CHAPTER II—THE RESCUE

THE END OF THE FOOD SUPPLY

When the sun rose on the twenty-seventh day of our calamity, the first

question that I secretly asked myself was, “How many more mornings

will the stoutest of us live to see”? I had kept count, ever since we

took to the boats, of the days of the week; and I knew that we had now

arrived at another Thursday. Judging by my own sensations (and I believe

I had as much strength left as the best man among us), I came to the

conclusion that, unless the mercy of Providence interposed to effect our

deliverance, not one of our company could hope to see another morning

after the morning of Sunday.

Two discoveries that I made—after redeeming my promise overnight, to

serve out with the morning whatever eatable thing I could find—helped

to confirm me in my gloomy view of our future prospects. In the first

place, when the few coffee-berries left, together with a small allowance

of water, had been shared all round, I found on examining the lockers

that not one grain of provision remained, fore or aft, in any part of

the boat, and that our stock of fresh water was reduced to not much more

than would fill a wine-bottle. In the second place, after the berries had

been shared, and the water equally divided, I noticed that the sustenance

thus administered produced no effect whatever, even of the most momentary

kind, in raising the spirits of the passengers (excepting in one case) or

in rallying the strength of the crew. The exception was Mr. Rarx. This

tough and greedy old sinner seemed to wake up from the trance he had

lain in so long, when the smell of the berries and water was under his

nose. He swallowed his share with a gulp that many a younger and better

man in the boat might have envied; and went maundering on to himself

afterwards, as if he had got a new lease of life. He fancied now that he

was digging a gold-mine, all by himself, and going down bodily straight

through the earth at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour. “Leave

me alone,” says he, “leave me alone. The lower I go, the richer I get.

Down I go!—down, down, down, down, till I burst out at the other end of

the world in a shower of gold!” So he went on, kicking feebly with his

heels from time to time against the bottom of the boat.

But, as for all the rest, it was a pitiful and dreadful sight to see

of how little use their last shadow of a meal was to them. I myself

attended, before anybody else was served, to the two poor women. Miss

Coleshaw shook her head faintly, and pointed to her throat, when I

offered her the few berries that fell to her share. I made a shift to

crush them up fine and mix them with a little water, and got her to

swallow that miserable drop of drink with the greatest difficulty. When

it was down there came no change for the better over her face. Nor did

she recover, for so much as a moment, the capacity to speak, even in a

whisper. I next tried Mrs. Atherfield. It was hard to wake her out of

the half-swooning, half-sleeping condition in which she lay—and harder

still to get her to open her lips when I put the tin-cup to them. When

I had at last prevailed on her to swallow her allowance, she shut her

eyes again, and fell back into her old position. I saw her lips moving;

and, putting my ear close to them, caught some of the words she was

murmuring to herself. She was still dreaming of the Golden Lucy. She and

the child were walking somewhere by the banks of a lake, at the time the

buttercups are out. The Golden Lucy was gathering the buttercups, and

making herself a watch-chain out of them, in imitation of the chain that

her mother wore. They were carrying a little basket with them, and were

going to dine together in a great hollow tree growing on the banks of the

lake. To get this pretty picture painted on one’s mind as I got it, while

listening to the poor mother’s broken words, and then to look up at the

haggard faces of the men in the boat, and at the wild ocean rolling all

round us, was such a change from fancy to reality as it has fallen, I

hope, to few men’s lots to experience.

My next thought, when I had done my best for the women, was for the

captain. I was free to risk losing my own share of water, if I pleased,

so I tried, before tasting it myself, to get a little between his lips;

but his teeth were fast clenched, and I had neither strength nor skill

to open them. The faint warmth still remained, thank God, over his

heart—but, in all other respects he lay beneath us like a dead man. In

covering him up again as comfortably as I could, I found a bit of paper

crunched in one of his hands, and took it out. There was some writing on

it, but not a word was readable. I suppose, poor fellow, that he had been

trying to write some last instructions for me, just before he dropped at

his post. If they had been ever so easy to read, they would have been

of no use now. To follow instructions we must have had some power to

shape the boat’s course in a given direction—and this, which we had been

gradually losing for some days past, we had now lost altogether.

I had hoped that the serving out of the refreshment would have put a

little modicum of strength into the arms of the men at the oars; but,

as I have hinted, this hope turned out to be perfectly fruitless. Our

last mockery of a meal, which had done nothing for the passengers, did

nothing either for the crew—except to aggravate the pangs of hunger in

the men who were still strong enough to feel them. While the weather held

moderate, it was not of much consequence if one or two of the rowers kept

dropping, in turn, into a kind of faint sleep over their oars. But if it

came on to blow again (and we could expect nothing else in those seas and

at that time of the year), how was I to steer, when the blades of the

oars were out of the water ten times as often as they were in? The lives

which we had undergone such suffering to preserve would have been lost

in an instant by the swamping of the boat, if the wind had risen on the

morning of Thursday, and had caught us trying to row any longer.

Feeling this, I resolved, while the weather held moderately fine, to

hoist the best substitute for a sail that we could produce, and to drive

before the wind, on the chance (the last we had hope for) of a ship

picking us up. We had only continued to use the oars up to this time in

order to keep the course which the captain had pointed out as likeliest

to bring us near the land. Sailing had been out of the question from the

first, the masts and suits of sails belonging to each boat having been

out of them at the time of the wreck, and having gone down with the

ship. This was an accident which there was no need to deplore, for we

were too crowded from the first to admit of handling the boats properly,

under their regular press of sail, in anything like rough weather.

Having made up my mind on what it was necessary to do I addressed the

men, and told them that any notion of holding longer on our course with

the oars was manifestly out of the question, and dangerous to all on

board, as their own common sense might tell them, in the state to which

the stoutest arms among us were now reduced. They looked round on each

other as I said that, each man seeming to think his neighbor weaker than

himself. I went on, and told them that we must take advantage of our

present glimpse of moderate weather, and hoist the best sail we could

set up, and drive before the wind, in the hope that it might please God

to direct us in the way of some ship before it was too late. “Our only

chance, my men,” I said, in conclusion, “is the chance of being picked

up; and in these desolate seas one point of the compass is just as likely

a point for our necessities as another. Half of you keep the boat before

the sea, the other half bring out your knives, and do as I tell you.” The

prospect of being relieved from the oars struck the wandering attention

of the men directly; and they said, “Ay, ay, sir!” with something like a

faint reflection of their former readiness, when the good ship was under

their feet, and the mess-cans were filled with plenty of wholesome food.

Thanks to Captain Ravender’s forethought in providing both boats with a

coil of rope, we had our lashings, and the means of making what rigging

was wanted, ready to hand. One of the oars was made fast to the thwart,

and well stayed fore and aft, for a mast. A large pilot-coat that I wore

was spread; enough of sail for us. The only difficulty that puzzled me

was occasioned by the necessity of making a yard. The men tried to tear

up one of the thwarts, but were not strong enough. My own knife had

been broken in the attempt to split a bit of plank for them; and I was

almost at my wit’s end, when I luckily thought of searching the captain’s

pockets for his knife. I found it—a fine large knife of Sheffield

manufacture, with plenty of blades, and a small saw among them. With

this we made a shift to saw off about a third of another oar; and then

the difficulty was conquered; and we got my pilot-coat hoisted on our

jury-mast, and rigged it as nigh as we could to the fashion of a lug-sail.

I had looked anxiously toward the Surf-boat, while we were rigging our

mast, and observed, with a feeling of great relief, that the men in

her—as soon as they discovered what we were about—were wise enough to

follow our example. They got on faster than we did; being less put to it

for room to turn round in. We set our sails as nearly as possible about

the same time; and it was well for both boats that we finished our work

when we did. At noon the wind began to rise again to a stiff breeze,

which soon knocked up a heavy, tumbling sea. We drove before it in a

direction North by East, keeping wonderfully dry, considering all things.

