CHAPTER I

[Illustration]

BOOKS FOR CHILDREN

BY

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

EDITED BY

E.V. LUCAS

WITH A FRONTISPIECE

INTRODUCTION

The present volume contains all the stories and verses for children

which we know Charles and Mary Lamb to have written. The text is that

of the first or second editions, as explained in the Notes. _The

Poetry for Children_ and _Prince Dorus_ have been set up from the late

Andrew W. Tuer's facsimiles. The large edition of this volume contains

all the original pictures, together with the apochryphal _Beauty and

the Beast_.

In Mr. Bedford's design for the cover of this edition certain Elian

symbolism will be found. The upper coat of arms is that of Christ's

Hospital, where Lamb was at school; the lower is that of the Inner

Temple, where he was born and spent many years. The figures at the

bells are those which once stood out from the façade of St. Dunstan's

Church in Fleet Street, and are now in Lord Londesborough's garden in

Regent's Park. Lamb shed tears when they were removed. The tricksy

sprite and the candles (brought by Betty) need no explanatory words of

mine.

E.V.L.

CONTENTS

TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR

PAGE

Preface 1

The Tempest 3

A Midsummer Night's Dream 13

The Winter's Tale 23

Much Ado About Nothing 33

As You Like It 44

The Two Gentlemen of Verona 58

The Merchant of Venice 69

Cymbeline 81

King Lear 92

Macbeth 106

All's Well that Ends Well 115

The Taming of the Shrew 126

The Comedy of Errors 136

Measure for Measure 148

Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 161

Timon of Athens 173

Romeo and Juliet 184

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 199

Othello 213

Pericles, Prince of Tyre 225

THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES

Preface 240

CHAPTER I. The Cicons--The fruit of the lotos tree--Polyphemus

and the Cyclops--The kingdom of the winds, and god

Æolus's fatal present--The Læstrygonian man-eaters 241

CHAPTER II. The House of Circe--Men changed into beasts--The

voyage to hell--The banquet of the dead 250

CHAPTER III. The song of the Sirens--Scylla and Charybdis--The

oxen of the Sun--The judgment--The crew killed by lightning 262

CHAPTER IV. The Island of Calypso--Immortality refused 269

CHAPTER V. The tempest--The sea-bird's gift--The escape by

swimming--The sleep in the woods 273

CHAPTER VI. The Princess Nausicaa--The washing--The game

with the ball--The Court of Phæacia and king Alcinous. 277

CHAPTER VII. The songs of Demodocus--The convoy home--The

mariners transformed to stone--The young shepherd. 283

CHAPTER VIII. The change from a king to a beggar--Eumæus

and the herdsmen--Telemachus 290

CHAPTER IX. The queen's suitors--The battle of the beggars--The

armour taken down--The meeting with Penelope 301

CHAPTER X. The madness from above--The bow of Ulysses--The

slaughter--The conclusion 308

MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL

Dedication 316

Elizabeth Villiers: The Sailor Uncle 319

Louisa Manners: The Farm House 328

Ann Withers: The Changeling 334

Elinor Forester: The Father's Wedding Day 350

Margaret Green: The Young Mahometan 354

Emily Barton: Visit to the Cousins 360

Maria Howe: The Witch Aunt 368

Charlotte Wilmot: The Merchant's Daughter 375

Susan Yates: First Going to Church 378

Arabella Hardy: The Sea Voyage 384

THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS 389

POETRY FOR CHILDREN

Envy 404

The Reaper's Child 404

The Ride 405

The Butterfly 406

The Peach 407

Chusing a Name 408

Crumbs to the Birds 408

The Rook and the Sparrows 409

Discontent and Quarrelling 410

Repentance and Reconciliation 411

Neatness in Apparel 412

The New-born Infant 412

Motes in the Sun-beams 413

The Boy and the Snake 413

The First Tooth 415

To a River in which a Child was Drowned 416

The First of April 416

Cleanliness 417

The Lame Brother 418

Going into Breeches 419

Nursing 420

The Text 421

The End of May 422

Feigned Courage 424

The Broken Doll 425

The Duty of a Brother 426

Wasps in a Garden 427

What is Fancy? 428

Anger 429

Blindness 429

The Mimic Harlequin 430

Written in the First Leaf of a Child's Memorandum Book 430

Memory 431

The Reproof 432

The Two Bees 432

The Journey from School and to School 434

The Orange 435

The Young Letter-Writer 436

The Three Friends 437

On the Lord's Prayer 442

"Suffer little Children, and Forbid them not, to come unto Me" 443

The Magpye's Nest; or, A Lesson of Docility 445

The Boy and the Sky-lark 447

The Men and Women, and the Monkeys 449

Love, Death, and Reputation 449

The Sparrow and the Hen 450

Which is the Favourite? 451

The Beggar-Man 451

Choosing a Profession 452

Breakfast 453

Weeding 454

Parental Recollections 455

The Two Boys 455

The Offer 456

The Sister's Expostulation on the Brother's learning Latin 456

The Brother's Reply 457

Nurse Green 459

Good Temper 460

Moderation in Diet 460

Incorrect Speaking 462

Charity 462

My Birthday 463

The Beasts in the Tower 464

The Confidant 466

Thoughtless Cruelty 466

Eyes 467

Penny Pieces 468

The Rainbow 469

The Force of Habit 470

Clock Striking 470

Why not do it, Sir, To-day? 471

Home Delights 471

The Coffee Slips 472

The Dessert 473

To a Young Lady, on being too Fond of Music 474

Time Spent in Dress 475

The Fairy 476

Conquest of Prejudice 476

The Great-Grandfather 478

The Spartan Boy 479

Queen Oriana's Dream 480

On a Picture of the Finding of Moses by Pharaoh's Daughter 481

David 483

David in the Cave of Adullam 486

THREE POEMS NOT IN "POETRY FOR CHILDREN"

Summer Friends 488

A Birthday Thought 488

The Boy, the Mother, and the Butterfly 489

PRINCE DORUS 490

* * * * *

NOTES 499

INDEX 523

INDEX OF FIRST LINES 529

FRONTISPIECE

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB

From the Painting by F.S. Cary, in 1834, now in the National Portrait

Gallery.

TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR

(_Written 1805-1806. First Edition 1807. Text of Second Edition 1809_)

PREFACE

The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as

an introduction to the study of Shakespear, for which purpose, his

words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in

whatever has been added to give them the regular form of a connected

story, diligent care has been taken to select such words as might

least interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which

he wrote: therefore words introduced into our language since his time

have been as far as possible avoided.

In those Tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, as my young

readers will perceive when they come to see the source from which

these stories are derived, Shakespear's own words, with little

alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the

dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies I found myself scarcely

ever able to turn his words into the narrative form; therefore I fear

in them I have made use of dialogue too frequently for young people

not used to the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it be as

I fear a fault, has been caused by my earnest wish to give as much of

Shakespear's own words as possible: and if the "_He said_" and "_She

said_" the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to

their young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way I

knew of, in which I could give them a few hints and little foretastes

of the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when

they come to the rich treasures from which these small and valueless

coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint and

imperfect stamps of Shakespear's matchless image. Faint and imperfect

images they must be called, because the beauty of his language is

too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his

excellent words into words far less expressive of his true sense,

to make it read something like prose; and even in some few places,

where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple

plainness to cheat the young readers into the belief that they are

reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from its own

natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native

beauty.

I have wished to make these Tales easy reading for very young

children. To the utmost of my ability I have constantly kept this in

my mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a very difficult

task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and women in

terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. For young

ladies too it has been my intention chiefly to write, because boys

are generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a much

earlier age than girls are, they frequently having the best scenes of

Shakespear by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look into

this manly book; and therefore, instead of recommending these Tales to

the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so much better in the

originals, I must rather beg their kind assistance in explaining to

their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to understand; and

when they have helped them to get over the difficulties, then perhaps

they will read to them (carefully selecting what is proper for a young

sister's ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of these

stories, in the very words of the scene from which it is taken; and I

trust they will find that the beautiful extracts, the select passages,

they may chuse to give their sisters in this way, will be much better

relished and understood from their having some notion of the general

story from one of these imperfect abridgments:--which if they be

fortunately so done as to prove delightful to any of you, my young

readers, I hope will have no worse effect upon you, than to make

you wish yourselves a little older, that you may be allowed to read

the Plays at full length (such a wish will be neither peevish nor

irrational). When time and leave of judicious friends shall put

them into your hands, you will discover in such of them as are here

abridged (not to mention almost as many more which are left untouched)

many surprising events and turns of fortune, which for their infinite

variety could not be contained in this little book, besides a world of

sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and women, the humour of

which I was fearful of losing if I attempted to reduce the length of

them.

What these Tales have been to you in childhood, that and much more it

is my wish that the true Plays of Shakespear may prove to you in older

years--enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing

from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and

honourable thoughts and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity,

generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching these virtues, his

pages are full.

THE TEMPEST

(_By 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: and the knowledge of this art he

found very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance upon

this island, which had been inchanted 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 any thing

good or useful: therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch

wood, and do the most laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of

compelling him to these services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible

to all eyes but Prospero's) would come 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 shewed 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 every thing; 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 to bear up against my

misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island,

since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and

well have you profited by my instructions."

"Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now pray tell me,

sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm." "Know then," said her

father, "that by means of this storm my enemies, the king of Naples,

and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this island."

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magic

wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then

presented himself before his master, 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 this dear son

swallowed up by the waves, and lost. "But he is safe," said Ariel, "in

a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded sadly, lamenting

the loss of the king his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair

of his head is injured, and his princely 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

harbour."

"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed: bur 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 farther 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. It is 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 grey 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 inchanted 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 her father, "one word more will make me chide you,

girl! What! an advocate for an impostor! You think there are no more

such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish

girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Caliban." This he said to

prove his daughter's constancy; and she replied, "My affections are

most humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier man."

"Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, "you have no power

to disobey me."

"I have not indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that it was

by magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished

to find himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero; looking

back on Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went after

Prospero into the cave, "My spirits are all bound up, as if I were in

a dream; but this man's threats, and the weakness which I feel, would

seem light to me, if from my prison I might once a day behold this

fair maid."

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he soon

brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking

care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had imposed on him,

and then pretending to go into his study he secretly watched them

both.

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs of wood.

Kings' sons not being much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after

found her lover almost dying with fatigue. "Alas!" said she, "do not

work so hard; my father is at his studies, he is safe for these three

hours: pray, rest yourself."

"O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must finish my task

before I take my rest."

"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 shewed 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 approve

of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely used

you, I will make you rich amends by giving you my daughter. All

your vexations were but my trials of your love, and you have nobly

stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily

purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is

above all praise." He then, telling them that he had business which

required his presence, desired they would sit down and talk together,

till he returned; and this command Miranda seemed not at all disposed

to 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 stupified 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, shewed 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 harbour, 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 farewel to the assistance

of your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily

I shall live!" Here Ariel sung this pretty song:

"Where the bee sucks, there suck I;

In a cowslip's bell I lie:

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books, and

wand, for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic art.

