There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, whose names
were Valentine and Protheus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted
friendship had long subsisted. They pursued their studies together,
and their hours of leisure were always passed in each other’s company,
except when Protheus visited a lady he was in love with; and these
visits, and this passion of Protheus for the fair Julia, were the only
topics on which these two friends disagreed: for Valentine, not being
himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing his friend
forever talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at Protheus, and
in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love, and declare that no
such idle fancies should ever enter his head, greatly preferring (as he
said) the free and happy life he lead, to the anxious hopes and fears
of the lover Protheus.
One morning Valentine came to Protheus, to tell him that they must
for a time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Protheus,
unwilling to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon
Valentine not to leave him; but Valentine said, “Cease to persuade me,
my loving Protheus, I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in
idleness at home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your
affection were not chained to the sweet glances of your honored Julia,
I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the world
abroad; but since you are a lover, love on still, and may your love
be prosperous!” They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable
friendship. “Sweet Valentine, adieu!” said Protheus; “think on me, when
you see some rare object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me
partaker of your happiness.”
Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when his
friend had left him, Protheus sat down to write a letter to Julia,
which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. Julia
loved Protheus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a noble
spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity too easily
to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his passion,
and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit. And when
Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive it, and chid
her maid for taking letters from Protheus, and ordered her to leave the
room. But she so much wished to see what was written in the letter,
that she soon called in her maid again, and when Lucetta returned, she
said, “What o’clock is it?” Lucetta, who knew her mistress more desired
to see the letter than to know the time of day, without answering her
question, again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her maid
should thus take the liberty of seeming to know what she really wanted,
tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the floor, ordering her maid
once more out of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to pick
up the fragments of the torn letter; but Julia, who meant not so to
part with them, said, in pretended anger, “Go, get you gone, and let
the papers lie; you would be fingering them to anger me.”
Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn
fragments. She first made out these words, “Love-wounded Protheus;” and
lamenting over these and such-like loving words, which she made out
though they were all torn asunder, or she said, wounded (the expression
“Love-wounded Protheus,” giving her that idea), she talked to these
kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed,
till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several
piece, to make amends. In this manner she went on talking with a pretty
lady-like childishness, till finding herself unable to make out the
whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and
loving words, as she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to
Protheus than she had ever done before.
Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this favorable answer
to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, “Sweet
love, sweet lines, sweet life!” In the midst of his raptures he was
interrupted by his father. “How now!” said the old gentleman, “what
letter are you reading there?” “My lord,” replied Protheus, “it is
a letter from my friend Valentine, at Milan.” “Lend me the letter,”
said his father; “let me see what news.” “There are no news, my lord,”
said Protheus, greatly alarmed, “but that he writes how well beloved
he is of the Duke of Milan, who daily graces him with favors; and how
he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune.” “And how stand
you affected to his wish?” asked the father. “As one relying on your
lordship’s will, and not depending on his friendly wish,” said Protheus.
Now it had happened that Protheus’s father had just been talking with
a friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered his
lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, whilst most men
were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; “some,” said he, “to
the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands
far away, and some to study in foreign universities; and there is his
companion Valentine, he is gone to the Duke of Milan’s court. Your son
is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage to
him in his riper age, not to have traveled in his youth.”
Protheus’s father thought the advice of his friend was very good,
and upon Protheus telling him that Valentine “wished him with him,
the partner of his fortune,” he at once determined to send his son
to Milan; and without giving Protheus any reason for this sudden
resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said, “My will is the same as
Valentine’s wish:” and seeing his son look astonished, he added, “Look
not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some time in the
Duke of Milan’s court; for what I will I will, and there is an end.
To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses, for I am peremptory.”
Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who
never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for
telling his father an untruth about Julia’s letter, which had brought
upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.
Now that Julia found she was going to lose Protheus for so long a
time, she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other a
mournful farewell with many vows of love and constancy. Protheus and
Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep forever in
remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus
set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine.
Valentine was in reality what Protheus had feigned to his father, in
high favor with the duke of Milan; and another event had happened to
him, of which Protheus did not even dream, for Valentine had given
up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as
passionate a lover as Protheus. She who had wrought this wondrous
change in Valentine, was the lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of
Milan, and she also loved him; but they concealed their love from
the duke, because although he showed much kindness to Valentine, and
invited him every day to his palace, yet he designed to marry his
daughter to a young courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised
this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent qualities
of Valentine.
These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit to
Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning everything
Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the room,
and told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Protheus’s arrival.
Valentine said, “If I had wished a thing, it would have been to have
seen him here!” and then he highly praised Protheus to the duke,
saying, “My lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my
friend made use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in
person and in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman.” “Welcome
him then according to his worth,” said the duke; “Silvia, I speak to
you, and you, sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him do so.”