The mast stood well; and the sail, small as it was, did good service

in steadying the boat and lifting her easily over the seas. I felt the

cold after the loss of my coat, but not so badly as I had feared; for

the two men who were with me in the stern-sheets, sat as close as they

could on either side of me, and helped with the warmth of their own

bodies to keep the warmth in mine. Forward, I told off half a dozen of

the most trustworthy of the men who could still muster strength enough to

keep their eyes open, to set a watch, turn and turn about, on our frail

rigging. The wind was steadily increasing; and if any accident happened

to our mast the chances were that the boat would broach-to, and that

every one of us would go to the bottom.

So we drove on—all through that day—sometimes catching sight of the

Surf-boat a little ahead of us—sometimes losing her altogether in the

scud. How little and frail, how very different to the kind of boat that

I had expected to see, she looked to my eyes now that I was out of her,

and saw what she showed like on the waters for the first time! But to

return to the Long-boat. The watch on the rigging was relieved every

two hours, and at the same regular periods all the brightest eyes left

amongst us looked out for the smallest vestige of a sail in view, and

looked in vain. Among the passengers, nothing happened in the way of a

change—except that Miss Coleshaw seemed to grow fainter, and that Mrs.

Atherfield got restless, as if she were waking out of her long dream

about the Golden Lucy.

It got on toward sunset. The wind was rising to half a gale. The clouds,

which had been heavy all over the firmament since noon, were lifting to

the westward, and leaving there, over the horizon line of the ocean, a

long strip of clear, pale, greenish sky, overhung by a cloud-bank, whose

ragged edges were tipped with burning crimson by the sun. I did not like

the look of the night, and, keeping where I was, in the forward part of

the boat, I helped the men to ease the strain off our mast, by lowering

the yard a little and taking a pull on the sheet, so as to present to the

wind a smaller surface even of our small sail. Noting the wild look of

the weather, and the precautions we were taking against the chance of a

gale rising in the night—and being, furthermore, as I believe, staggered

in their minds by the death that had taken place among them—three of the

passengers struggled up in the bottom of the boat, clasped their arms

around me as if they were drowning men already, and hoarsely clamored

for a last drink of water, before the storm rose and sent us all to the

bottom.

“Water you shall have,” I said, “when I think the time has come to serve

it out. The time has not come yet.”

“Water, pray!” they all three groaned together. Two more passengers who

were asleep, woke up, and joined the cry.

“Silence!” I said. “There are not two spoonfuls of fresh water left for

each man in the boat. I shall wait three hours more for the chance of

rain before I serve that out. Silence, and drop back to your places!”

A SAIL IN SIGHT

They let go of me, but clamored weakly for water still; and, this time,

the voices of some of the crew joined them. At this moment, to my great

alarm (for I thought they were going mad and turning violent against me),

I was seized round the neck by one of the men, who had been standing up,

holding on by the mast, and looking out steadily to the westward.

I raised my right hand to free myself; but before I touched him, the

sight of the man’s face close to mine made me drop my arm again. There

was a speechless, breathless, frantic joy in it, that made all the blood

in my veins stand still in a moment.

“Out with it!” I said. “Man alive, out with it, for God’s sake!”

His breath beat on my cheek in hot, quick, heavy gasps; but he could not

utter a word. For a moment he let go of the mast (tightening his hold on

me with the other arm) and pointed out westward—then slid heavily down on

to the thwart behind us.

I looked westward, and saw that one of the two trustworthy men whom I had

left at the helm was on his feet looking out westward, too. As the boat

rose, I fixed my eyes on the strip of clear greenish sky in the west, and

on the bright line of the sea just under it. The boat dipped again before

I could see anything. I squeezed my eyelids together to get the water out

of them, and when we rose again looked straight into the middle of the

bright sea-line. My heart bounded as if it would choke me—my tongue felt

like a cinder in my mouth—my knees gave way under me—I dropped down on to

the thwart, and sobbed out, with a great effort, as if I had been dumb

for weeks before, and had only that instant found my speech:

“A sail! a sail!”

The words were instantly echoed by the man in the stern-sheets.

“Sail, ho!” he screeches out, turning round on me and swinging his arms

about his head like a madman.

This made three of our company who had seen the ship already, and that

one fact was sufficient to remove all dread lest our eyes might have been

deceiving us. The great fear now was, not that we were deluded, but that

we might come to some serious harm through the excess of joy among the

people; that is to say, among such of the people as still had the sense

to feel and the strength to express what they felt. I must record in

my own justification, after confessing that I lost command over myself

altogether on the discovery of the sail, that I was the first who set

the example of self-control. I was in a manner forced to this by the crew

frantically entreating me to lay-to until we could make out what course

the ship was steering—a proceeding which, with the sea then running, with

the heavy lading of the boat, and with such feeble substitutes for mast

and sail as we possessed, must have been attended with total destruction

to us all. I tried to remind the men of this, but they were in such a

transport—hugging each other round the neck, and crying and laughing all

in a breath—that they were not fit to listen to reason. Accordingly, I

myself went to the helm again, and chose the steadiest of my two men in

the after-part of the boat, as a guard over the sheet, with instructions

to use force, if necessary, toward any one who stretched out so much as a

finger to it. The wind was rising every minute, and we had nothing for it

but to scud, and be thankful to God’s mercy that we had sea-room to do it

in.

“It will be dark in an hour’s time, sir,” says the man left along with

me when I took the helm again. “We have no light to show. The ship will

pass us in the night. Lay-to, sir! For the love of Heaven, give us all

a chance, and lay-to!” says he, and goes down on his knees before me,

wringing his hands.

“Lay-to!” says I. “Lay-to, under a coat! Lay-to, in a boat like this,

with the wind getting up a gale! A seaman like you talk in that way! Who

have I got along here with me? Sailors who know their craft, or a pack of

’longshore lubbers, who ought to be turned adrift in a ferry-boat on a

pond?” My heart was heavy enough, God knows, but I spoke out as loud as I

could, in that light way, to try and shame the men back to their proper

senses. I succeeded at least in restoring silence; and that was something

in such a condition as ours.

My next anxiety was to know if the men in the Surf-boat had sighted the

sail to the westward. She was still driving ahead of us, and the first

time I saw her rise on the waves, I made out a signal on board—a strip

of cloth fastened to a boat-hook. I ordered the man by my side to return

it with his jacket tied on to the end of the oar; being anxious to see

whether his agitation had calmed down and left him fit for his duty

again. He followed my direction steadily and when he got his jacket on

again, asked me to pardon him for losing his self-command, in a quiet,

altered voice.

I shook hands with him, and gave him the helm, in proof that my

confidence was restored; then stood up and turned my face to the westward

once again. I looked long into the belt of clear sky, which was narrowing

already as the cloud-bank above sank over it. I looked with all my heart

and soul and strength. It was only when my eyes could stand the strain on

them no longer, that I gave in, and sat down again by the tiller. If I

had not been supported by a firm trust in the mercy of Providence, which

had preserved us thus far, I am afraid I should have abandoned myself at

that trying time to downright hopeless, speechless despair.

It would not express much to any but seafaring readers if I mentioned

the number of leagues off that I considered the ship to be. I shall give

a better idea of the terrible distance there was between us, when I say

that no landsman’s eye could have made her out at all, and that none of

us sailors could have seen her but for the bright opening in the sky,

which made even a speck on the waters visible to a mariner’s experienced

sight all that weary way off. When I have said this, I have said enough

to render it plain to every man’s understanding that it was a sheer

impossibility to make out what course the ship was steering, seeing that

we had no chance of keeping her in view at that closing time of day for

more than another half-hour, at most. There she was, astern to leeward

of us; and here were we, driving for our lives before the wind, with any

means of kindling a light that we might have possessed on leaving our

ship, wetted through long ago—with no guns to fire as signals of distress

in the darkness—and with no choice, if the wind shifted, but still to

scud in any direction in which it might please to drive us. Supposing,

even at the best, that the ship was steering on our course, and would

overhaul us in the night, what chance had we of making our position known

to her in the darkness? Truly, look at it anyhow we might from our poor

mortal point of view, our prospect of deliverance seemed to be of the

most utterly hopeless kind that it is possible to conceive.