And having thus 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 Miranda and

prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be instantly celebrated

with great splendour on their return to Naples. At which place, under

the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage

soon arrived.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

(_By Mary Lamb_)

There was a law in the city of Athens, which gave to its citizens the

power of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased:

for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen

to be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her

to be put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of

their own daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little

refractory, this law was seldom or never put in execution, though

perhaps the young ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened

by their parents with the terrors of it.

There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name was Egeus,

who actually did come before Theseus (at that time the reigning

duke of Athens), to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had

commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian family,

refused to obey him, because she loved another young Athenian, named

Lysander. Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this

cruel law might be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius had

formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena

loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable reason which

Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command moved not the

stern Egeus.

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to alter the

laws of his country; therefore he could only give Hermia four days to

consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she still refused to

marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death.

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, she went to

her lover Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, and that she

must either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four

days.

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but

recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance from

Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could not

be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the

boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, that she should steal

out of her father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt's

house, where he would marry her. "I will meet you," said Lysander, "in

the wood a few miles without the city; in that delightful wood, where

we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May."

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one of her

intended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will do

foolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell

this to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from betraying

her friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following her faithless

lover to the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius would go thither

in pursuit of Hermia.

The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet, was the

favourite haunt of those little beings known by the name of _Fairies_.

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the Fairies, with all their

tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels.

Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at this

time, a sad disagreement: they never met by moonlight in the shady

walks of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their

fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing to

give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's

friend: and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from its

nurse, and brought him up in the woods.

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania

was walking with some of her maids of honour, she met Oberon attended

by his train of fairy courtiers.

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. The queen

replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I

have forsworn his company." "Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not

I thy lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little

changeling boy to be my page."

"Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole fairy

kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in great

anger. "Well, go your way," said Oberon: "before the morning dawns I

will torment you for this injury."

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

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was a

shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in

the neighbouring villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and

skimming the milk, sometimes plunging his light and airy form into

the butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the

vessel, in vain the dairy-maid would labour to change her cream into

butter: nor had the village swains any better success; whenever Puck

chose to play his freaks in the brewing-copper, the ale was sure to be

spoiled. When a few good neighbours were met to drink some comfortable

ale together, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of

a roasted crab, and when some old goody was going to drink, he would

bob against her lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and

presently after, when the same old dame was gravely seating herself

to tell her neighbours a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip

her three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled the poor old

woman, and then the old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at

her, and swear they never wasted a merrier hour.

"Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of the

night; "fetch me the flower which maids call _Love in Idleness_; the

juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who

sleep, will make them, when they awake, doat on the first thing they

see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids of my

Titania, when she is asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when

she opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a

lion, or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy ape: and before I will

take this charm from off her sight, which I can do with another charm

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

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this

intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while

Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and

Helena enter the woods: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for

following him, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle

expostulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love and

professions of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the

mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as she

could.

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great

compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walk

by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in

those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However that

might be, when Puck returned with the little purple flower, Oberon

said to his favourite, "Take a part of this flower: there has been a

sweet Athenian lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if

you find him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but

contrive to do it when she is near him, that the first thing he sees

when he awakes may be this despised lady. You will know the man by the

Athenian garments which he wears." Puck promised to manage this matter

very dextrously; and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her

bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a

bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a

canopy of woodbine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania always

slept some part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled skin of a

snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy

in.

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to employ

themselves while she slept. "Some of you," said her majesty, "must

kill cankers in the musk-rose-buds, and some wage war with the bats

for their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some of

you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come not

near me: but first sing me to sleep." Then they began to sing this

song:--

You spotted snakes with double tongue,

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;

Newts and blind-worms do no wrong,

Come not near our Fairy Queen.

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in our sweet lullaby,

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

Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So good night with lullaby.

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty lullaby,

they left her, to perform the important services she had enjoined

them. Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and dropt some of the

love-juice on her eye-lids, saying,

What thou seest when thou dost wake,

Do it for thy true-love take.

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's house

that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing to marry

Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander

waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but before they

had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that

Lysander, who was very careful of this dear lady, that had proved her

affection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded

her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down

himself on the ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast

asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who seeing a handsome young man

asleep, and perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian

fashion, and that a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that

this must be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon

had sent him to seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as

they were alone together, she must be the first thing he would see

when he awoke: so without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the

juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out,

that Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first

object Lysander beheld when he opened his eyes: and strange to relate,

so powerful was the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away,

and Lysander fell in love with Helena.

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck committed

would have been of no consequence, for he could not love that

faithful lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy

love-charm to forget his own true Hermia, and to run after another

lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was a

sad chance indeed.

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related,

endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely

from her; but she could not continue this unequal race long, men

being always better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon

lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was wandering about dejected

and forlorn, she arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping.

"Ah!" said she, "this is Lysander lying on the ground: is he dead or

asleep?" Then gently touching him, she said, "Good sir, if you are

alive, awake." Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm

beginning to work) immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant

love and admiration; telling her, she as much excelled Hermia in

beauty as a dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire

for her sweet sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena,

knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was

solemnly engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard

herself addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well she might)

that Lysander was making a jest of her. "Oh!" said she, "why was I

born to be mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it

not enough, young man, that I can never get a sweet look or a kind

word from Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful

manner to court me? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true

gentleness." Saying these words in great anger, she ran away; and

Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was

still asleep.

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone.

She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander,

or which way to go to seek for him. In the mean time Demetrius not

being able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with

his fruitless search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had

learnt by some questions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied

the love-charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now, having found

the person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping

Demetrius with the love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first

thing he saw being Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began

to address love-speeches to her: and just at that moment Lysander,

followed by Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now

become Hermia's turn to run after her lover), made his appearance;

and then Lysander and Demetrius, both speaking together, made love to

Helena, they being each one under the influence of the same potent

charm.

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her once

dear friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make a jest of her.

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew not why Lysander and

Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of

Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now

fell to high words together.

"Unkind Hermia," said Helena, "it is you have set Lysander on, to vex

me with mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost

to spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him call me Goddess,

Nymph, rare, precious, and celestial? He would not speak thus to me

whom he hates, if you did not set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind

Hermia, to join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have you forgot

our school-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting

on one cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the

same flower, both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in

fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted? Hermia, it is not

friendly in you, it is not maidenly, to join with men in scorning your

poor friend."

"I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I scorn you

not; it seems you scorn me." "Aye, do," returned Helena, "persevere;

counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back;

then wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any

pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus."

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other,

Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for

the love of Helena.

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, and once

more wandered weary in the wood in search of their lovers.

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

had been listening to their quarrels, said to him, "This is your

negligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully?" "Believe me, king of

shadows," answered Puck, "it was a mistake: did not you tell me I

should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry

this has happened, for I think their jangling makes excellent sport."

"You heard," said Oberon, "that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to

seek a convenient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the

night with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in

the dark, that they shall not be able to find each other. Counterfeit

each of their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them

to follow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they hear.

See you do this, till they are so weary they can go no farther; and

when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower

into Lysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will forget his new love

for Helena, and return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two

fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they

will think all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly,

Puck; and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found."

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, who

had lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: "This fellow,"

said he, "shall be my Titania's truelove;" and clapping an ass's head

over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon

his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently,

it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to

him, he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.

"Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, opening her eyes, and

the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect; "Are

you as wise as you are beautiful?"

"Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find

the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn."

"Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamoured queen. "I am

a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give

you fairies to attend upon you."

She then called four of her fairies; their names were, Pease-blossom,

Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.

"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman; hop in his

walks, and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and

steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said

she to the clown, "and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my

beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!"

"Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown; not much

regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new

attendants.

"Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom.

"Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is Cobweb?"

"Here, sir," said Cobweb.

"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red humble-bee

on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the

honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb,

and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you

overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?"

"Here, sir," said Mustard-seed; "what is your will?"

"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr.

Pease-blossom to scratch: I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed,

for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face."

"My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat? I have a

venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some

new nuts."

"I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, who with

his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of

your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep."

"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind you in my arms. O how

I love you! how I doat upon you!"

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen,

he advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished

her favours upon an ass.

This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her

arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers.

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the

changeling-boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord

with her new favourite, did not dare to refuse him.

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for

to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which,

by his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some

of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen

immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage,

saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him

to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to

her the history of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she

agreed to go with him, and see the end of their adventures.

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no

great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck,

to make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost

diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other;

and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander

with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her,

was looking at him, and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander

presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his

reason which the fairy-charm had before clouded, and with his reason

his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of the

night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they had

both been dreaming the same bewildering dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having

quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with

delight to the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her,

and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure she began to perceive

were sincere.

These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became

once more true friends; all the unkind words which had passed were

forgiven, and they calmly consulted together what was best to be done

in their present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius had

given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavour to prevail

upon her father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been

passed against her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for

this friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of

Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his runaway

daughter.

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter,

he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent

that they should be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the

same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and on

that same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now

faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this

reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history

brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so

much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the

approaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy

kingdom.

And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their

pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think

that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures

were visions which they saw in their sleep: and I hope none of my

readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty

harmless Midsummer Night's Dream.

THE WINTER'S TALE

(_By Mary Lamb_)

Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and virtuous

Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony together. So happy was

Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, that he had no wish

ungratified, except that he sometimes desired to see again, and to

present to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,

king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought up together from

their infancy, but being by the death of their fathers called to

reign over their respective kingdoms, they had not met for many

years, though they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and

loving embassies.

At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from Bohemia to

the Sicilian court, to make his friend Leontes a visit.

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He

recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's particular

attention, and seemed in the presence of his dear friend and old

companion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked over old

times; their school-days and their youthful pranks were remembered,

and recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part in these

conversations.

When after a long stay Polixenes was preparing to depart, Hermione, at

the desire of her husband, joined her intreaties to his that Polixenes

would prolong his visit.

And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refusing to

stay at the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle and

persuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon

this, although Leontes had so long known the integrity and honourable

principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excellent

disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernable

jealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her

husband's particular desire, and merely to please him, increased the

unfortunate king's malady; and from being a loving and a true friend,

and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage

and inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his

court, and telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded

him to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy

of Leontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of

poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's orders,

and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and

Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own

kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time in the king's

court, and became the chief friend and favourite of Polixenes.

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; he

went to the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting with

her little son Mamillus, who was just beginning to tell one of his

best stories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and taking

the child away, sent Hermione to prison.

Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his mother tenderly;

and when he saw her so dishonoured, and found she was taken from him

to be put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and

pined away by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it

was thought his grief would kill him.

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded Cleomenes

and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire of

the oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful

to him.

When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought to bed

of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the sight

of her pretty baby, and she said to it, "My poor little prisoner, I am

as innocent as you are."

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who was the

wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the Lady Paulina heard

her royal mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison where

Hermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended

upon Hermione, "I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her

majesty dare trust me with her little babe, I will carry it to the

king its father; we do not know how he may soften at the sight of his

innocent child." "Most worthy madam," replied Emilia, "I will acquaint

the queen with your noble offer; she was wishing to-day that she had

any friend who would venture to present the child to the king." "And

tell her," said Paulina, "that I will speak boldly to Leontes in

her defence." "May you be for ever blessed," said Emilia, "for your

kindness to our gracious queen!" Emilia then went to Hermione, who

joyfully gave up her baby to the care of Paulina, for she had feared

that no one would dare venture to present the child to its father.

