she stood be-
fore, all the words she spoke were of her own sor-
rows; but her reason for so doing was, that she
knew nothing more wins the attention of the unfor-
tunate than the recital of some sad calamity to
match their own. The sound of her sweet voice
aroused the drooping prince ; he lifted up his eyes,
which had been so long fixed and motionless ; and
Marina, who was the perfect image of her mother,
presented to his amazed sight the features of his
dead queen. The long-silent prince was once
more heard to speak. “My dearest wife,” said the
362 Caleg from 5bakgpeate
*
awakened Pericles, “was like this maid, and such
a one might my daughter have been. My queen's
Square brows, her stature to an inch, as wand-like
straight, as silver-voiced, her eyes as jewel-like.
Where do you live, young maid P Report your
parentage, I think you said you had been tossed
from wrong to injury, and that you thought your
griefs would equal mine, if both were opened.”
“Some such thing I said,” replied Marina, “ and
said no more than what my thoughts did warrant
me as likely.” “Tell me your story,” answered
Pericles; “if I find you have known the thousandth
part of my endurance, you have borne your sorrows
like a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet
you do look like Patience gazing on kings' graves,
and smiling extremity out of act. How lost you
your name, my most kind virgin P Recount your
story I beseech you. Come, sit by me.” How
was Pericles surprised when she said her name was
Marina, for he knew it was no usual name, but had
been invented by himself for his own child to
signify seaborn : “O, I am mocked,” said he, “and
you are sent hither by some incensed god to make
the world laugh at me.” “Patience, good sir,” said
Marina, “ or I must cease here.” “Nay,” said
Pericles, “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 Ma-
rina | But are you flesh and blood P Are you no
fairy P Speak on ; where were you born ? and
wherefore called Marina P” She replied, “I was
|\cticle3 363
called Marina, because I was born at sea. My
mother was the daughter of a king ; she died the
minute I was born, as my good nurse Lychorida
has often told me weeping. The king, my father,
left me at Tarsus, till the cruel wife of Cleon
sought to murder me. A crew of pirates came and
rescued me, and brought me here to Mitylene.
But, good sir, why do you weep? It may be, you
think me an impostor. But, indeed, sir, I am the
daughter to king Pericles, if good king Pericles be
living.” Then Pericles, terrified as he 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 Helicanus, “O Helicanus, strike me, give
me a gash, put me to present pain, lest this great
sea of joys rushing upon me, overbear the shores of
my mortality. O, come hither, thou that wast born
at sea, buried at Tarsus, and found at Sea again.
O Helicanus, down on your knees, thank the holy
gods ! This is Marina. Now blessings on thee,
my child ! Give me fresh garments, mine own
Helicanus ! She is not dead at Tarsus as she
should have been by the savage Dionysia. She
shall tell you all, when you shall kneel to her, and
call her your very princess. Who is this?” (observ-
ing Lysimachus for the first time). “Sir,” said
Helicanus, “it is the governor of Mitylene, who,
hearing of your melancholy, came to see you.” “I
embrace you, sir,” said Pericles. “Give me my
robes I am well with beholding O heaven
bless my girl | But hark, what music is that?”—
for now, either sent by some kind god, or by his
364 Caleø from 5bakópeate
own delighted fancy deceived, he seemed to hear
soft music. “My lord, I hear none,” replied Heli-
canus. “None?” said Pericles; “why it is the
music of the spheres.” As there was no music to
be heard, Lysimachus concluded that the sudden
joy had unsettled the prince's understanding ; and
he said, “It is not good to cross him: let him
have his way: ” and then they told him they heard
the music; and he now complaining of a drowsy
slumber coming over him, Lysimachus persuaded
him to rest on a couch, and placing a pillow
under his head, he, quite overpowered with
excess of joy, sank into a sound sleep, and Marina
watched in silence by the couch of her sleeping
parent.
While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which
made him resolve to go to Ephesus. His dream
was, that Diana, the goddess of the Ephesians,
appeared to him, and commanded him to go to
her temple at Ephesus, and there before her altar
to declare the story of his life and misfortunes; and
by her silver bow she swore, that if he performed
her injunction, he should meet with some rare
felicity. When he awoke, being miraculously re-
freshed, he told his dream, and that his resolution
was to obey the bidding of the goddess.
Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on
shore, and refresh himself with such entertainment
as he should find at Mitylene, which courteous offer
Pericles accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the
space of a day or two. During which time we may
well suppose what feastings, what rejoicings, what
costly shows and entertainments the governor made
|Octicle3 365
in Mitylene, to greet the royal father of his dear
Marina, whom in her obscure fortunes he had so
respected. Nor did Pericles frown upon Lysima-
chus's suit, when he understood how he had hon-
oured his child in the days of her low estate, and
that Marina showed herself not averse to his pro-
posals; only he made it a condition, before he gave
his consent, that they should visit with him the
shrine of the Ephesian Diana: to whose temple
they shortly after all three undertook a voyage ; and,
the goddess herself filling their sails with prosperous
winds, after a few weeks they arrived in safety at
Ephesus.
There was standing near the altar of the goddess,
when Pericles with his train entered the temple,
the good Cerimon (now grown very aged) who had
restored Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life; and
Thaisa, now a priestess of the temple, was standing
before the altar; and though the many years he
had passed in sorrow for her loss had much altered
Pericles, Thaisa thought she knew her husband’s
features, and when he 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 Peri-
cles spoke before the altar: “Hail, Diana to per-
form thy just commands, I here confess myself the
prince of Tyre, who, frighted from my country, at
Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa ; she died at
sea in childbed, but brought forth a maid-child
called Marina. She at Tarsus was nursed with
Dionysia, who at fourteen years thought to kill her,
but her better stars brought her to Mitylene,
366 Caleg from 5bakópeate
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 P’’ said Pericles: “she dies
gentlemen, help.”—“Sir,” said Cerimon, “if you
have told Diana's altar true, this is your wife.”
“Reverend gentleman, no;” said Pericles: “I threw
her over board with these very arms.” Cerimon
then recounted how, early one tempestuous morn-
ing, this lady was thrown upon the Ephesian shore;
how, opening the coffin, he found therein rich
jewels and a paper; how, happily, he recovered her,
and placed her here in Diana's temple. And now,
Thaisa being restored from her swoon said, “O my
lord, are you not Pericles? Like him you speak,
like him you are. Did you not name a tempest,
a birth, and death P” He astonished said, “The
voice of dead Thaisal ’’ ‘‘That Thaisa am I,’” she
replied, “supposed dead and drowned.” “O true
Diana 1 '' exclaimed Pericles, in a passion of devout
astonishment. “And now,” said Thaisa, “I know
you better. Such a ring as I see on your finger did
the king my father give you, when we with tears
parted from him at Pentapolis.” “Enough, you
gods !” cried Pericles, “your present kindness
makes my past miseries sport. O come, Thaisa, be
buried a second time within these arms.”
And Marina said, “My heart leaps to be gone
Detícies - 367
into my mother's bosom.” Then did Pericles show
his daughter to her mother, saying, “Look who
kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen at sea,
and called Marina, because she was yielded there.”
“Blessed and my own ” said Thaisa : and while
she hung in rapturous joy over her child, Pericles
knelt before the altar, saying, “Pure Diana bless
thee for thy vision. For this, I will offer oblations
nightly to thee.” And then and there did Pericles,
with the consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their
daughter, the virtuous Marina, to the well-deserv-
ing Lysimachus in marriage.
Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and
daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed by
calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, to
teach patience and constancy to men), under the
same guidance becoming finally successful, and
triumphing over chance and change. In Heli-
canus we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, of
faith, and loyalty, who, when he might have suc-
ceeded to a throne, chose rather to recall the right-
ful 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 good-
ness directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits
upon mankind, approaches to the nature of the
gods. It only remains to be told, that Dionysia,
the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end pro-
portionable to her deserts; the inhabitants of
Tarsus, when her cruel attempt upon Marina was
known, rising in a body to revenge the daughter of
their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of
368 Caleg from 5bakópeate
Cleon, burnt both him and her, and their whole
household : the gods seeming well pleased, that so
foul a murder, though but intentional, and never
carried into act, should be punished in a way be-
fitting its enormity.
THE END.
Mighigan.
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