The men felt this bitterly, as the cloud-bank dropped to the verge of the

waters, and the sun set redly behind it. The moaning and lamenting among

them was miserable to hear, when the last speck and phantom of the ship

had vanished from view. Some few still swore they saw her when there was

hardly a flicker of light left in the west, and only gave up looking out,

and dropped down in the boat, at my express orders. I charged them all

solemnly to set an example of courage to the passengers, and to trust

the rest to the infinite wisdom and mercy of the Creator of us all. Some

murmured, some fell to repeating scraps out of the Bible and Prayer-Book,

some wandered again in their minds. This went on till the darkness

gathered—then a great hush of silence fell drearily over passengers and

crew; and the waves and the wind hissed and howled about us, as if we

were tossing in the midst of them, a boat-load of corpses already!

Twice in the fore-part of the night the clouds overhead parted for a

little, and let the blessed moonlight down upon us. On the first of

those occasions, I myself served out the last drops of fresh water we

had left. The two women—poor suffering creatures!—were past drinking.

Miss Coleshaw shivered a little when I moistened her lips with the water;

and Mrs. Atherfield, when I did the same for her, drew her breath with a

faint, fluttering sigh, which was just enough to show that she was not

dead yet. The captain still lay as he had lain ever since I got on board

the boat. The others, both passengers and crew, managed for the most

part to swallow their share of the water—the men being just sufficiently

roused by it to get up on their knees, while the moonlight lasted, and

look about wildly over the ocean for a chance of seeing the ship again.

When the clouds gathered once more, they crouched back in their places

with a long groan of despair. Hearing that, and dreading the effect of

the pitchy darkness (to say nothing of the fierce wind and sea) on their

sinking spirits, I resolved to combat their despondency, if it were still

possible to contend against it, by giving them something to do. First

telling them that no man could say at what time of the night the ship

(in case she was steering our course) might forge ahead of us, or how

near she might be when she passed, I recommended that all who had the

strength should join their voices at regular intervals, and shout their

loudest when the boat rose highest on the waves, on the chance of that

cry of distress being borne by the wind within hearing of the watch on

board the ship. It is unnecessary to say that I knew well how near it was

to an absolute impossibility that this last feeble exertion on our parts

could lead to any result. I only proposed it because I was driven to the

end of my resources to keep up the faintest flicker of spirit among the

men. They received my proposal with more warmth and readiness than I had

ventured, in their hopeless state, to expect from them. Up to the turn

of midnight they resolutely raised their voices with me, at intervals of

from five to ten minutes, whenever the boat was tossed highest on the

waves. The wind seemed to whirl our weak cries savagely out of our mouths

almost before we could utter them. I, sitting astern in the boat, only

heard them, as it seemed, for something like an instant of time. But

even that was enough to make me creep all over—the cry was so forlorn

and fearful. Of all the dreadful sounds I had heard since the first

striking of the ship, that shrill wail of despair—rising on the wavetops,

one moment; whirled away the next, into the black night—was the most

frightful that entered my ears. There are times, even now, when it seems

to be ringing in them still.

Whether our first gleam of moonshine fell upon old Mr. Rarx, while he

was sleeping, and helped to upset his weak brains altogether, is more

than I can say. But, for some reason or other, before the clouds parted

and let the light down on us for the second time, and while we were

driving along awfully through the blackest of the night, he stirred in

his place, and began rambling and raving again more vehemently than

ever. To hear him now—that is to say, as well as I could hear him for

the wind—he was still down in his gold-mine; but was laden so heavy with

his precious metal that he could not get out, and was in mortal peril of

being drowned by the water rising in the bottom of the shaft. So far,

his maundering attracted my attention disagreeably, and did no more. But

when he began—if I may say so—to take the name of the dear little dead

child in vain, and to mix her up with himself and his miserly greed of

gain, I got angry and called to the men forward to give him a shake and

make him hold his tongue. Whether any of them obeyed or not, I don’t

know—Mr. Rarx went on raving louder than ever. The shrill wind was now

hardly more shrill than he. He swore he saw the white frock of our poor

little lost pet fluttering in the daylight, at the top of the mine, and

he screamed out to her in a great fright that the gold was heavy, and the

water rising fast, and that she must come down as quick as lightning if

she meant to be in time to help them. I called again angrily to the men

to silence him; and just as I did so, the clouds began to part for the

second time, and the white tip of the moon grew visible.

“There she is!” screeches Mr. Rarx; and I saw him by the faint light,

scramble on his knees in the bottom of the boat, and wave a ragged old

handkerchief up at the moon.

“Pull him down!” I called out. “Down with him; and tie his arms and legs!”

Of the men who could still move about, not one paid any attention to me.

They were all upon their knees again, looking out in the strengthening

moonlight for a sight of the ship.

“Quick, Golden Lucy!” screams Mr. Rarx, and creeps under the thwarts

right forward into the bows of the boat. “Quick! my darling, my beauty,

quick! The gold is heavy, and the water rises fast! Come down and save

me, Golden Lucy! Let all the rest of the world drown, and save me! Me!

me! me! me!”

He shouted these last words out at the top of his cracked, croaking

voice, and got on his feet, as I conjectured (for the coat we had spread

for a sail now hid him from me) in the bows of the boat. Not one of the

crew so much as looked round at him, so eagerly were their eyes seeking

for the ship. The man sitting by me was sunk in a deep sleep. If I had

left the helm for a moment in that wind and sea, it would have been the

death of every soul of us. I shouted desperately to the raving wretch to

sit down. A screech that seemed to cut the very wind in two answered me.

A huge wave tossed the boat’s head up wildly at the same moment. I looked

aside to leeward as the wash of the great roller swept by us, gleaming of

a lurid, bluish white in the moonbeams; I looked and saw, in one second

of time, the face of Mr. Rarx rush past on the wave, with the foam

seething in his hair and the moon shining in his eyes. Before I could

draw my breath he was a hundred yards astern of us, and the night and the

sea had swallowed him up and had hid his secret, which he had kept all

the voyage, from our mortal curiosity, for ever.

“He’s gone! he’s drowned!” I shouted to the men forward.

None of them took any notice; none of them left off looking out over the

ocean for a sight of the ship. Nothing that I could say on the subject of

our situation at that fearful time can, in my opinion, give such an idea

of the extremity and the frightfulness of it, as the relation of this one

fact. I leave it to speak by itself the sad and shocking truth, and pass

on gladly to the telling of what happened next, at a later hour of the

night.

After the clouds had shut out the moon again, the wind dropped a little

and shifted a point or two, so as to shape our course nearer to the

eastward. How the hours passed after that, till the dawn came, is more

than I can tell. The nearer the time of daylight approached the more

completely everything seemed to drop out of my mind, except the one

thought of where the ship we had seen in the evening might be, when we

looked for her with the morning light.

It came at last—that gray, quiet light which was to end all our

uncertainty; which was to show us if we were saved, or to warn us if

we were to prepare for death. With the first streak in the east, every

one of the boat’s company, excepting the sleeping and the senseless,

roused up and looked out in breathless silence upon the sea. Slowly and

slowly the daylight strengthened, and the darkness rolled off farther and

farther before it over the face of the waters. The first pale flush of

the sun flew trembling along the paths of light broken through the gray

wastes of the eastern clouds. We could look clearly—we could see far; and

there, ahead of us—O! merciful, bountiful providence of God!—there was

the ship!

I have honestly owned the truth, and confessed to the human infirmity

under suffering of myself, my passengers, and my crew. I have earned,

therefore, as I would fain hope, the right to record it to the credit

of all, that the men, the moment they set eyes on the ship, poured out

their whole heart in humble thanksgiving to the Divine Mercy which had

saved them from the very jaws of death. They did not wait for me to bid

them do this; they did it of their own accord, in their own language,

fervently, earnestly, with one will and one heart.

SAFETY AT LAST

We had hardly made the ship out—a fine brigantine, hoisting English

colors—before we observed that her crew suddenly hove her up in the wind.