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king's

presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger,

endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's feet,

and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione,

and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored him

to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spirited

remonstrances only aggravated Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered

her husband Antigonus to take her from his presence.

When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its father's feet,

thinking, when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, and have

pity on its helpless innocence.

The good Paulina was mistaken; for no sooner was she gone than the

merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the

child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to

perish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders of

Leontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and put

out to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could

find.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that he

would not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent

to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen was

recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her

precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before all the

lords and nobles of his court. And when all the great lords, the

judges, and all the nobility of the land were assembled together to

try Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing as a prisoner before

her subjects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes and Dion entered the

assembly, and presented to the king the answer of the oracle sealed

up; and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken, and the words of

the oracle to be read aloud, and these were the words:--"_Hermione

is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a

jealous tyrant, and the king shall live without an heir if that which

is lost be not found_." The king would give no credit to the words

of the oracle: he said it was a falsehood invented by the queen's

friends, and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the

queen; but while Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told him that

the prince Mamillus, hearing his mother was to be tried for her life,

struck with grief and shame, had suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate child,

who had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; and

Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for his

unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her

attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. Paulina

soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead.

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his cruelty

to her; and now that he thought his ill usage had broken Hermione's

heart, he believed her innocent; and he now thought the words of the

oracle were true, as he knew "if that which was lost was not found,"

which he concluded was his young daughter, he should be without an

heir, the young prince Mamillus being dead; and he would give his

kingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself up

to remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentant

grief.

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea

was driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of

the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the

little baby.

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had left

his daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came out

of the woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for

obeying the wicked order of Leontes.

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had

made it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had

pinned a paper to its mantle, with the name of _Perdita_ written

thereon, and words obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward

fate.

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a humane man,

and so he carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it

tenderly: but poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize

he had found; therefore he left that part of the country, that no one

might know where he got his riches, and with part of Perdita's jewels

he bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up

Perdita as his own child, and she knew not she was any other than a

shepherd's daughter.

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had no

better education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the

natural graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her

untutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known she

had not been brought up in her father's court.

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name was

Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shepherd's

dwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the beauty,

modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to

fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and in the

disguise of a private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the old

shepherd's house.

Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed Polixenes; and setting

people to watch his son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's

fair daughter.

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had

preserved his life from the fury of Leontes; and desired that he would

accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of

Perdita.

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd's

dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; and

though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest

being made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join in the

general festivity.

Nothing but mirth and jolity was going forward. Tables were spread,

and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and

lasses were dancing on the green before the house, while others of the

young men were buying ribbands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar at

the door.

While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita

sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the

conversation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports

and silly amusements of those around them.

The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could know

him; he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. The

simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son did

not a little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo, "This is the

prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks

like something greater than herself, too noble for this place."

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

"Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old shepherd, "what fair

swain is that talking with your daughter?" "They call him Doricles,"

replied the shepherd. "He says he loves my daughter; and to speak

truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. If

young Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little dreams

of:" meaning the remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, after he had

bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully hoarded up

for her marriage-portion.

Polixenes then addressed his son. "How now, young man!" said he: "your

heart seems full of something that takes off your mind from feasting.

When I was young, I used to load my love with presents; but you have

let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy."

The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king his

father, replied, "Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts

which Perdita expects from me are locked up in my heart." Then turning

to Perdita, he said to her, "O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient

gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he shall hear what I

profess." Florizel then called upon the old stranger to be a witness

to a solemn promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to

Polixenes, "I pray you, mark our contract."

"Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, discovering himself.

Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract himself to

this low-born maiden, calling Perdita "shepherd's-brat, sheep-hook,"

and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she suffered

his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old shepherd her

father, to a cruel death.

The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to follow

him with prince Florizel.

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was roused by

Polixenes's reproaches, said, "Though we are all undone, I was not

much afraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him

plainly that the self-same sun which shines upon his palace, hides not

his face from our cottage, but looks on both alike." Then sorrowfully

she said, "But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no

farther. Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes, and weep."

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety

of Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince was too

deeply in love to give up his mistress at the command of his royal

father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same

time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind.

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of Sicily, was become

a true penitent; and though Camillo was now the favoured friend of

king Polixenes, he could not help wishing once more to see his late

royal master and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel

and Perdita, that they should accompany him to the Sicilian court,

where he would engage Leontes should protect them, till through his

mediation they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to

their marriage.

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who conducted

every thing relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go

along with them.

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, her baby

clothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her mantle.

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the old

shepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, who

still mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo

with great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel.

But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, seemed to

engross all Leontes' attention: perceiving a resemblance between her

and his dead queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he said,

such a lovely creature might his own daughter have been, if he had not

so cruelly destroyed her. "And then too," said he to Florizel, "I lost

the society and friendship of your brave father, whom I now desire

more than my life once again to look upon."

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had taken of

Perdita, and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in infancy,

he fell to comparing the time when he found the little Perdita with

the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its high

birth; from all which it was impossible for him not to conclude, that

Perdita and the king's lost daughter were the same.

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were present

when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in which he had

found the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus's death,

he having seen the bear seize upon him. He shewed the rich mantle

in which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the child; and

he produced a jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied about

Perdita's neck, and he gave up the paper which Paulina knew to be

the writing of her husband; it could not be doubted that Perdita was

Leontes' own daughter: but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between

sorrow for her husband's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled,

in the king's heir, his long-lost daughter, being found. When Leontes

heard that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt

that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made him that he

could say nothing for a long time, but "O thy mother, thy mother!"

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to

Leontes, that she had a statue, newly finished by that rare Italian

master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the

queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look

upon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione herself.

Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the semblance of

his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she never

saw did look like.

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this famous statue,

so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was

renewed at the sight: for a long time he had no power to speak or

move.

"I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina; "it the more shews your

wonder. Is not this statue very like your queen?" At length the king

said, "O, thus she stood, even with such majesty, when I first wooed

her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks."

Paulina replied, "So much the more the carver's excellence, who has

made the statue as Hermione would have looked had she been living now.

But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently you think it moves."

The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain! Would I were dead! See,

Camillo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion

in it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said Paulina. "You are so

transported, you will persuade yourself the statue lives." "O, sweet

Paulina," said Leontes, "make me think so twenty years together! Still

methinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever

yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her." "Good, my

lord, forbear!" said Paulina. "The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you

will stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?"

"No, not these twenty years," said Leontes.

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in silent

admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now, "And so long

could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother."

"Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, "and let me

draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. I can make

the statue move indeed; aye, and descend from off the pedestal, and

take you by the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I am

not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." "What you can make her

do," said the astonished king, "I am content to look upon. What you

can make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make

her speak as move."

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she had

prepared for the purpose, to strike up; and to the amazement of all

the beholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and threw

its arms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, praying

for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly found

Perdita.

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed her

husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione

herself, the real, the living queen.

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione,

thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress's life;

and with the good Paulina Hermione had lived ever since, never

choosing Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita

was found; for though she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes

had done to herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant

daughter.

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the

long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own

happiness.

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard on

all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for

loving their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the good old

shepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina

rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an end of all their

faithful services.

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange and

unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now entered the palace.

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that Camillo

had long wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should find

the fugitives here; and, following them with all speed, he happened

to arrive just at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life.

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend

Leontes the unjust jealousy he had conceived against him, and they

once more loved each other with all the warmth of their first boyish

friendship. And there was no fear that Polixenes would now oppose

his son's marriage with Perdita. She was no "sheep-hook" now, but

the heiress of the crown of Sicily.

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Hermione

rewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her Leontes and

her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

(_By Mary Lamb_)

There lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose names were

Hero and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of

Leonato, the governor of Messina.

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin Hero,

who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies.

Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of mirth for the

light-hearted Beatrice.

At the time the history of these ladies commences, some young men of

high rank in the army, as they were passing through Messina on their

return from a war that was just ended, in which they had distinguished

themselves by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. Among these

were Don Pedro, the prince of Arragon; and his friend Claudio, who was

a lord of Florence; and with them came the wild and witty Benedick,

and he was a lord of Padua.

These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable

governor introduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old

friends and acquaintance.

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively conversation

with Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of

any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying, "I wonder that you

will still be talking, signior Benedick; nobody marks you." Benedick

was just such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he was not pleased

at this free salutation: he thought it did not become a well-bred lady

to be so flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he was last

at Messina, that Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jests

upon. And as there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of

as those who are apt to take the same liberty themselves, so it was

with Benedick and Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in former

times but a perfect war of raillery was kept up between them, and they

always parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore when

Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling him

nobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to have

observed before that she was present, said, "What, my dear lady

Disdain, are you yet living?" And now war broke out afresh between

them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during which Beatrice,

although she knew he had so well approved his valour in the late war,

said that she would eat all he had killed there: and observing the

prince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she called him "the

prince's jester." This sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick

than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him that he was a

coward, by saying she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard,

knowing himself to be a brave man: but there is nothing that great

wits so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge

comes sometimes a little too near the truth; therefore Benedick

perfectly hated Beatrice, when she called him "the prince's jester."

The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and while

Claudio was attentively observing the improvement which time had made

in her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine

figure (for she was an admirable young lady), the prince was highly

amused with listening to the humorous dialogue between Benedick

and Beatrice; and he said in a whisper to Leonato, "This is a

pleasant-spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for

Benedick." Leonato replied to this suggestion, "O my lord, my lord,

if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad." But

though Leonato thought they would make a discordant pair, the prince

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

When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he found that

the marriage he had devised between Benedick and Beatrice was not the

only one projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in such

terms of Hero, as made the prince guess at what was passing in his

heart; and he liked it well, and he said to Claudio, "Do you affect

Hero?" To this question Claudio replied, "O my lord, when I was last

at Messina, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but

had no leisure for loving; but now, in this happy time of peace,

thoughts of war have left their places vacant in my mind, and in their

room come thronging soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how

fair young Hero is, reminding me that I liked her before I went to the

wars." Claudio's confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the

prince, that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to

accept of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal,

and the prince found no great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero

herself to listen to the suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of

rare endowments, and highly accomplished; and Claudio, assisted by his

kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an early day for the

celebration of his marriage with Hero.

Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be married to

his fair lady; yet he complained of the interval being tedious, as

indeed most young men are impatient, when they are waiting for the

accomplishment of any event they have set their hearts upon: the

prince therefore, to make the time seem short to him, proposed as a

kind of merry pastime, that they should invent some artful scheme

to make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other. Claudio

entered with great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, and

Leonato promised them his assistance, and even Hero said she would do

any modest office to help her cousin to a good husband.

The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should make

Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero

should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love with her.

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio, began their operations first, and

watching an opportunity when Benedick was quietly seated reading in

an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their station among the

trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick could not choose but

hear all they said; and after some careless talk the prince said,

"Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me the other day,--that

your niece Beatrice was in love with signior Benedick? I did never

think that lady would have loved any man." "No, nor I neither, my

lord," answered Leonato. "It is most wonderful that she should so

doat on Benedick, whom she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to

dislike." Claudio confirmed all this, with saying that Hero had told

him Beatrice was so in love with Benedick that she would certainly die

of grief, if he could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and

Claudio seemed to agree was impossible, he having always been such a

railer against all fair ladies, and in particular against Beatrice.