They were here interrupted by the entrance of Protheus, and Valentine
introduced him to Silvia, saying, “Sweet lady, entertain him to be my
fellow servant to your ladyship.”
When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit, and were alone
together, Valentine said, “Now tell me how all does from whence
you came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?” Protheus
replied, “My tales of love used to weary you, I know you joy not in a
love-discourse.” “Ay, Protheus,” returned Valentine, “but that life is
altered now. I have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of
my contempt of Love, Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O
gentle Protheus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I
confess there is no woe like his correction, and no such joy on earth
as in his service. I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I
can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love.”
This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the
disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Protheus.
But “friend” Protheus must be called no longer, for the same
all-powerful deity, Love, of whom they were speaking, (yea even while
they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine) was working
in the heart of Protheus; and he, who had till this time been a pattern
of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one short interview
with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless lover; for at the
first sight of Silvia, all his love for Julia vanished away like
a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter him from
endeavoring to supplant him in her affections; and although, as it will
always be, when people of dispositions naturally good become unjust, he
had many scruples, before he determined to forsake Julia, and become
the rival of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his sense of duty,
and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, to his new unhappy
passion.
Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love,
and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her father, and
told him, that despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent,
he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father’s palace that night,
and go with him to Mantua; then he showed Protheus a ladder of ropes,
by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of the
windows of the palace, after it was dark.
Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend’s dearest secrets,
it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Protheus
resolved to go to the duke and disclose the whole to him. This false
friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the duke, such as
that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what he was going
to reveal, but that the gracious favor the duke had shown him, and
the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that, which else no
worldly good should draw from him; he then told all he had heard from
Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which
Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.
The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he
preferred telling his friend’s intention rather than he would conceal
an unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to let
Valentine know from whom he had learned this intelligence, but by some
artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose
the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon
saw hurrying toward the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope ladder.
The duke upon this stopped him, saying, “Whither away so fast,
Valentine?” “May it please your grace,” said Valentine, “there is
a messenger, that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am
going to deliver them.” Now this falsehood of Valentine’s had no
better success in the event than the untruth Protheus told his father.
“Be they of much import,” said the duke. “No more, my lord,” said
Valentine, “than to tell my father I am well and happy at your grace’s
court.” “Nay, then,” said the duke, “no matter; stay with me awhile. I
wish your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly.” He then
told Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from
him, saying, that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with
Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands,
“neither regarding,” said he “that she is my child, nor fearing me as
if I were her father. And I may say to thee, that this pride of hers
has drawn my love from her. I had thought my age should have been
cherished by her child-like duty. I am now resolved to take a wife,
and turn her out to whomsoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her
wedding-dower, for me and my possessions she esteems not.”
Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer. “And what
would your grace have me do in all this?” “Why,” said the duke, “the
lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my
aged 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 practiced by young men, when they wished to win a fair
lady’s love, such as presents, frequent visits, and the like. The duke
replied to this, that the lady did not 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.” “By 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 returning the
favor he had shown him, by endeavoring to steal away his daughter,
banished him from the court and city of Milan forever; and Valentine
was forced to depart that night, without even seeing Silvia.
While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona
was regretting the absence of Protheus, and her regard for him at
last so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to
leave Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from
danger on the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and herself in men’s
clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan soon
after Valentine was banished from that city, through the treachery of
Protheus.
Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn;
and her thoughts being all on her dear Protheus, she entered into
conversation with the inn-keeper, or host, as he was called, thinking
by that means to learn some news of Protheus. The host was greatly
pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as he took her to be), who
from his appearance he concluded was of high rank, spoke so familiarly
to him; and being a good-natured man, he was sorry to see him look so
melancholy; and to amuse his young guest he offered to take him to hear
some fine music, with which, he said, a gentleman that evening was
going to serenade his mistress.
The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not well
know what Protheus would think of the imprudent step she had taken; for
she knew that he had loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity
of character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem;
and this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.
She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear the
music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by the way. But
when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a very
different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; for
there, to her heart’s sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant
Protheus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing
discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia
from a window talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his
own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; and
then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music
and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished
Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend
Protheus.
Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet did she
still love the truant Protheus; and hearing that he had lately parted
with a servant, she contrived, with the assistance of her host, the
innkeeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a page; and Protheus knew not
she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and presents to her rival
Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him as a parting
gift at Verona.