At first we were at a loss to understand this; but as we drew nearer, we

discovered that she was getting the Surf-boat (which had kept ahead of us

all through the night) alongside of her, under the lee bow. My men tried

to cheer when they saw their companions in safety, but their weak cries

died away in tears and sobbing.

In another half-hour we, too, were alongside of the brigantine.

From this point I recollect nothing very distinctly. I remember faintly

many loud voices and eager faces—I remember fresh, strong, willing

fellows, with a color in their cheeks, and a smartness in their movements

that seemed quite preternatural to me at that time, hanging over us in

the rigging of the brigantine, and dropping down from her sides into

our boat—I remember trying with my feeble hands to help them in the

difficult and perilous task of getting the two poor women and the captain

on board—I remember one dark hairy giant of a man swearing that it was

enough to break his heart, and catching me in his arms like a child—and

from that moment I remember nothing more with the slightest certainty for

over a week of time.

When I came to my own senses again, in my cot on board the brigantine, my

first inquiries were naturally for my fellow-sufferers. Two—a passenger

in the Long-boat, and one of the crew of the Surf-boat—had sunk in spite

of all the care that could be taken of them. The rest were likely, with

time and attention, to recover. Of those who have been particularly

mentioned in this narrative, Mrs. Atherfield had shown signs of rallying

the soonest; Miss Coleshaw, who had held out longer against exhaustion,

was now the slower to recover. Captain Ravender, though slowly mending,

was still not able to speak or to move in his cot without help. The

sacrifices for us all which this good man had so nobly undergone, not

only in the boat, but before that, when he had deprived himself of his

natural rest on the dark nights that preceded the wreck of the Golden

Mary, had sadly undermined his natural strength of constitution. He,

the heartiest of all, when we sailed from England, was now, through his

unwearying devotion to his duty and to us, the last to recover, the

longest to linger between life and death.

My next questions (when they helped me on deck to get my first blessed

breath of fresh air) related to the vessel that had saved us. She was

bound to the Columbia River—a long way to the northward of the port for

which we had sailed in the Golden Mary. Most providentially for us,

shortly after we had lost sight of the brigantine in the shades of the

evening, she had been caught in a squall, and had sprung her foretopmast

badly. This accident had obliged them to lay-to for some hours, while

they did their best to secure the spar, and had warned them, when they

continued on their course, to keep the ship under easy sail through the

night. But for this circumstance we must, in all human probability, have

been too far astern when the morning dawned, to have had the slightest

chance of being discovered.

Excepting always some of the stoutest of our men, the next of the

Long-boat’s company who was helped on deck was Mrs. Atherfield. Poor

soul! when she and I first looked at each other, I could see that her

heart went back to the early days of our voyage, when the Golden Lucy and

I used to have our game of hide-and-seek round the mast. She squeezed my

hand as hard as she could with her wasted trembling fingers, and looked

up piteously in my face, as if she would like to speak to little Lucy’s

playfellow, but dared not trust herself—then turned away quickly and laid

her head against the bulwarks, and looked out upon the desolate sea that

was nothing to her now but her darling’s grave. I was better pleased when

I saw her later in the day, sitting by Captain Ravender’s cot; for she

seemed to take comfort in nursing him. Miss Coleshaw soon afterwards got

strong enough to relieve her at this duty; and, between them, they did

the captain such a world of good, both in body and spirit, that he also

got strong enough before long to come on deck, and to thank me, in his

old, generous, self-forgetful way, for having done my duty—the duty which

I had learned how to do by his example.

Hearing what our destination had been when we sailed from England, the

captain of the brigantine (who had treated us with the most unremitting

attention and kindness, and had been warmly seconded in his efforts

for our good by all the people under his command) volunteered to

go sufficiently out of his course to enable us to speak the first

Californian coasting-vessel sailing in the direction of San Francisco. We

were lucky in meeting with one of these sooner than we expected. Three

days after parting from the kind captain of the brigantine, we, the

surviving passengers and crew of the Golden Mary, touched the firm ground

once more, on the shores of California.

We were hardly collected here before we were obliged to separate again.

Captain Ravender, though he was hardly yet in good traveling trim,

accompanied Mrs. Atherfield inland, to see her safe under her husband’s

protection. Miss Coleshaw went with them, to stay with Mrs. Atherfield

for a little while before she attempted to proceed with any matters of

her own which had brought her to this part of the world. The rest of us,

who were left behind with nothing particular to do until the captain’s

return, followed the passengers to the gold-diggings. Some few of us had

enough of the life there in a very short time. The rest seemed bitten by

old Mr. Rarx’s mania for gold, and insisted on stopping behind when Rames

and I proposed going back to the port. We two, and five of our steadiest

seamen, were all the officers and crew left to meet the captain on his

return from the inland country.

He reported that he had left Mrs. Atherfield and Miss Coleshaw safe and

comfortable under Mr. Atherfield’s care. They sent affectionate messages

to all of us, and especially (I am proud to say) to me. After hearing

this good news, there seemed nothing better to do than to ship on board

the first vessel bound for England. There were plenty in port, ready to

sail and only waiting for the men belonging to them who had deserted to

the gold-diggings. We were all snapped up eagerly, and offered any rate

we chose to set on our services, the moment we made known our readiness

to ship for England—all, I ought to have said, except Captain Ravender,

who went along with us in the capacity of passenger only.

Nothing of any moment occurred on the voyage back. The captain and I got

ashore at Gravesend safe and hearty, and went up to London as fast as the

train could carry us, to report the calamity that had occurred to the

owners of the Golden Mary. When that duty had been performed, Captain

Ravender went back to his own house at Poplar, and I traveled to the West

of England to report myself to my old father and mother.

Here I might well end all these pages of writing; but I cannot refrain

from adding a few more sentences, to tell the reader what I am sure he

will be glad to hear. In the summer-time of this present year eighteen

hundred and fifty-six, I happened to be at New York, and having spare

time on my hands, and spare cash in my pocket, I walked into one of the

biggest and grandest of their ordinaries there, to have my dinner. I had

hardly sat down at table, before whom should I see opposite but Mrs.

Atherfield, as bright-eyed and pretty as ever, with a gentleman on her

right hand, and on her left—another Golden Lucy! Her hair was a shade or

two darker than the hair of my poor little pet of past sad times; but in

all other respects the living child reminded me so strongly of the dead,

that I quite started at the first sight of her. I could not tell if I was

to try, how happy we were after dinner, or how much we had to say to each

other. I was introduced to Mrs. Atherfield’s husband, and heard from him,

among other things, that Miss Coleshaw was married to her old sweetheart,

who had fallen into misfortunes and errors, and whom she was determined

to set right by giving him the great chance in life of getting a good

wife. They were settled in America, like Mr. and Mrs. Atherfield—these

last and the child being on their way, when I met them, to visit a friend

living in the northernmost part of the States.

With the relation of this circumstance, and with my personal testimony to

the good health and spirits of Captain Ravender the last time I saw him,

ends all that I have to say in connection with the subject of the Wreck

of the Golden Mary, and the Great Deliverance of her People at Sea.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was a great English

novelist. When a mere boy he moved to London, where he afterward

lived and wrote. As a child he was neglected and his education was

limited. He first showed his ability to write when he became a

reporter for a London newspaper. Here his unusual powers of narration

and description brought him marked success in writing character

sketches, which he signed “Boz.” Before Dickens was thirty he was

the most popular writer in England. He attacked the cruelty and

stupidity with which the children of the poor were treated in English

schools; he opened the eyes of the people to the injustice that was

suffered by laborers and all poor people; he saw also, like Robert

Burns, the sincerity and simple happiness that often make the poor

more to be envied than the rich. No other novelist has invented so

many characters that seem flesh and blood; they appeal to us because

they are “folks,” not imaginary dwellers in an unreal world. You will

note this ability and the author’s rare power of telling a story,

as you read “The Wreck of the Golden Mary.” Dickens made two visits

to America, where he was received with great enthusiasm. His second

visit was made in 1867, when he gave public readings from his own

works. His vivid imagination and keen human sympathy give to his

writings a peculiar interest and charm.