The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion for

Beatrice, and he said, "It were good that Benedick were told of this."

"To what end?" said Claudio; "he would but make sport of it, and

torment the poor lady worse." "And if he should," said the prince, "it

were a good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady,

and exceeding wise in every thing but in loving Benedick." Then the

prince motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leave

Benedick to meditate upon what he had overheard.

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this conversation;

and he said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved him, "Is it

possible? Sits the wind in that corner?" And when they were gone, he

began to reason in this manner with himself. "This can be no trick!

they were very serious, and they have the truth from Hero, and seem to

pity the lady. Love me! Why, it must be requited! I did never think

to marry. But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I

should live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She

is so. And wise in every thing but in loving me. Why that is no great

argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, she

is a fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her." Beatrice now

approached him, and said with her usual tartness, "Against my will

I am sent to bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who never felt

himself disposed to speak so politely to her before, replied, "Fair

Beatrice, I thank you for your pains:" and when Beatrice after two

or three more rude speeches left him, Benedick thought he observed a

concealed meaning of kindness under the uncivil words she uttered, and

he said aloud, "If I do not take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do

not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture."

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for him,

it was now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and for

this purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who

attended upon her, and she said to Margaret, "Good Margaret, run to

the parlour; there you will find my cousin Beatrice talking with the

prince and Claudio. Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking

in the orchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal

into that pleasant arbour, where honey-suckles, ripened by the sun,

like ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to enter." This arbour,

into which Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very

same pleasant arbour where Benedick had so lately been an attentive

listener. "I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said Margaret.

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her, "Now,

Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and

our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be

your part to praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to you

must be how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look

where Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear

our conference." They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer to

something which Ursula had said, "No truly, Ursula. She is too

disdainful; her spirits are as coy as wild birds of the rock."

"But are you sure," said Ursula, "that Benedick loves Beatrice so

entirely?" Hero replied, "So says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and

they intreated me to acquaint her with it; but I persuaded them, if

they loved Benedick, never to let Beatrice know of it." "Certainly,"

replied Ursula, "it were not good she knew his love, lest she made

sport of it." "Why to say truth," said Hero, "I never yet saw a man,

how wise soever, or noble, young or rarely featured, but she would

dispraise him." "Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable," said

Ursula. "No," replied Hero, "but who dare tell her so? if I should

speak, she would mock me into air." "O you wrong your cousin," said

Ursula: "she cannot be so much without true judgment, as to refuse

so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick." "He hath an excellent

good name," said Hero: "indeed he is the first man in Italy, always

excepting my dear Claudio." And now, Hero giving her attendant a hint

that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula said, "And when are

you to be married, madam?" Hero then told her, that she was to be

married to Claudio the next day, and desired she would go in with her,

and look at some new attire, as she wished to consult with her on what

she should wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening with

breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went away, exclaimed,

"What fire is in my ears? Can this be true? Farewel, contempt, and

scorn and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, love on! I will requite you,

taming my wild heart to your loving hand."

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies converted

into new and loving friends; and to behold their first meeting

after being cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the

good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero must

now be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been her wedding day,

brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good father Leonato.

The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along with him

to Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) was a melancholy,

discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving

of villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio,

because he was the prince's friend, and determined to prevent

Claudio's marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of

making Claudio and the prince unhappy: for he knew the prince had set

his heart upon this marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself: and

to effect this wicked purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad

as himself, whom he encouraged with the offer of a great reward. This

Borachio paid his court to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don John,

knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with

him from her lady's chamber-window that night, after Hero was asleep,

and also to dress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive

Claudio into the belief that it was Hero; for that was the end he

meant to compass by this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that

Hero was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from her

chamber-window at midnight. Now this was the evening before the

wedding, and he offered to take them that night, where they should

themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man from her window; and they

consented to go along with him, and Claudio said, "If I see any thing

to-night why I should not marry her, to-morrow in the congregation,

where I intended to wed her, there will I shame her." The prince also

said, "And as I assisted you to obtain her, I will join with you to

disgrace her."

When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, they saw

Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Margaret looking out

of Hero's window, and heard her talking with Borachio; and Margaret

being dressed in the same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the prince

and Claudio believed it was the lady Hero herself.

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made (as he

thought) this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero was at

once converted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in the

church, as he had said he would, the next day; and the prince agreed

to this, thinking no punishment could be too severe for the naughty

lady, who talked with a man from her window the very night before she

was going to be married to the noble Claudio.

The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage,

and Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the

priest, or friar as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce

the marriage-ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language,

proclaimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange

words he uttered, said meekly, "Is my lord well, that he does speak

so wide?"

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, "My lord, why

speak not you?" "What should I speak?" said the prince; "I stand

dishonoured, that have gone about to link my dear friend to an

unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this

grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last night at midnight talk with

a man at her chamber-window."

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, "This looks not like

a nuptial."

"True, O God!" replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this hapless

lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The prince

and Claudio left the church, without staying to see if Hero would

recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrown

Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them.

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from her

swoon, saying, "How does the lady?" "Dead, I think," replied Beatrice

in great agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuous

principles, she believed nothing of what she had heard spoken against

her. Not so the poor old father; he believed the story of his child's

shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she lay

like one dead before him, wishing she might never more open her eyes.

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on human

nature, and he had attentively marked the lady's countenance when she

heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames to start

into her face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away

those blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error

that the prince did speak against her maiden truth, and he said to

the sorrowing father, "Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my

observation; trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling; if this

sweet lady lie not guiltless here under some biting error."

When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen, the

friar said to her, "Lady, what man is he you are accused of?" Hero

replied, "They know that do accuse me; I know of none:" then turning

to Leonato, she said, "O my father, if you can prove that any man has

ever conversed with me at hours unmeet, or that I yesternight changed

words with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death."

"There is," said the friar, "some strange misunderstanding in the

prince and Claudio;" and then he counselled Leonato, that he should

report that Hero was dead; and he said, that the death-like swoon in

which they had left Hero, would make this easy of belief; and he also

advised him, that he should put on mourning, and erect a monument for

her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. "What shall become

of this?" said Leonato; "What will this do?" The friar replied, "This

report of her death shall change slander into pity; that is some good,

but that is not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she

died upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep

into his imagination. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest

in his heart, and wish he had not so accused her: yea, though he

thought his accusation true."

Benedick now said, "Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though you

know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will

not reveal this secret to them."

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully, "I am so

grieved, that the smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar then led

Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice and

Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting from which their

friends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected so much

diversion; those friends who were now overwhelmed with affliction, and

from whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, "Lady Beatrice, have

you wept all this while?" "Yea, and I will weep a while longer," said

Beatrice. "Surely," said Benedick, "I do believe your fair cousin is

wronged." "Ah!" said Beatrice, "how much might that man deserve of me

who would right her!" Benedick then said, "Is there any way to show

such friendship? I do love nothing in the world so well as you; is not

that strange?" "It were as possible," said Beatrice, "for me to say I

loved nothing in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yet

I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my

cousin." "By my sword," said Benedick, "you love me, and I protest I

love you. Come, bid me do any thing for you." "Kill Claudio," said

Beatrice. "Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick: for he loved

his friend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed upon. "Is not

Claudio a villain that has slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my

cousin?" said Beatrice: "O that I were a man!" "Hear me, Beatrice!"

said Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in Claudio's defence;

and she continued to urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin's wrongs:

and she said, "Talk with a man out of the window; a proper saying!

Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is slandered; she is undone. O that

I were a man for Claudio's sake! or that I had any friend, who would

be a man for my sake! but valour is melted into courtesies and

compliments. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a

woman with grieving." "Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick: "by this

hand, I love you." "Use it for my love some other way than swearing by

it," said Beatrice. "Think you on your soul, that Claudio has wronged

Hero?" asked Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as sure as I have a

thought, or a soul." "Enough," said Benedick; "I am engaged; I will

challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand,

Claudio shall render me a dear account! As you hear from me, so think

of me. Go, comfort your cousin."

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and working

his gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in the

cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato

was challenging the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords the

injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had died for grief.

But they respected his age and his sorrow, and they said, "Nay, do not

quarrel with us, good old man." And now came Benedick, and he also

challenged Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done to

Hero: and Claudio and the prince said to each other, "Beatrice has

set him on to do this." Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this

challenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment

brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than the

uncertain fortune of a duel.

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge of

Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the

prince. Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his companions

of the mischief he had been employed by Don John to do.

Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hearing,

that it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked

with from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero

herself; and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and the prince

of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained, it must have

been removed by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies

were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his

brother.

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved, when he found he had falsely

accused Hero, who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel words; and

the memory of his beloved Hero's image came over him, in the rare

semblance that he loved it first: and the prince asking him if what

he heard did not run like iron through his soul, he answered, that he

felt as if he had taken poison while Borachio was speaking.

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man Leonato

for the injury he had done his child; and promised, that whatever

penance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in believing the

false accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he

would endure it.

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morning a

cousin of Hero's who, he said, was now his heir, and in person very

like Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he had made to

Leonato, said, he would marry this unknown lady, even though she were

an Ethiop: but his heart was very sorrowful, and he passed that night

in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato had

erected for Hero.

When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the church,

where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already

assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial: and Leonato presented to

Claudio his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that Claudio might

not discover her face. And Claudio said to the lady in the mask,

"Give me your hand, before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you

will marry me." "And when I lived, I was your other wife," said this

unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she proved to be no niece (as

was pretended), but Leonato's very daughter, the lady Hero herself. We

may be sure that this proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who

thought her dead, so that he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes:

and the prince, who was equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed

"Is not this Hero, Hero that was dead?" Leonato replied, "She died,

my lord, but while her slander lived." The friar promised them an

explanation of this seeming miracle, after the ceremony was ended; and

was proceeding to marry them, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who

desired to be married at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making

some demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with her love

for him, which he had learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took

place; and they found they had both been tricked into a belief of

love, which had never existed, and had become lovers in truth by the

power of a false jest: but the affection, which a merry invention had

cheated them into, was grown too powerful to be shaken by a serious

explanation; and since Benedick proposed to marry, he was resolved to

think nothing to the purpose that the world could say against it; and

he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took her

but for pity, and because he heard she was dying of love for him; and

Beatrice protested, that she yielded but upon great persuasion, and

partly to save his life, for she heard he was in a consumption. So

these two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it, after

Claudio and Hero were married; and to complete the history, Don John,

the contriver of the villany, was taken in his flight, and brought

back to Messina; and a brave punishment it was to this gloomy,

discontented man, to see the joy and feastings which, by the

disappointment of his plots, took place at the palace in Messina.

AS YOU LIKE IT

(_By 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 lands and revenues enriched the false

usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here

more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's

life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this

forest many noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet

the time carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age. In the

summer they lay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees,

marking the playful sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of

these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of

the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply

themselves with venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter

made the duke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure

it patiently, and say, "These chilling winds which blow upon my body,

are true counsellors, they do not flatter, but represent truly to me

my condition; and though they bite sharply, their 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 an useful moral from everything that he saw;

and by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of his, remote

from public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the

running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

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

usurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained

in his court as a 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

dependance on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's

whole care was to comfort and console her.