When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to find
that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Protheus; and Julia, or the
page Sebastian, as she was called, entered into conversation with
Silvia about Protheus’s first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She
putting in (as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew
Julia; as well she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke:
telling how fondly Julia loved her master Protheus, and how his unkind
neglect would grieve her. And then she, with a pretty equivocation,
went on: “Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the color of
her eyes and hair the same as mine;” and indeed Julia looked a most
beautiful youth in her boy’s attire. Silvia was moved to pity this
lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved; and when
Julia offered the ring which Protheus had 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 he was a man crossed by adversity, that he
was going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes he had
on being all his riches. The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed
man, and being struck with his noble air and manly behavior, told him,
if he would live with them and be their chief, or captain, they would
put themselves under his command, but if he refused to accept their
offer they would kill him. Valentine, who cared little what became of
himself, said he would consent to live with them and be their captain,
provided they did no outrage on women or poor passengers. Thus the
noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we read in ballads, a
captain of robbers and outlawed banditti; and in this situation he was
found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass:
Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted upon
her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of following
Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had taken
refuge; 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 show compassion to
the travelers 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 the robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have
taken Eglamour, but he escaped.
The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, bid her
not to be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave
where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their
captain had an honorable mind, and always showed humanity to women.
Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as
a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. “O Valentine,”
she cried, “this I endure for thee!” But as the robber was conveying
her to the cave of his captain, he was stopped by Protheus, who, still
attended by Julia in the disguise of a page, having heard of the flight
of Silvia, had traced her steps to this forest. Protheus now rescued
her from the hands of the robber, but scarce had she time to thank him
for the service he had done her, before he began to distress her afresh
with his love suit; and while he was rudely pressing her to consent to
marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) was standing beside them in
great anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great service which Protheus
had just done to Silvia should win her to show him some favor, they
were all strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine,
who having heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console
and relieve her.
Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being
caught by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence and
remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he had
done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and generous,
even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored him to his
former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of heroism he
said, “I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I have in Silvia,
I give it up to you.” Julia, who was standing behind her master as a
page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Protheus would not be
able with this new found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, and they
were all employed in recovering her; else would Silvia have been
offended at being thus made over to Protheus, though she could scarcely
think that Valentine would long persevere in this over-strained and too
generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered from the fainting fit,
she said, “I had forgotten, my master ordered me to deliver this ring
to Silvia.” Protheus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the one
he gave to Julia, in return for that which he received from her, and
which he had sent by the supposed page to Silvia. “How is this?” said
he, “this is Julia’s ring; how came you by it, boy?” Julia answered,
“Julia herself did give it me, and Julia herself hath brought it
hither.”
Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, 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
Valentine, who had so well deserved her.
Protheus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their
reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies, when they
were surprised with the sight of the Duke of Milan and Thurio, who came
there in pursuit of Silvia. Thurio first approached, and attempted to
seize Silvia, saying, “Silvia is mine.” Upon this Valentine said to him
in a very spirited manner, “Thurio, keep back; if once again you say
that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she stands;
take but possession of her with a touch! I dare you but to breathe upon
my love.” Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew
back, and said he cared not for her, and that none but a fool would
fight for a girl who loved him not.
The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great anger,
“The more base and degenerate in you to take such means for her as you
have done, and leave her on such slight conditions.” Then turning to
Valentine, he said, “I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think
you worthy of an empress’s love. You shall have Silvia, for you have
well deserved her.” Valentine then with great humility kissed the
duke’s hand, and accepted the noble present which he had made him of
his daughter with becoming thankfulness; taking occasion of this joyful
minute to entreat the good-humored duke to pardon the thieves with whom
he had associated in the forest, assuring him that when reformed and
restored to society, there would be found among them many good, and
fit for great employment, for the most of them had been banished, like
Valentine, for state offences, rather than for any black crimes they
had been guilty of. To this the ready duke consented; and now nothing
remained but that Protheus, the false friend, was ordained, by way of
penance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital of
the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke. And the
shame of the recital to his awakened conscience was judged sufficient
punishment; which being done, the lovers, all four, returned back to
Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized in presence of the duke, with
high triumphs and feasting.
* * * * *
A SCOTCH PRAYER.—The following prayer was written about 1804, at a time
when Britain was threatened with a French invasion, Napoleon having
assumed full authority:
“God bless this house, and all that’s in this house, and all within
twa miles ilka side this house. O bless the cow, and the meal, and the
kail-yard, and the muckle town o’ Dumbarton.
“O God! bless the Scotch Greys that are lien’ in Hamilton Barracks.
They are brae chiels—they are not like the English whalps, that dash
their foot against a stone, and damn the saul of the stone—as if a
stone had a saul to be saved.
“O build a strong deak [dyke] between us and the muckle French, but a
far stranger one between us and the wild Irish.
“O Lord! preserve us frae a’ witches and warlocks, and a’ lang-nebbed
beasties that gang threw the heather.
“O Lord! put a pair o’ branks about the king o’ France’s neck—gie me
the helter in my ain hand, that I may lead him about when I like: for
thy name’s sake. Amen.”