=Discussion.= 1. Has Dickens any purpose in writing this story,

except to interest and entertain? 2. Are you more interested in the

characters, or in the things that happen to them; that is, is this

tale a character study or a story of adventure? 3. Is it both? 4.

Does the story contain much conversation, or is it mainly narration?

5. Are there many descriptions in it? 6. Are they descriptions of

nature, of people, or of events? 7. Read what you consider the finest

description. 8. What two persons tell the story? 9. Which makes the

more decided impression upon you? 10. How does Captain Ravender

describe himself? 11. Are his words in keeping with his education and

occupation—such as a self-educated, seafaring man would be likely

to use? 12. Select and read expressions which indicate that he is a

sailor and uses a sailor’s speech. 13. Name some of the Captain’s

characteristics and read passages to illustrate each. 14. Notice

that his character is revealed to us, (1) through his own words

in relating the story; (2) through what he does; (3) through the

conduct of others toward him; and (4) through the chief mate’s words.

Read lines to illustrate each. 15. Which of the other characters

is most interesting? 16. Select incidents which show the influence

upon others of the Captain’s cheerfulness, resourcefulness,

bravery, common-sense, and determination. 17. Do you think one of

the purposes Dickens had in writing this story may have been to

picture the influence of a brave, just, and generous spirit in such

adverse circumstances? 18. Pronounce the following: extraordinary;

calculations; sustenance.

=Phrases=

literal and metaphorical, 210, 2

dangerous moment, 211, 18

ship’s chronometer, 211, 28

lucrative one, 212, 10

tolerably correct, 214, 26

hoist the signal, 214, 35

curious inconsistency, 217, 15

a block chafes, 219, 31

frightful breach, 222, 2

inner vortex, 224, 2

tow-rope, 224, 29

frugal manner, 226, 10

circumstances appertaining, 226, 33

great fortitude, 229, 10

raging in imprecations, 229, 13

past mustering, 232, 28

to wear ship, 233, 33

exhausting effects, 235, 12

tossing abreast, 236, 6

sobbing lamentation, 239, 1

went maundering, 240, 28

desolate seas, 243, 19

instantly echoed, 246, 25

entreating me to lay-to, 247, 2

combat their despondency, 249, 33

perilous task, 253, 21

sprung her foretopmast, 254, 16

unremitting attention, 255, 7

traveling trim, 255, 18

TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE

[Illustration]

AS YOU LIKE IT

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

During the time that France was divided into provinces (or dukedoms as

they were called) there reigned in one of these provinces an usurper, who

had deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke.

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few

faithful followers to the forest of Arden; and here the good duke lived

with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile

for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the false usurper;

and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here more sweet

to them than the pomp and uneasy splendor of a courtier’s life. Here they

lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest many noble

youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet the time carelessly,

as they did who lived in the golden age. In the summer they lay along

under the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the playful

sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor dappled

fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that it

grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves with venison

for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke feel the

change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and say,

“These chilling winds which blow upon my body are true counselors; 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, precious

for medicine, which is taken from the head of the venomous and despised

toad.” In this manner did the patient duke draw a useful moral from

everything that he saw; and by the help of this moralizing turn, in that

life of his, remote from public haunts, he could find tongues in trees,

books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind; whom the usurper,

Duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained in his court

as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship subsisted

between these ladies, which the disagreement between their fathers did

not in the least interrupt, Celia striving by every kindness in her

power to make amends to Rosalind for the injustice of her own father

in deposing the father of Rosalind; and whenever the thoughts of her

father’s banishment, and her own dependence on the false usurper, made

Rosalind melancholy, Celia’s whole care was to comfort and console her.

One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to Rosalind,

saying, “I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry,” a messenger

entered from the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a

wrestling match, which was just going to begin, they must come instantly

to the court before the palace; and Celia, thinking it would amuse

Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practiced now by country clowns,

was a favorite sport even in the courts of princes, and before fair

ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, Celia and

Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove a very tragical

sight; for a large and powerful man who had been long practiced in the

art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contests of this kind, was

just going to wrestle with a very young man, who, from his extreme youth

and inexperience in the art, the beholders all thought would certainly be

killed.

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, “How now, daughter and

niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take little

delight in it, there is such odds in the men; in pity to this young man,

I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and

see if you can not move him.”

The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and first

Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the

attempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such feeling

consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, that instead of

being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose, all his

thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage in this lovely

lady’s eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind in such

graceful and modest words, that they felt still more concern for him;

he concluded his refusal with saying, “I am sorry to deny such fair and

excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go

with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered there is one shamed that

was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one dead that is willing to

die; I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me; the

world no injury, for in it I have nothing; for I only fill up a place in

the world which may be better supplied when I have made it empty.”

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished the young stranger might

not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless state which

he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think that he

was like herself, unfortunate; and she pitied him so much, and so deep an

interest she took in his danger while he was wrestling, that she might

almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love with him.

The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies gave

him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in the end

completely 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; 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 humor. Hating

to hear the very name of any of his brother’s friends, and yet still

admiring the valor of the youth, he said, as he went out, that he wished

Orlando had been the son of any other man.

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favorite was the son of her

father’s old friend; and she said to Celia, “My father loved Sir Rowland

de Boys, and if I had known this young man was his son, I would have

added tears to my entreaties before he should have ventured.”

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the sudden

displeasure shown by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words to

him; and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak some

more civil things to the brave young son of her father’s old friend; and

taking a chain from off her neck, she said, “Gentleman, wear this for

me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a more valuable

present.”

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind’s talk being still of Orlando, Celia

began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome young

wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, “Is it possible you should fall in

love so suddenly?” Rosalind replied, “The duke, my father, loved his

father dearly.” “But,” said Celia, “does it therefore follow that you

should love his son dearly? for then I ought to hate him, for my father

hated his father; yet I do not hate Orlando.”

Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Rowland de Boys’ son,

which reminded him of the many friends the banished duke had among the

nobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece,

because the people praised her for her virtues and pitied her for her

good father’s sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her; and while

Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the room,

and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the

palace, and follow her father into banishment; telling Celia, who in vain

pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her

account. “I did not then,” said Celia, “entreat you to let her stay, for

I was too young at that time to value her; but now that I know her worth,

and that we so long have slept together, risen at the same instant,

learned, played, and eaten together, I cannot live out of her company.”

Frederick replied, “She is too subtle for you; her smoothness, her very

silence, and her patience speak to the people, and they pity her. You

are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem more bright and virtuous

when she is gone; therefore open not your lips in her favor, for the doom

which I have passed upon her is irrevocable.”

When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalind

remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany her; and leaving

her father’s palace that night, she went along with her friend to seek

Rosalind’s father, the banished duke, in the forest of Arden.

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for two

young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; she therefore

proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressing themselves like

country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still greater 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 taller, she should wear the dress

of a young countryman, and Celia should be habited like a country lass,

and that they should say they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said

she would be called Ganymede, and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their

expenses, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for the

forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the duke’s

dominions.

The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be called) with her manly

garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia

had shown in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, made the new

brother, in recompense for this true love, exert a cheerful spirit, as

if he were indeed Ganymede, the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the

gentle village maiden, Aliena.

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer found the

convenient inns and good 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 all the way, now

owned to Aliena that he was so weary, he could find in his heart to

disgrace his man’s apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena declared

she could go no farther; and then again Ganymede tried to recollect

that it was a man’s duty to comfort and console a woman, as the weaker

vessel; and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said, “Come, have

a good heart, my sister Aliena; we are now at the end of our travel, in

the forest of Arden.” But feigned manliness and forced courage would no

longer support them; for though they were in the forest of Arden, they

knew not where to find the duke; and here the travel of these weary

ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might have lost

themselves and perished for want of food; but providentially, as they

were sitting on the grass, almost dying with fatigue and hopeless of any

relief, a countryman chanced to pass that way, and Ganymede once more

tried to speak with a manly boldness, saying, “Shepherd, if love or gold

can in this desert place procure us entertainment, I pray you bring us

where we may rest ourselves; for this young maid, my sister, is much

fatigued with traveling, and faints for want of food.”