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

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

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

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

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

amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country

clowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and

before fair ladies and princesses. 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 long been

practised in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contests

of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very young man, who,

from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders all

thought would certainly be killed.

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

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

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

roan, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him,

ladies, and see if you can move him."

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

Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the

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

feeling consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, that

instead of being 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 any thing. But let your fair eyes and

gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered, there

is one shamed that was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one

dead that is willing to die: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I

have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing;

for I only fill up a place in the world which may be better supplied

when I have made it empty."

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

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

state which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made

Rosalind think that he was like 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 shewn 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 shewn

by this young stranger; and desired to know his name and parentage,

meaning to take him under his protection.

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest

son of sir Rowland de Boys.

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years;

but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear friend of

the banished duke: therefore when Frederick heard Orlando was the son

of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave young

man was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill

humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends,

and yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said, as he went

out, that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man.

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the son

of her father's old friend; and she said to Celia, "My father loved

sir Rowland de Boys, and if I had known this young man was his son,

I would have added tears to my entreaties before he should have

ventured."

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

displeasure shewn 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,

rose at the same instant, learned, played and eat together, I cannot

live out of her company." Frederick replied, "She is too subtle for

you; her smoothness, her very silence, and her patience, speak to the

people, and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you

will seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore open

not your lips in her favour, for the doom which I have passed upon her

is irrevocable."

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

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

leaving her father's palace that night, she went along with her friend

to seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest of Arden.

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

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

therefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressing

themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still

greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man; and

so it was quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was the

tallest, she should wear the dress of a young 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

Ganimed, and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

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

expences, 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 Ganimed as she must now be called) with her

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

friendship Celia had shewn in accompanying Rosalind so many weary

miles, made the new brother, in recompence for this true love, exert

a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, 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, Ganimed, 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 Ganimed tried to

recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman, as

the weaker vessel: and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said,

"Come, have a good heart, my sister Aliena; we are now at the end of

our travel, in the forest of Arden." But feigned manliness and forced

courage would no longer support them; for though they were in the

forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke: and here the

travel of these weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for

they might have lost themselves, and have perished for want of food;

but providentially, as they were sitting on the grass almost dying

with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass

that way, and Ganimed once more tried to speak with a manly boldness,

saying, "Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure

us entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves;

for this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling,

and faints for want of food."

The man replied, that he was only 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 Ganimed

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 Ganimed thought that Orlando was many

miles distant, even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it

soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of Arden: and in

this manner this strange event came to pass.

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

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

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

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

ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and 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 travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till

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

the same distress for want of food, that Ganimed 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

farewel. 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 a while, and do not talk of dying!"

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

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

friends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being

seated on the grass, under no other canopy than the shady 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 sate 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 sate at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have wiped

the drops which sacred pity has engendered: therefore sit you down,

and take of our refreshment as much as will minister to your wants."

"There is an old poor man," answered Orlando, "who has limped after

me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at once with two sad

infirmities, age and hunger; till he be satisfied, I must not touch

a bit." "Go, find him out, and bring him hither," said the duke; "we

will forbear to eat till you return." Then Orlando went like a doe to

find its fawn and give it food; and presently returned, bringing Adam

in his arms; and the duke said, "Set down your venerable burthen; you

are both welcome:" and they fed the old man, and cheered his heart,

and he revived, and recovered his health and strength again.

The duke enquired 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 had not been in the forest many days before Ganimed and Aliena

arrived there, and (as has been before related) bought the shepherd's

cottage.

Ganimed 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 Ganimed was the fair princess Rosalind,

who by her noble condescension and favour had so won his heart, that

he passed his whole time in carving her name upon the trees, and

writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much pleased with

the graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered into

conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed to

his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportment

of that noble lady; for Ganimed assumed the forward manners often seen

in youths when they are between boys and men, and with much archness

and humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover, "who," said he,

"haunts our forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind

upon their barks; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on

brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I could find this lover,

I would give him some good counsel that would soon cure him of his

love."

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

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

Ganimed 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 Ganimed, "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 Ganimed's cottage, and

feign a playful courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganimed and

Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganimed 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 Ganimed made any progress in curing

Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

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

that Ganimed 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 Ganimed'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 Ganimed happy, let him

have his own way, and was diverted at the mock courtship, and did not

care to remind Ganimed 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. Ganimed met the duke one day, and had some

talk with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came: Ganimed

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, Ganimed was

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

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganimed, 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

couching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting

till the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on

nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent

by Providence to free the man from the danger of the snake and the

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 Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother to

go, and tell Ganimed, "whom," said Orlando, "I in sport do call my

Rosalind," the accident which had befallen him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganimed 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 offences made such a

lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly

fell in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the

distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in

love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of

Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganimed, 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 Ganimed 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

Ganimed (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 Ganimed's fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded,

Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess

Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, even in

this their first interview; and he talked to his brother, as of a

thing almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so

well loved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, and settle his

estate and house at home upon Orlando.

"You have my consent," said Orlando. "Let your wedding be to-morrow,

and I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your

shepherdess to agree to this: she is now alone; for look, here comes

her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganimed, whom Orlando had

perceived approaching, came to enquire after the health of his wounded

friend.

When Orlando and Ganimed 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.

Ganimed, 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 Ganimed 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 Ganimed if he spoke in sober meaning. "By my life I do,"

said Ganimed; "therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke

and your friends to your wedding; for if you desire to be married

to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here."

The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, they

came into the presence of the duke, and with them also came Orlando.

They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as

yet only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and

conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganimed 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, Ganimed 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." Ganimed 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."

Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, and Ganimed 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 Ganimed 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 splendour usual on such occasions,

yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: and while they were eating

their venison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if

nothing should be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke

and the true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke

the joyful news, that his dukedom was restored to him.

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing

that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden

to join the lawful duke in his exile, much envying that his brother

should be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the

head of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, 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 any

thing of jealousy or envy.

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who

had staid 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.

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

(_By Mary Lamb_)

There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, whose names

were Valentine and Protheus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted

friendship had long subsisted. They pursued their studies together,

and their hours of leisure were always passed in each other's company,

except when Protheus visited a lady he was in love with; and these

visits to his mistress, and this passion of Protheus for the fair

Julia, were the only topics on which these two friends disagreed: for

Valentine, not being himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of

hearing his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would

laugh at Protheus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love,

and declare that no such idle fancies should ever enter his head,

greatly preferring (as he said) the free and happy life he led, to the

anxious hopes and fears of the lover Protheus.

One morning Valentine came to Protheus to tell him that they must

for a time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Protheus,

unwilling to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon

Valentine not to leave him; but Valentine said, "Cease to persuade me,

my loving Protheus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in

idleness at home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your

affection were not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured

Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the

world abroad: but since you are a lover, love on still, and may your

love be prosperous!"

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. "Sweet

Valentine, adieu!" said Protheus; "think on me, when you see some rare

object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your

happiness."

Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when his

friend had left him, Protheus sat down to write a letter to Julia,

which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a

noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity

too easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his

passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive

it, and chid her maid for taking letters from Protheus, and ordered

her to leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written

in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again, and when

Lucetta returned, she said, "What o'clock is it?" Lucetta, who knew

her mistress more desired to see the letter than to know the time

of day, without answering her question, again offered the rejected

letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus take the liberty of

seeming to know what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and

threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room.

As Lucetta was retiring, she stooped to pick up the fragments of the

torn letter; but Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said, in

pretended anger, "Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you would

be fingering them to anger me."

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn

fragments. She first made out these words, "Love-wounded Protheus;"

and lamenting over these and such-like loving words, which she made

out though they were all torn asunder, or, she said, _wounded_ (the

expression "Love-wounded Protheus," giving her that idea), she talked

to these kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as

in a bed, till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each

several piece, to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-like

childishness, till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and

vext at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words,

as she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus than

she had ever done before.

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer

to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet

love, sweet lines, sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures he was

interrupted by his father. "How now!" said the old gentleman; "what

letter are you reading there?"

"My lord," replied Protheus, "it is a letter from my friend Valentine,

at Milan."

"Lend me the letter," said his father: "let me see what news."

"There are no news, my lord," said Protheus, greatly alarmed, "but

that he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily

graces him with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of

his fortune."

"And how stand you affected to his wish?" asked the father.

"As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on his

friendly wish," said Protheus.

Now it had happened that Protheus' father had just been talking with

a friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered his

lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most

men were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; "some," said

he, "to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover

islands far away, and some to study in foreign universities; and there

is his companion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan's court.

Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great

disadvantage to him in his riper age, not to have travelled in his

youth."

Protheus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good,

and upon Protheus telling him that Valentine "wished him with him,

the partner of his fortune," he at once determined to send his son

to Milan; and without giving Protheus any reason for this sudden

resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to

command his son, not reason with him, he said, "My will is the same

as Valentine's wish:" and seeing his son looked astonished, he added,

"Look not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some time

in the duke of Milan's court; for what I will I will, and there is

an end. To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am

peremptory."

Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who

never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for

telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought

upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Protheus for so long a

time, she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other

a mournful farewell with many vows of love and constancy. Protheus

and Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for ever

in remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave,

Protheus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend

Valentine.

Valentine was in reality what Protheus had feigned to his father, in

high favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had happened to

him, of which Protheus did not even dream, for Valentine had given

up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as

passionate a lover as Protheus.

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine, was the lady

Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but

they concealed their love from the duke, because although he shewed

much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace,

yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name

was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine

sense and excellent qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit to

Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning every thing

Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the room,

and told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Protheus' arrival.

Valentine said, "If I had wished a thing, it would have been to have

seen him here!" and then he highly praised Protheus to the duke,

saying, "My lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my

friend made use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in

person and in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman."

"Welcome him then according to his worth," said the duke: "Silvia, I

speak to you, and you, sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him

do so." They were here interrupted by the entrance of Protheus, and

Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, entertain him

to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship."

When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit, and were alone

together, Valentine said, "Now tell me how all does from whence

you came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?" Protheus

replied, "My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a

love-discourse."

"Aye, Protheus," returned Valentine, "but that life is altered now. I

have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt

of Love, Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle

Protheus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I

confess there is no woe like his correction, nor no such joy on earth

as in his service. I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I

can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love."

This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the

disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Protheus.

But _friend_ Protheus must be called no longer, for the same

all-powerful deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea even while

they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine) was working

in the heart of Protheus; and he, who had till this time been a

pattern of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one short

interview with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless lover;

for at the first sight of Silvia, all his love for Julia vanished away

like a dream, nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter him

from endeavouring to supplant him in her affections; and although, as

it will always be, when people of dispositions naturally good become

unjust, he had many scruples, before he determined to forsake Julia,

and become the rival of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his sense

of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, to his new

unhappy passion.

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love,

and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her father, and

told him, that despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent,

he had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace that night,

and go with him to Mantua; then he shewed Protheus a ladder of ropes,

by help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of the

windows of the palace, after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets,

it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Protheus

resolved to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him.