The man replied that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and that his

master’s house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would find

but poor 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 traveled, yet it soon appeared that Orlando

was also in the forest of Arden; and in this manner this strange event

came to pass.

Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who, when he died,

left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his eldest

brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother

a good education, and provide for him as became the dignity of their

ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disregarding the

commands of his dying father, he never put his brother to school, but

kept him at home untaught and entirely 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? why are you gentle,

strong, and valiant? and why would you be so fond to overcome the famous

wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.” Orlando,

wondering what all this meant, asked him what was the matter. And then

the old man told him how his wicked brother, envying the love all people

bore him, and now hearing the fame he had gained by his victory in the

duke’s palace, intended to destroy him, by setting fire to his chamber

that night; and in conclusion, advised him to escape the danger he was in

by instant flight; and knowing Orlando had no money, Adam (for that was

the good old man’s name) had brought out with him his own little hoard,

and he said, “I have five hundred crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under

your father, and laid by to be provision for me when my old limbs should

become unfit for service; take that, and he that doth the ravens feed be

comfort to my age! Here is the gold; all this I give to you; let me be

your servant; though I look old I will do the service of a younger man

in all your business and necessities.” “O good old man!” said Orlando,

“how well appears in you the constant service of the old world! You are

not for the fashion of these times. We will go along together, and before

your youthful wages are spent, I shall light upon some means for both our

maintenance.”

Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; and

Orlando and Adam traveled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till they

came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in the

same distress for want of food that Ganymede and Aliena had been. They

wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almost spent

with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, “O my dear master, I die for

want of food; I can go no farther!” He then laid himself down, thinking

to make that place his grave, and bade his dear master farewell. Orlando,

seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant up in his arms and

carried him under the shelter of some pleasant trees; and he said to him,

“Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here awhile and do not talk of

dying!”

Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened to arrive

at that part of the forest where the duke was; and he and his friends

were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the

grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of some large trees.

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, intending to

take their meat by force, and said, “Forbear and eat no more; I must

have your food!” The duke asked him if distress had made him so bold,

or if he were a rude despiser of good manners. On this Orlando said he

was dying with hunger; and then the duke told him he was welcome to sit

down and eat with them. Orlando hearing him speak so gently, put up his

sword, and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he had demanded

their food. “Pardon me, I pray you,” said he; “I thought that all things

had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance of stern

command; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, under the shade

of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; if

ever you have looked on better days; if ever you have been where bells

have knolled to church; if you have ever sat at any good man’s feast; if

ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, and know what it is to pity

or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move you to do me human courtesy!”

The duke replied, “True it is that we are men (as you say) who have seen

better days, and though we have now our 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 refreshments as much as will minister to your wants.” “There

is an old poor man,” answered Orlando, “who has limped after me many a

weary step in pure love, oppressed at once with two sad infirmities, age

and hunger; till he be satisfied, I must not touch a bit.” “Go, find

him out, and bring him hither,” said the duke; “we will forbear to eat

till you return.” Then Orlando went like a doe to find its fawn and give

it food; and presently returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke

said, “Set down your venerable burthen; you are both welcome”; and they

fed the old man and cheered his heart, and he revived, and recovered his

health and strength again.

The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when he found that he was the son

of his old friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his protection,

and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in the forest.

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganymede and Aliena

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

cottage.

Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name of Rosalind

carved on the trees, and love-sonnets, fastened to them, all addressed

to Rosalind; and while they were wondering how this could be, they met

Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had given him about

his neck.

Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair princess Rosalind, who,

by her noble condescension and favor, had so won his heart that he passed

his whole time in carving her name upon the trees, and writing sonnets

in praise of her beauty; but being much pleased with the graceful air of

this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered 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 humor talked to Orlando of a

certain lover, “who,” said he, “haunts our forest, and spoils our young

trees with carving, ‘Rosalind,’ upon their barks; and he hangs odes upon

hawthorns and elegies on brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I

could find this lover, I would give him some good counsel that would soon

cure him of his love.”

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and asked

Ganymede to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganymede

proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should come every

day to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt. “And then,” said

Ganymede, “I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to

court me in the same manner as you would do if I was Rosalind, and then I

will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies to their lovers, till

I make you ashamed of your love; and this is the way I propose to cure

you.” Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to come

every day to Ganymede’s cottage, and feign a playful courtship; and every

day Orlando visited Ganymede and Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd

Ganymede his Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine words and

flattering compliments which young men delight to use when they court

their mistresses. It does not appear, however, that Ganymede made any

progress in curing Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreaming

that Ganymede was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him of

saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost

as well as it did Ganymede’s, who enjoyed the secret jest in knowing

these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right person.

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people;

and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganymede happy, let him have

his own way, and was diverted at the mock-courtship, and did not care to

remind Ganymede that the lady Rosalind had not yet made herself known to

the duke her father, whose place of resort in the forest they had learnt

from Orlando. Ganymede met the duke one day, and had some talk with him,

and the duke asked of what parentage he came. Ganymede answered that

he came of as good parentage as he did, which made the duke smile, for

he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. Then

seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede was content to put off all

further explanation for a few days longer.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man lying

asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself

about his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away among

the bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness lie

crouching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting

until the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on

nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent by

Providence to free the man from the danger of the snake and lioness; but

when Orlando looked in the man’s face, he perceived that the sleeper who

was exposed to this double peril, was his own brother Oliver, who had so

cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him by fire; and he was

almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness; but brotherly

affection and the gentleness of his nature soon overcame his first anger

against his brother; and he drew his sword, and attacked the lioness, and

slew her, and thus preserved his brother’s life both from the venomous

snake and from the furious lioness; but before Orlando could conquer the

lioness, she had torn one of his arms with her sharp claws.

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and perceiving

that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was saving him

from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own life, shame and

remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his unworthy conduct, and

besought with many tears his brother’s pardon for the injuries he had

done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent, and readily forgave

him; they embraced each other; and from that hour Oliver loved Orlando

with a true brotherly affection, though he had come to the forest bent on

his destruction.

The wound in Orlando’s arm having bled very much, he found himself too

weak to go to visit Ganymede, and therefore he desired his brother to

go and tell Ganymede, “whom,” said Orlando, “I in sport do call my

Rosalind,” the accident which had befallen him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and Aliena how Orlando had

saved his life; and when he had finished the story of Orlando’s bravery,

and his own providential escape, he owned to them that he was Orlando’s

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

reconciliation.

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offenses made such a

lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell

in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the distress

he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love with her.

But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver,

he was no less busy with Ganymede, who hearing of the danger Orlando

had been in, and that he was wounded by the lioness, fainted; and when

he recovered, he pretended that he had counterfeited the swoon in the

imaginary character of Rosalind, and 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 counterfeit to be a man.” “So I do,” replied

Ganymede, truly, “but I should have been a woman by right.”

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returned back

to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for besides the account

of Ganymede’s fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded, Oliver

told him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess Aliena, and

that she had lent a favorable ear to his suit, even in this their first

interview; and he talked to his brother, as of a thing almost settled,

that he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so well loved her, that he

would live here as a shepherd, and settle his estate and house at home

upon Orlando.

“You have my consent,” said Orlando. “Let your wedding be tomorrow, and

I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess

to agree to this; she is now alone; for look, here comes her brother.”

Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganymede, whom Orlando had perceived

approaching, came to inquire after the health of his wounded friend.

When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the sudden love which had

taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his

brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the morrow, and

then he added how much he could wish to be married on the same day to his

Rosalind.

Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement, said that if Orlando

really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have his

wish; for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear in her

own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry Orlando.

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede was the lady Rosalind,

he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to pass by the

aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle who was a famous

magician.

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 tomorrow to

Rosalind, she shall be here.”

The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, they came

into the presence of the duke, and with them also came Orlando.

They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as

yet only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and

conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of

Orlando.