This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the

duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what

he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had

shewn him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that,

which else no worldly good should draw from him: he then told all he

had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the

manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he

preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal

an unjust action; highly commended him, and promised him not to let

Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by some

artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose

the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon

saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped

within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder.

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, "Whither away so fast,

Valentine?" "May it please your grace," said Valentine, "there is a

messenger, that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going

to deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better

success in the event than the untruth Protheus told his father.

"Be they of much import?" said the duke.

"No more, my lord," said Valentine, "than to tell my father I am well

and happy at your grace's court."

"Nay, then," said the duke, "no matter: stay with me a while. I wish

your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly." He then told

Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him,

saying, that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with

Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands,

"neither regarding," said he, "that she is my child, nor fearing me

as if I were her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers

has drawn my love from her. I had thought my age should have been

cherished by her childlike duty. I now am resolved to take a wife,

and turn her out to whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her

wedding-dower, for me and my possessions she esteems not."

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer, "And what

would your grace have me to do in all this?"

"Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy,

and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of

courtship is much changed since I was young: now I would willingly

have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo."

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then

practised by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love,

such as presents, frequent visits, and the like.

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which he

sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no man

might have access to her by day.

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

"But at night," said the artful duke, who was now coming to the drift

of his discourse, "her doors are fast locked."

Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that the duke should get into

the lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying,

he would procure him one fitting for that purpose; and in conclusion

advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as

that which he now wore. "Lend me your cloak," said the duke, who had

feigned this long story on purpose to have a pretence to get off the

cloak: so, upon saying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's

cloak, and throwing it back, he discovered not only the ladder of

ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he instantly opened, and

read; and this letter contained a full account of their intended

elopement. The duke, after upbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude in

thus returning the favour he had shewn him, by endeavouring to steal

away his daughter, banished him from the court and city of Milan for

ever; and Valentine was forced to depart that night, without even

seeing Silvia.

While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona

was regretting the absence of Protheus; and her regard for him at last

so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave

Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from

danger on the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and herself in men's

clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan, soon

after Valentine was banished from that city through the treachery of

Protheus.

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn;

and her thoughts being all on her dear Protheus, she entered into

conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking

by that means to learn some news of Protheus.

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as

he took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded was of high

rank, spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good-natured man, he was

sorry to see him look so melancholy; and to amuse his young guest he

offered to take him to hear some fine music, with which, he said, a

gentleman that evening was going to serenade his mistress.

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not well

know what Protheus would think of the imprudent step she had taken;

for she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden-pride and dignity

of character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem:

and this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear the

music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by the way.

But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a very

different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; for

there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant

Protheus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing

discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia

from a window talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his

own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine: and

then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music

and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished

Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend

Protheus.

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet did

she still love the truant Protheus; and hearing that he had lately

parted with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host,

the friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a page; and

Protheus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and

presents to her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring

she gave him as a parting gift at Verona.

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to find

that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Protheus; and Julia, or the

page Sebastian, as she was called, entered into conversation with

Silvia about Protheus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She

putting in (as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew

Julia; as well she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke:

telling how fondly Julia loved her master Protheus, and how his unkind

neglect would grieve her: and then she with a pretty equivocation went

on: "Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the colour of

her eyes and hair the same as mine;" and indeed Julia looked a most

beautiful youth in her boy's attire. Silvia was moved to pity this

lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved; and

when Julia offered her the ring which Protheus had sent, refused it,

saying, "The more shame for him that he sends me that ring; I will not

take it, for I have often heard him say his Julia gave it to him. I

love thee, gentle youth, for pitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse;

I give it you for Julia's sake." These comfortable words coming from

her kind rival's tongue cheered the drooping heart of the disguised

lady.

But to return to the banished Valentine; who scarce knew which way

to bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father a

disgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely forest,

not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear

treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded

his money.

Valentine told them, that he was a man crossed by adversity, that he

was going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes he

had on being all his riches.

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being struck

with his noble air and manly behaviour, told him, if he would live

with them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put themselves

under his command: but that if he refused to accept their offer, they

would kill him.

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said, he would

consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did no

outrage on women or poor passengers.

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we read

in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti: and in this

situation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass.

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted upon

her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of following

Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had taken

refuge; but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived in

the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of their captain, but

taking no part in their depredations, and using the authority which

they had imposed upon him in no other way, than to compel them to shew

compassion to the travellers they robbed.

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace in

company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom

she took along with her for protection on the road. She had to pass

through the forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and one of

these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour,

but he escaped.

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, bid

her not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave

where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their

captain had an honourable mind, and always shewed humanity to women.

Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as

a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. "O Valentine,"

she cried, "this I endure for thee!"

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, he was

stopped by Protheus, who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of

a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to

this forest. Protheus now rescued her from the hands of the robber;

but scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had done her,

before he began to distress her afresh with his love-suit: and while

he was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page (the

forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind,

fearing lest the great service which Protheus had just done to Silvia

should win her to shew him some favour, they were all strangely

surprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who having heard

his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console and relieve

her.

Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being

caught by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence

and remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries

he had done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and

generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored

him to his former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of

heroism he said, "I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I have

in Silvia, I give it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside her

master as a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Protheus

would not be able with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia,

fainted, and they were all employed in recovering her: else would

Silvia have been offended at being thus made over to Protheus, though

she could scarcely think that Valentine would long persevere in this

overstrained and too generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered

from the fainting fit, she said, "I had forgot, my master ordered me

to deliver this ring to Silvia." Protheus, looking upon the ring,

saw that it was the one he gave to Julia, in return for that which

he received from her, and which he had sent by the supposed page to

Silvia. "How is this?" said he, "this is Julia's ring: how came you

by it, boy?" Julia answered, "Julia herself did give it me, and Julia

herself hath brought it hither."

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that the

page Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself: and the proof

she had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in him, that

his love for her returned into his heart, and he took again his own

dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady Silvia to

Valentine, who had so well deserved her.

Protheus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their

reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies, when they

were surprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who

came there in pursuit of Silvia.

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying,

"Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited

manner, "Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is

yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but

possession of her with a touch! I dare you but to breathe upon my

love." Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back,

and said he cared not for her, and that none but a fool would fight

for a girl who loved him not.

The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great anger,

"The more base and degenerate in you to take such means for her as you

have done, and leave her on such slight conditions." Then turning to

Valentine, he said, "I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think

you worthy of an empress's love. You shall have Silvia, for you have

well deserved her." Valentine then with great humility kissed the

duke's hand, and accepted the noble present which he had made him

of his daughter with becoming thankfulness: taking occasion of this

joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves

with whom he had associated in the forest, assuring him, that when

reformed and restored to society, there would be found among them

many good, and fit for great employment; for the most of them had

been banished, like Valentine, for state offences, rather than for

any black crimes they had been guilty of. To this the duke readily

consented: and now nothing remained but that Protheus, the false

friend, was ordained, by way of penance for his love-prompted faults,

to be present at the recital of the whole story of his loves and

falsehoods before the duke; and the shame of the recital to his

awakened conscience was judged sufficient punishment: which being

done, the lovers, all four, returned back to Milan, and their nuptials

were solemnised in presence of the duke, with high triumphs and

feasting.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

(_By Mary Lamb_)

Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who had amassed

an immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian

merchants. Shylock being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of

the money he lent with such severity, that he was much disliked by all

good men, and particularly by Anthonio, a young merchant of Venice;

and Shylock as much hated Anthonio, because he used to lend money to

people in distress, and would never take any interest for the money he

lent; therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and

the generous merchant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met Shylock on the

Rialto (or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and

hard dealings; which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while

he secretly meditated revenge.

Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and had

the most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed he was one in

whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any that drew

breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citizens;

but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart was Bassanio,

a noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly

exhausted his little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for

his slender means, as young men of high rank with small fortunes are

too apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Anthonio assisted him;

and it seemed as if they had but one heart and one purse between them.

One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and told him that he wished to

repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he dearly

loved, whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress

to a large estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit

at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady had sometimes

from her eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to say he would

be no unwelcome suitor; but not having money to furnish himself with

an appearance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought

Anthonio to add to the many favours he had shewn him, by lending him

three thousand ducats.

Anthonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but

expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise,

he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the

money upon the credit of those ships.

Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Anthonio asked

the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he should

require, to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at

sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself: "If I can once catch him

on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him: he hates

our Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis, and among the merchants

he rails at me and my well-earned bargains, which he calls interest.

Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him!" Anthonio finding he was musing

within himself and did not answer, and being impatient for the money,

said, "Shylock, do you hear? will you lend the money?" To this

question the Jew replied, "Signior Anthonio, on the Rialto many a time

and often you have railed at me about my monies, and my usuries, and I

have borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all

our tribe; and then you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and

spit upon my Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if

I was a cur. Well then, it now appears you need my help; and you come

to me, and say, _Shylock, lend me monies_. Has a dog money? Is it

possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend low

and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another time

you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am to lend you monies."

Anthonio replied, "I am as like to call you so again, to spit on you

again, and spurn you too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not

to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to an enemy, that,

if I break, you may with better face exact the penalty."--"Why, look

you," said Shylock, "how you storm! I would be friends with you, and

have your love. I will forget the shames you have put upon me. I will

supply your wants, and take no interest for my money." This seemingly

kind offer greatly surprised Anthonio; and then Shylock still

pretending kindness, and that all he did was to gain Anthonio's love,

again said he would lend him the three thousand ducats, and take no

interest for his money; only Anthonio should go with him to a lawyer,

and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he did not repay the

money by a certain day, he would forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut

off from any part of his body that Shylock pleased.

"Content," said Anthonio: "I will sign to this bond, and say there is

much kindness in the Jew."

Bassanio said Anthonio should not sign to such a bond for him; but

still Anthonio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the

day of payment came, his ships would return laden with many times the

value of the money.

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, "O father Abraham, what

suspicious people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach

them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this,

Bassanio: if he should break this day, what should I gain by the

exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man,

is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton or

of beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will

take it, so; if not, adieu."

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all the

Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should

run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Anthonio signed

the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport.

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, at

a place called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces of her

person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom

we read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus.

Bassanio, being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Anthonio

at the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid train,

and attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano.

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short time

consented to accept of him for a husband.

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his

high birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she,

who loved him for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not to

regard wealth in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she

would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times

more rich, to be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished Portia

prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl,

unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and

that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed

by him in all things; and she said, "Myself, and what is mine, to you

and yours is now converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of

this fair mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants;

and now this house, these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord; I

give them with this ring:" presenting a ring to Bassanio.

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious

manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his

humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence to

the dear lady who so honoured him by any thing but broken words of

love and thankfulness: and taking the ring, he vowed never to part

with it.

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upon

their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to become the

obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the

generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at the same time.

"With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if you can get a wife."

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting

gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if her

lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa

replied, "Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly

consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our wedding-feast shall be

much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano."