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be brought in

this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy could

really do what he had promised; and while Orlando was answering that

he knew not what to think, Ganymede entered, and asked the duke, if he

brought his daughter, whether he would consent to her marriage with

Orlando. “That I would,” said the duke, “if I had kingdoms to give with

her.” Ganymede then said to Orlando, “And you say you will marry her if

I bring her here?” “That I would,” said Orlando, “if I were king of many

kingdoms.”

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and Ganymede throwing

off his male attire, and being once more dressed in woman’s apparel,

quickly became Rosalind without the power of magic; and Aliena changing

her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as little trouble

transformed into the lady Celia.

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought the

shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he

also had observed the resemblance.

They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and Celia

in their own clothes entered; and no longer pretending that it was by the

power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees

before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed so wonderful to

all present that she should so suddenly appear, that it might well have

passed for magic; but Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father,

and told him the story of her banishment, and of her dwelling in the

forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister.

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage; and

Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same time.

And though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest with

any of the parade or splendor usual on such occasions, yet a happier

wedding-day was never passed; and while they were eating their venison

under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be

wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke and the true lovers,

an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke the joyful news, that

his dukedom was restored to him.

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing

that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden to join

the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that his brother should be so

highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the head of a large

force, and advanced toward the forest, intending to seize his brother,

and put him with all his faithful followers to the sword; but, by a

wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad brother was converted

from his evil intention; for just as he entered the skirts of the wild

forest, he was met by an old religious man, a hermit, with whom he had

much talk, and who in the end completely turned his heart from his

wicked design. Thenceforward he became a true penitent, and 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 messenger to his brother (as has been related) to offer to restore

to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so long, and with it the lands

and revenues of his friends, the faithful followers of his adversity.

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came opportunely to

heighten the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the princesses.

Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune which had happened to

the duke, Rosalind’s father, and wished her joy very sincerely, though

she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom, but by this restoration

which her father had made, Rosalind was now the heir; so completely was

the love of these two cousins unmixed with anything of jealousy or of

envy.

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who had

stayed with him in his banishment; and these worthy followers, though

they had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to

return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

=Biography.= Charles Lamb (1775-1834) was an English writer who

spent his entire life in London. He was a classmate of the poet

Coleridge. His father was a clerk in a lawyer’s office, and Charles

was an accountant until he was fifty years of age. He was, however,

a great reader and spent his hours of leisure at the bookstalls and

printshops or at home reading with his sister Mary. He and Mary

wrote _Tales from Shakespeare_, giving the story or plot of many of

Shakespeare’s plays. In a letter to his friend Mr. Manning, Lamb

said of his sister: “She is doing for Godwin’s bookseller twenty

of Shakespeare’s plays, to be made into children’s tales. Six are

already done by her: _The Tempest_, _Winter’s Tale_, _Midsummer

Night_, _Much Ado_, _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, and _Cymbeline;_ and

the _Merchant of Venice_ is in forwardness. I have done _Othello_

and _Macbeth_, and mean to do all the tragedies. I think it will be

popular among the little people, besides money. It is to bring in

sixty guineas. Mary has done them capitally, I think you’d think.”

Lamb’s rich personality gave flavor and enduring fame to his writings.

=Discussion.= 1. Be prepared to tell the story in the fewest possible

words. 2. Make an outline giving the principal events of the story.

3. Note all that is said of the forest of Arden; where may such a

forest be found? 4. Is the forest described a real one? 5. What

impression of the elder duke’s character do you get from the story?

6. What evidences of true friendship did Celia show? 7. Who are the

important characters? The most important? 8. Give your opinion of

these: Rosalind, Celia, Orlando. 9. Are the characters real and

lifelike or are they improbable? 10. What humorous situations do you

find? 11. Pronounce the following: haunts; wrestling; fatigue.

=Phrases=

usurper, who had deposed, 259, 3

voluntary exile, 259, 8

uneasy splendor, 259,11

dappled fools, 259, 17

adverse fortune, 260, 3

humane office, 261, 11

to forego his purpose, 261, 15

malice suddenly broke, 263, 4

defray their expenses, 263, 36

recompense for this, 264, 6

malice knew no bounds, 265, 36

shady covert, 267,10

sacred pity, 267, 33

venerable burthen, 268, 5

fantastic ways, 269, 6

bent on his destruction, 270, 27

counterfeited the swoon, 271, 9

wondering and conjecture, 272, 20

ratified the consent, 273, 12

respected in his adversity, 273, 25

wonderful interposition, 273, 28

newly-conceived penitence, 273, 35

THE TEMPEST

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

There 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. The knowledge of this art he found very

useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance upon this island,

which had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a

short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released

many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large

trees, because they had refused to execute her wicked commands. These

gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these

Ariel was the chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature,

except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly

monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the son

of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in the woods, a

strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape. He took

him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero would have

been very kind to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from

his mother Sycorax, would not let him learn anything good or useful;

therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most

laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these

services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible to

all eyes but Prospero’s) would come slyly and pinch him, and sometimes

tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an

ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape, in the

likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tumbling in Caliban’s way, who

feared the hedgehog’s sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With a

variety of such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him,

whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to do.

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could by

their means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his orders

they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with

the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it up, he

showed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full of

living beings like themselves. “O my dear father,” said she, “if by your

art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress.

See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all

perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather

than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious souls

within her.”

“Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,” said Prospero; “there is no harm

done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship shall receive any

hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You are

ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you know no more of me

but that I am your father, and live in this poor cave. Can you remember a

time before you came to this cell? I think you cannot, for you were not

then three years of age.”

“Certainly I can, sir,” replied Miranda.

“By what?” asked Prospero; “by any other house or person? Tell me what

you can remember, my child.”

Miranda said, “It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. But had I

not once four or five women who attended upon me?”

Prospero answered, “You had, and more. How is it that this still lives in

your mind? Do you remember how you came here?”

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

“Twelve years ago, Miranda,” continued Prospero, “I was duke of Milan,

and you were a princess, and my only heir. I had a younger brother, whose

name was Antonio, to whom I trusted everything; and as I was fond of

retirement and deep study, I commonly left the 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 subjects

awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of my dukedom;

this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples, a powerful

prince, who was my enemy.”

“Wherefore,” said Miranda, “did they not that hour destroy us?”

“My child,” answered her father, “they durst not, so dear was the love

that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, and when we

were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, without

either tackle, sail, or mast; there he left us, as he thought, to perish.

But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately

placed in the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and some books which I

prize above my dukedom.”

“O my father,” said Miranda, “what a trouble must I have been to you

then!”

“No, my love,” said Prospero, “you were a little cherub that did preserve

me. Your innocent smiles made me bear up against my misfortunes. Our

food lasted till we landed on this desert island, since when my chief

delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and well have you profited by

my instructions.”

“Heaven thank you, my dear father,” said Miranda. “Now pray tell me, sir,

your reason for raising this sea-storm?”

“Know then,” said her father, “that by means of this storm, my enemies,

the King of Naples and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this

island.”

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magic

wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then presented

himself before his master, to give an account of the tempest, and how he

had disposed of the ship’s company, and though the spirits were always

invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she should hear him holding

converse (as would seem to her) with the empty air.

“Well, my brave spirit,” said Prospero to Ariel, “how have you performed

your task?”

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors of the

mariners; and how the King’s son, Ferdinand, was the first who leaped

into the sea; and his father thought he saw his dear son swallowed up by

the waves and lost. “But he is safe,” said Ariel, “in a corner of the

isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly lamenting the loss of the King,

his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured,

and his princely garments, though drenched in the sea-waves, look fresher

than before.”

“That’s my delicate Ariel,” said Prospero. “Bring him hither; my daughter

must see this young prince. Where is the King, and my brother?”

“I left them,” answered Ariel, “searching for Ferdinand, whom they have

little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship’s crew

not one is missing; though each one thinks himself the only one saved;

and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in the harbor.”

“Ariel,” said Prospero, “thy charge is faithfully performed; but there is

more work yet.”

“Is there more work?” said Ariel. “Let me remind you, master, you

have promised me my liberty. I pray remember I have done you worthy

service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge or

grumbling.”

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

you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and envy

was almost bent double? Where was she born? Speak; tell me.”

“Sir, in Algiers,” said Ariel.

“O was she so?” said Prospero. “I must recount what you have been, which

I find you do not remember. This bad witch, Sycorax, for her witchcrafts,

too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished from Algiers, and

here left by the sailors; and because you were a spirit too delicate to

execute her wicked commands, she shut you up in a tree, where I found you

howling. This torment, remember, I did free you from.”

“Pardon me, dear master,” said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful; “I will

obey your commands.”

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

what further he would have him do; and away went Ariel, first to where he

had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the same

melancholy posture.

“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

altered by grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He has lost

his companions, and is wandering about to find them.”

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and 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 address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and was

going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted her.

He was well pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly

perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first sight; but to try

Ferdinand’s constancy, he resolved to throw some difficulties in their

way; therefore advancing forward, he addressed the prince with a stern

air, telling him, he came to the island as a spy, to take it from him

who was the lord of it. “Follow me,” said he, “I will tie you neck and

feet together. You shall drink sea-water; shell-fish, withered roots, and

husks of acorns shall be your food.” “No,” said Ferdinand, “I will resist

such entertainment, till I see a more powerful enemy,” and drew his

sword; but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him to the spot where

he stood, so that he had no power to move.

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, “Why are you so ungentle? Have

pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man I ever saw, and

to me he seems a true one.”

“Silence,” said the father; “one word more will make me chide you, girl!

What! an advocate for an impostor! You think there are no more such fine

men, having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most

men as far excel this, as he does Caliban.” This he said to prove his

daughter’s constancy; and she replied, “My affections are most humble. I

have no wish to see a goodlier man.”

“Come on, young man,” said Prospero to the Prince; “you have no power to

disobey me.”

“I have not indeed,” answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that it was by

magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished to

find himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero; looking back on

Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went after Prospero

into the cave, “My spirits are all bound up, as if I were in a dream; but

this man’s threats, and the weakness which I feel, would seem light to me

if from my prison I might once a day behold this fair maid.”

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell; he soon

brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking

care to let his daughter know the hard labor 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 carry your logs the while.”

But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. Instead of a help Miranda

became a hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so that the

business of log-carrying went on very slowly.

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial of his

love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, but was standing by

them invisible, to overhear what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was against her

father’s express command she did so.

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter’s

disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fall in

love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her love by forgetting

to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to a long speech of

Ferdinand’s, in which he professed to love her above all the ladies he

ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all the

women in the world, she replied, “I do not remember the face of any

woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and my dear

father. How features are abroad, I know not; but, believe me, sir, I

would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can my imagination

form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to

you too freely, and my father’s precepts I forget.”

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to say, “This

goes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be Queen of Naples.”

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princes speak

in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to the crown

of Naples, and that she should be his Queen.

“Ah! sir,” said she, “I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. I will

answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife if you will marry

me.”

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

“Fear nothing, my child,” said he; “I have overheard, and so 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 returned; and this command Miranda

seemed not at all disposed to disobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly appeared

before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero’s brother

and the King of Naples. Ariel said he had left them almost out of their

senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused them to see and

hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and famished for want of food,

he had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet, and then, just as

they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them in the shape of a

harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the feast vanished away. Then,

to their utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding

them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and 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 penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could

not but pity them.

“Then bring them hither, Ariel,” said Prospero; “if you, who are but a

spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being like

themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, quickly, my dainty

Ariel.”

Ariel soon returned with the King, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in their

train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music he played in the

air to draw them on to his master’s presence. This Gonzalo was the same

who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books and provisions,

when his wicked brother left him, as he thought, to perish in an open

boat in the sea.

Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses, that they did not know

Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, calling

him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and the King knew

that he was the injured Prospero.

Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true repentance, implored

his brother’s forgiveness, and the King expressed his sincere remorse

for having assisted Antonio to depose his brother; and Prospero forgave

them; and, upon their engaging to restore his dukedom, he said to the

King of Naples, “I have a gift in store for you, too”; and opening a

door, showed him his son Ferdinand playing at chess with Miranda.

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this unexpected

meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in the storm.

“O wonder!” said Miranda, “what noble creatures these are! It must surely

be a brave world that has such people in it.”

The King of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty and

excellent graces of the young Miranda, as his son had been. “Who is this

maid?” said he; “she seems the goddess that has parted us, and brought

us thus together.” “No, sir,” answered Ferdinand, smiling to find his

father had fallen into the same mistake that he had done when he first

saw Miranda, “she is a mortal, but by immortal Providence she is mine;

I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for your consent, not

thinking you were alive. She is the daughter to this Prospero, who is the

famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much, but never saw

him till now; of him I have received a new life: he has made himself to

me a second father, giving me this dear lady.”

“Then I must be her father,” said the King; “but oh! how oddly will it

sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness.”

“No more of that,” said Prospero; “let us not remember our troubles

past, since they so happily have ended.” And then Prospero embraced his

brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that a wise

over-ruling Providence had permitted that he should be driven from his

poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit the crown of

Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert island, it had happened

that the King’s son had loved Miranda.

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his brother,

so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he wept and was unable to

speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation,

and prayed for blessings on the young couple.

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbor, and the

sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter would accompany

them home the next morning. “In the meantime,” says he, “partake of

such refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your evening’s

entertainment I will relate the history of my life from my first landing

in this desert island.” He then called for Caliban to prepare some food,

and set the cave in order; and the company were astonished at the uncouth

form and savage appearance of this ugly monster, who (Prospero said) was

the only attendant he had to wait upon him.

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his service,

to the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he had been

a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy his free

liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under green

trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. “My quaint

Ariel,” said Prospero to the little sprite when he made him free, “I

shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom.” “Thank you, my dear

master,” said Ariel; “but give me leave to attend your ship home with

prosperous gales, before you bid farewell to the assistance of your

faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily I shall

live!” Here Ariel sang this pretty song:

“Where the bee sucks, there suck I;

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

There I crouch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.”

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and wand, for

he was resolved never more to make use of the magic art. And having thus

overcome his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the King 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 splendor on their return to

Naples. At which place, under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they,

after a pleasant voyage, soon arrived.

NOTES AND QUESTIONS

For Biography, see Page 274.

=Discussion.= 1. Make a list of the characters mentioned in the

story. 2. Which are the principal characters? 3. What was Prospero’s

purpose in raising a violent storm? 4. What tells you that it is a

magic storm? 5. Tell the story that Prospero told his daughter. 6.

Why is Miranda made to sleep? 7. What is the purpose of Ariel’s song?

8. Compare the “love at first sight” of Miranda and Ferdinand with

that of Orlando and Rosalind in “As You Like It.” 9. Tell the story

of the reconciliation of Antonio and Prospero. 10. Repeat from memory

Ariel’s farewell song. 11. Which of the characters do you like best?

Why? 12. Mention humorous incidents in the story. 13. What is the

aptness of the song “Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind”? See page 84 in

this book. 14. In a few brief sentences tell the plot of the story.

15. Pronounce the following: mischievous; heir; uncouth.

=Phrases=

much affected by learned men, 275, 9

refused to execute, 275, 15

owed him a grudge, 276, 1

such-like vexatious tricks, 276, 17

worldly ends, 277, 17

dedicate my whole time, 277, 17

holding converse, 278, 14

lamenting the loss, 278, 23

altered by grief, 280, 10

advocate for an impostor, 281, 2

power of resistance, 281, 11

set him a severe task, 281, 19

became a hindrance, 281, 32

had enjoined, 281, 35

father’s precepts, 282, 16

penitence was sincere, 283, 19

have compassion, 283, 23

stupefied their senses, 283, 31

engaging to restore, 284, 1

uncouth form, 285, 8

prosperous gales, 285, 19

happy nuptials, 285, 35