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by the

entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Anthonio containing

fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Anthonio's letter, Portia feared

it was to tell him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so

pale; and enquiring what was the news which had so distressed him, he

said, "O sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that

ever blotted paper: gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you,

I freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should

have told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt." Bassanio

then told Portia what has been here related, of his borrowing the

money of Anthonio, and of Anthonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew,

and of the bond by which Anthonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of

flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day; and then Bassanio read

Anthonio's letter, the words of which were, "_Sweet Bassanio, my ships

are all lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it,

it is impossible I should live, I could wish to see you at my death;

notwithstanding use your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuade

you to come, let not my letter._" "O my dear love," said Portia,

"dispatch all business and be gone; you shall have gold to pay the

money twenty times over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by

my Bassanio's fault; and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly

love you." Portia then said she would be married to Bassanio before

he set out, to give him a legal right to her money; and that same

day they were married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa; and

Bassanio and Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great

haste for Venice, where Bassanio found Anthonio in prison.

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the

money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound

of Anthonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause

before the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspence

the event of the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him,

and bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned;

yet she feared it would go hard with Anthonio, and when she was left

alone, she began to think and consider within herself, if she could by

any means be instrumental in saving the life of her dear Bassanio's

friend; and notwithstanding, when she wished to honour her Bassanio,

she had said to him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that she

would submit in all things to be governed by his superior wisdom,

yet being now called forth into action by the peril of her honoured

husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her own powers, and by the

sole guidance of her own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved

to go herself to Venice, and speak in Anthonio's defence.

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this

gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to

him desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also send

her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he

brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also every

thing necessary for her equipment.

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, and

putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her

as her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice on

the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before

the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, when Portia

entered this high court of justice, and presented a letter from

Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying,

he would have come himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he was

prevented by sickness, and he requested that the learned young doctor

Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in

his stead. This the duke granted, much wondering at the youthful

appearance of the stranger, who was prettily disguised by her

counsellor's robes and her large wig.

And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, and she

saw the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in

her disguise. He was standing beside Anthonio, in an agony of distress

and fear for his friend.

The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave this

tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had

undertaken to perform; and first of all she addressed herself to

Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to have

the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble

quality of _mercy_, as would have softened any heart but the unfeeling

Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon

the place beneath; and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him

that gave, and him that received it; and how it became monarchs better

than their crowns, being an attribute of God himself; and that earthly

power came nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice:

and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that

same prayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered

her by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. "Is he

not able to pay the money?" asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the

Jew the payment of the three thousand ducats, as many times over as

he should desire; which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon

having a pound of Anthonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned

young counsellor would endeavour to wrest the law a little, to

save Anthonio's life. But Portia gravely answered, that laws once

established must never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that the

law might not be altered, it seemed to him that she was pleading in

his favour, and he said, "A Daniel has come to judgment! O wise young

judge, how I do honour you! How much elder are you than your looks!"

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when she

had read it, she said, "This bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew

may lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest

Anthonio's heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful; take the

money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy would the cruel Shylock

shew; and he said, "By my soul I swear, there is no power in the

tongue of man to alter me."--"Why then, Anthonio," said Portia,

"you must prepare your bosom for the knife:" and while Shylock was

sharpening a long knife with great eagerness to cut off the pound of

flesh, Portia said to Anthonio, "Have you any thing to say?" Anthonio

with a calm resignation replied, that he had but little to say, for

that he had prepared his mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio,

"Give me your hand, Bassanio! Fare you well! Grieve not that I am

fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me to your honourable

wife, and tell her how I have loved you!" Bassanio in the deepest

affliction replied, "Anthonio, I am married to a wife, who is as dear

to me as life itself; but life itself, my wife, and all the world,

are not esteemed with me above your life: I would lose all, I would

sacrifice all to this devil here, to deliver you."

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all

offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so

true a friend as Anthonio in these strong terms, yet could not help

answering, "Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were

present, to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to

copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's,

and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in her clerk's

dress by the side of Portia, "I have a wife, whom I protest I love;

I wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat some power there

to change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." "It is well you wish

this behind her back, else you would have but an unquiet house," said

Nerissa.

Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; I pray pronounce

the sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the court, and

every heart was full of grief for Anthonio.

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she said

to the Jew, "Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to

death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that Anthonio should bleed to

death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia replied, "It is

not so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did so

much for charity." To this all the answer Shylock would make was, "I

cannot find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, "a pound

of Anthonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards

it. And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it,

and the court awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, "O wise and upright

judge! A Daniel has come to judgment!" And then he sharpened his

long knife again, and looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, "Come,

prepare!"

"Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is something else. This

bond here gives you no drop of blood; the words expressly are, a

pound of flesh. If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one

drop of Christian blood, your land and goods are by the law to be

confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was utterly impossible

for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of

Anthonio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh

and not blood that was named in the bond, saved the life of Anthonio;

and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young counsellor, who

had so happily thought of this expedient, plaudits resounded from

every part of the senate-house; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words

which Shylock had used, "O wise and upright judge! mark, Jew, a Daniel

is come to judgment!"

Shylock finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with

a disappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio,

rejoiced beyond measure at Anthonio's unexpected deliverance, cried

out, "Here is the money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly;

there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the penalty:

therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; but mind you shed no

blood; nor do not cut off more nor less than just a pound; be it more

or less by one poor scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight

of a single hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and

all your wealth is forfeited to the senate." "Give me my money, and

let me go," said Shylock. "I have it ready," said Bassanio: "Here it

is."

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped him,

saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of

Venice your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired

against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the

mercy of the duke; therefore down on your knees, and ask him to pardon

you."

The duke then said to Shylock, "That you may see the difference of our

Christian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; half your

wealth belongs to Anthonio, the other half comes to the state."

The generous Anthonio then said, that he would give up his share of

Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at his

death to his daughter and her husband; for Anthonio knew that the Jew

had an only daughter, who had lately married against his consent to a

young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Anthonio's, which had so

offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her.

The Jew agreed to this; and being thus disappointed in his revenge,

and despoiled of his riches, he said, "I am ill. Let me go home;

send the deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches to my

daughter." "Get thee gone, then," said the duke, "and sign it; and if

you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will forgive you

the fine of the other half of your riches."

The duke now released Anthonio, and dismissed the court. He then

highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, and

invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont

before her husband, replied, "I humbly thank your grace, but I must

away directly." The duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay

and dine with him; and turning to Anthonio, he added, "Reward this

gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to him."

The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said to

Portia, "Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Anthonio have by your

wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you

will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." "And we

shall stand indebted to you over and above," said Anthonio, "in love

and service evermore."

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but upon

Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said, "Give

me your gloves; I will wear them for your sake:" and then Bassanio

taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him

upon his finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from

him to make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made

her ask him for his gloves; and she said, when she saw the ring, "And

for your love I will take this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly

distressed, that the counsellor should ask him for the only thing he

could not part with, and he replied in great confusion, that he could

not give him that ring, because it was his wife's gift, and he had

vowed never to part with it: but that he would give him the most

valuable ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. On this

Portia affected to be affronted, and left the court, saying, "You

teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered."

"Dear Bassanio," said Anthonio, "let him have the ring; let my love

and the great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's

displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded,

and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then the _clerk_

Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his ring, and

Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave

it to her. And there was laughing among these ladies to think, when

they got home, how they would tax their husbands with giving away

their rings, and swear that they had given them as a present to some

woman.

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which

never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good

action; her cheerful spirits enjoyed every thing she saw: the moon

never seemed to shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon

was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from her house at

Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa,

"That light we see is burning in my hall; how far that little candle

throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world:" and

hearing the sound of music from her house, she said, "Methinks that

music sounds much sweeter than by day."

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselves

in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who

soon followed them with Anthonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear

friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that

lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her husband

quarrelling in a corner of the room. "A quarrel already?" said Portia.

"What is the matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is about a paltry

gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on

a cutler's knife; _Love me, and leave me not_."

"What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify?" said Nerissa.

"You swore to me, when I gave it to you, that you would keep it till

the hour of death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk.

I know you gave it to a woman." "By this hand," replied Gratiano, "I

gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy no higher

than yourself; he was clerk to the young counsellor that by his wise

pleading saved Anthonio's life: this prating boy begged it for a fee,

and I could not for my life deny him." Portia said, "You were to

blame, Gratiano, to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord

Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for all the

world." Gratiano in excuse for his fault now said, "My lord Bassanio

gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk,

that took some pains in writing, he begged my ring."

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for

giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught her what to

believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very

unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with great

earnestness, "No, by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor,

who refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, which

when I denied him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet

Portia? I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I

was forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you

been there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give the

worthy doctor."

"Ah!" said Anthonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels."

Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for that he was welcome

notwithstanding; and then Anthonio said, "I once did lend my body for

Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring

I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon the

forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with you." "Then

you shall be his surety," said Portia; "give him this ring, and bid

him keep it better than the other."

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to find

it was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him, how she was

the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found to

his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage

and wisdom of his wife that Anthonio's life was saved.

And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and gave him letters which by

some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account of

Anthonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the

harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story

were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; and

there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings,

and the husbands that did not know their own wives: Gratiano merrily

swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that

--while he liv'd, he'd fear no other thing

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.

CYMBELINE

(_By Mary Lamb_)

During the time of Augustus Cæsar, emperor of Rome, there reigned

in England (which was then called Britain) a king whose name was

Cymbeline.

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons and a

daughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, was

brought up in her father's court; but by a strange chance the two sons

of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the eldest was but

three years of age, and the youngest quite an infant: and Cymbeline

could never discover what was become of them, or by whom they were

conveyed away.

Cymbeline was twice married: his second wife was a wicked, plotting

woman, and a cruel stepmother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by his

first wife.

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a son of

her own by a former husband (she also having been twice married): for

by this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crown

of Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; for she knew that, if the

king's sons were not found, the princess Imogen must be the king's

heir. But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who married

without the consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen.

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was the best

scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. His father died

fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his

mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband.

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Posthumus

(Cymbeline having given him that name because he was born after his

father's death), and educated him in his own court.

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, and were

play-fellows from their infancy: they loved each other tenderly when

they were children, and their affection continuing to increase with

their years, when they grew up they privately married.

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spies

constantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and she

immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard that his

daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a

subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished him

from his native country for ever.

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she suffered at

losing her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting, before

Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen

for his residence in his banishment: this seeming kindness she shewed,

the better to succeed in her future designs in regard to her son

Cloten; for she meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband was gone,

that her marriage was not lawful, being contracted without the consent

of the king.

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave of each other.

Imogen gave her husband a diamond ring which had been her mother's,

and Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; and he fastened a

bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would preserve

with great care, as a token of his love: they then bid each other

farewel with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity.

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's court,

and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place of his banishment.

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay young men of

different nations, who were talking freely of ladies: each one

praising the ladies of his own country, and his own mistress.

Posthumus, who had ever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that

his wife, the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, and constant

lady in the world.

One of these gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, being offended that

a lady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, his

countrywomen, provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of

his so highly-praised wife; and at length, after much altercation,

Posthumus consented to a proposal of Iachimo's, that he (Iachimo)

should go to Britain, and endeavour to gain the love of the married

Imogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo did not succeed in

this wicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money; but if

he could win Imogen's favour, and prevail upon her to give him the

bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would keep as

a token of his love, then the wager was to terminate with Posthumus

giving to Iachimo the ring, which was Imogen's love-present when she

parted with her husband. Such firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity

of Imogen, that he thought he ran no hazard in this trial of her

honour.

Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance and a courteous

welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but when he began to

make professions of love to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and

he soon found that he could have no hope of succeeding in his

dishonourable design.

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have recourse to

a stratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed

some of Imogen's attendants, and was by them conveyed into her

bedchamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till

Imogen was retired to rest, and had fallen asleep; and then getting

out of the trunk, he examined the chamber with great attention, and

wrote down every thing he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole

which he observed upon Imogen's neck, and then softly unloosing the

bracelet from her arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he retired

into the chest again; and the next day he set off for Rome with great

expedition, and boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the

bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in her chamber:

and in this manner Iachimo told his false tale; "Her bed-chamber,"

said he, "was hung with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was

_the proud Cleopatra when she met her Anthony_, a piece of work most

bravely wrought."

"This is true," said Posthumus; "but this you might have heard spoken

of without seeing."

"Then the chimney," said Iachimo, "is south of the chamber, and

the chimney-piece is _Diana bathing_; never saw I figures livelier

expressed."

"This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said Posthumus; "for

it is much talked of."

Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber, and added, "I

had almost forgot her andirons, they were _two winking Cupids_ made of

silver, each on one foot standing." He then took out the bracelet, and

said, "Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. She took it from

her arm. I see her yet; her pretty action did out-sell her gift, and

yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and said, _she prized it once_."

He last of all described the mole he had observed upon her neck.

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an agony

of doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations against

Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which he had

agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from Imogen.

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a gentleman of

Britain, who was one of Imogen's attendants, and had long been a

faithful friend to Posthumus; and after telling him what proof he had

of his wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to

Milford-Haven, a seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at the same

time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring her to go with

Pisanio, for that finding he could live no longer without seeing her,

though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return to Britain,

he would come to Milford-Haven, at which place he begged she would

meet him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who loved her husband above

all things, and desired more than her life to see him, hastened her

departure with Pisanio, and the same night she received the letter she

set out.

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, who, though faithful

to Posthumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, disclosed

to Imogen the cruel order he had received.

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, found

herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond

measure.

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with patient fortitude

for the time when Posthumus should see and repent his injustice:

in the mean time, as she refused in her distress to return to her

father's court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes for

more security in travelling; to which advice she agreed, and thought

in that disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her husband, whom,

though he had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to love.

When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, he left her to her

uncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court; but before he

departed he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the queen had

given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders.

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend to Imogen and

Posthumus, gave him this phial which she supposed contained poison,

she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, to try its

effects (as she said) upon animals: but the physician, knowing her

malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poison, but gave

her a drug which would do no other mischief than causing a person to

sleep with every appearance of death for a few hours. This mixture,

which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, desiring

her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it; and so with

blessings and prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from her

undeserved troubles he left her.

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of her

two brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius,

who stole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, and having

been falsely accused to the king of treason, and banished from the

court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbeline, and brought

them up in a forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole them

through revenge, but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had

been his own children, educated them carefully, and they grew up

fine youths, their princely spirits leading them to bold and daring

actions; and as they subsisted by hunting, they were active and hardy,

and were always pressing their supposed father to let them seek their

fortune in the wars.

At the cave where these youths dwelt it was Imogen's fortune to

arrive. She had lost her way in a large forest, through which her road

lay to Milford-Haven (from whence she meant to embark for Rome); and

being unable to find any place where she could purchase food, she was

with weariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not merely putting

on a man's apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought

up, to bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely forests like a man.

Seeing this cave she entered, hoping to find some one within of whom

she could procure food. She found the cave empty, but looking about

she discovered some cold meat, and her hunger was so pressing, that

she could not wait for an invitation, but sat down, and began to eat.

"Ah!" said she, talking to herself; "I see a man's life is a tedious

one: how tired am I! for two nights together I have made the ground my

bed: my resolution helps me, or I should be sick. When Pisanio shewed

me Milford-Haven from the mountain-top, how near it seemed!" Then the

thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate came across her, and she

said, "My dear Posthumus, thou art a false one!"

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their reputed

father Bellarius, were by this time returned home. Bellarius had given

them the names of Polidore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but

supposed that Bellarius was their father: but the real names of these

princes were Guiderius and Arviragus.

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, stopped them,

saying, "Come not in yet; it eats our victuals, or I should think it

was a fairy."

"What is the matter, sir?" said the young men. "By Jupiter," said

Bellarius again, "there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an earthly

paragon." So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel.

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, and

addressed them in these words: "Good masters, do not harm me; before

I entered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought what I

have eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had

found gold strewn on the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I

would have left on the board when I had made my meal, and parted

with prayers for the provider." They refused her money with great

earnestness. "I see you are angry with me," said the timid Imogen:

"but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, know that I should have died

if I had not made it."

"Whither are you bound?" asked Bellarius, "and what is your name?"

"Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. "I have a kinsman, who is bound

for Italy; he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom being going, almost

spent with hunger, I am fallen into this offence."

"Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, "do not think us churls,

nor measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You are well

encountered; it is almost night. You shall have better cheer before

you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome."

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their cave

with many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, as they

said, _him_) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where (they

having killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them

with her neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing their supper;

for though it is not the custom now for young women of high birth to

understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful

art; and, as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their

roots in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had been sick,

and Fidele were her dieter. "And then," said Polidore to his brother,

"how angel-like he sings!"

They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele smiled so

sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if

grief and patience had together taken possession of him.

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their near

relationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called

her, _Fidele_) became the doating-piece of her brothers, and she

scarcely less loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her

dear Posthumus, she could live and die in the cave with these wild

forest-youths; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till she

was enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way

to Milford-Haven. When the venison they had taken was all eaten, and

they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not accompany them

because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel

usage, as well as the fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the

cause of her illness.

They then bid her farewel, and went to their hunt, praising all the

way the noble parts and graceful demeanour of the youth Fidele.

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected the cordial

Pisanio had given her, and drank it off, and presently fell into a

sound and death-like sleep.

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from hunting, Polidore went

first into the cave, and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy

shoes, that he might tread softly and not awake her; so did true

gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely foresters: but

he soon discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, and

concluded her to be dead, and Polidore lamented over her with dear and

brotherly regret, as if they had never from their infancy been parted.

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest, and there

celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn dirges, as was then the

custom.

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady covert, and there

laying her gently on the grass, they sang repose to her departed

spirit, and covering her over with leaves and flowers, Polidore said,

"While summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy

sad grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy face; the

blue-bell, like thy clear veins; and the leaf of eglantine, which is

not sweeter than was thy breath; all these I will strew over thee.

Yea, and the furred moss in winter, when there are no flowers to cover

thy sweet corse."

When they had finished her funeral obsequies, they departed very

sorrowful.

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect of the sleepy

drug going off, she awaked, and easily shaking off the slight

covering of leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose,

and imagining she had been dreaming, she said, "I thought I was a

cave-keeper, and cook to honest creatures; how came I here, covered

with flowers?" Not being able to find her way back to the cave, and

seeing nothing of her new companions, she concluded it was certainly

all a dream; and once more Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage,

hoping at last she should find her way to Milford-Haven, and thence

get a passage in some ship bound for Italy; for all her thoughts were

still with her husband Posthumus, whom she intended to seek in the

disguise of a page.

But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen knew

nothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Roman emperor

Augustus Cæsar, and Cymbeline the king of Britain: and a Roman army

had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very forest

over which Imogen was journeying. With this army came Posthumus.

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Roman army, he did not

mean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, but intended

to join the army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who

had banished him. He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death

of her he had so fondly loved, and by his own orders too (Pisanio

having written him a letter to say he had obeyed his command, and that

Imogen was dead) sat heavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to

Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death

by Cymbeline for returning home from banishment.

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into the hands of the

Roman army; and her presence and deportment recommending her, she was

made a page to Lucius, the Roman general.

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when they entered

this forest, Polidore and Cadwal joined the king's army. The young men

were eager to engage in acts of valour, though they little thought

they were going to fight for their own royal father; and old Bellarius

went with them to the battle. He had long since repented of the injury

he had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons; and having been a

warrior in his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the king

he had so injured.

And now a great battle commenced between the two armies, and the

Britons would have been defeated, and Cymbeline himself killed, but

for the extraordinary valour of Posthumus, and Bellarius, and the two

sons of Cymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved his life, and so

entirely turned the fortune of the day, that the Britons gained the

victory.

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not found the death

he sought for, surrendered himself up to one of the officers of

Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which was to be his punishment

if he returned from banishment.

Imogen and the master she served were taken prisoners, and brought

before Cymbeline, as was also her old enemy Iachimo, who was an

officer in the Roman army; and when these prisoners were before the

king, Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence of death; and

at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius with Polidore and Cadwal

were also brought before Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due to the

great services they had by their valour done for the king. Pisanio,

being one of the king's attendants, was likewise present.

Therefore there were now standing in the king's presence (but with

very different hopes and fears) Posthumus, and Imogen, with her new

master the Roman general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false

friend Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, with

Bellarius who had stolen them away.

The Roman general was the first who spoke; the rest stood silent

before the king, though there was many a beating heart amongst them.

Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, though he was in the disguise of

a peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire: and she knew

Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be

her own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the author of

all her troubles: and she stood before her own father a prisoner of

war.

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the garb of

a boy. "It is my mistress," thought he; "since she is living, let the

time run on to good or bad." Bellarius knew her too, and softly said

to Cadwal, "Is not this boy revived from death?" "One sand," replied

Cadwal, "does not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad is

like the dead Fidele." "The same dead thing alive," said Polidore.

"Peace, peace," said Bellarius; "if it were he, I am sure he would

have spoken to us." "But we saw him dead," again whispered Polidore.

"Be silent," replied Bellarius.

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his own

death; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had saved

his life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him.

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen under his protection

as his page, was the first (as has been before said) who spoke to the

king. He was a man of high courage and noble dignity, and this was his

speech to the king:

"I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them all to

death; I am a Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer death. But

there is one thing for which I would intreat." Then bringing Imogen

before the king, he said, "This boy is a Briton born. Let him be

ransomed. He is my page. Never master had a page so kind, so duteous,

so diligent on all occasions, so true, so nurse-like. He hath done no

Briton wrong, though he hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare no

one beside."

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew her not in

that disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his

heart, for he said, "I have surely seen him, his face appears familiar

to me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy: but I give you

your life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will grant it you.

Yea, even though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have."

"I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen.

What was then called granting a boon was the same as a promise to give

any one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on whom that

favour was conferred chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hear

what thing the page would ask for, and Lucius her master said to her,

"I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know that is what you will ask

for." "No, no, alas!" said Imogen, "I have other work in hand, good

master; your life I cannot ask for."

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman

general.

Imogen then fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no other boon than

this, that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had the ring he

wore on his finger.

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Iachimo with the

torture if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring on his

finger.

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villainy, telling,

as has been before related, the whole story of his wager with

Posthumus, and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity.

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the innocence of his

lady cannot be expressed. He instantly came forward, and confessed to

Cymbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to execute

upon the princess: exclaiming wildly, "O Imogen, my queen, my life, my

wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!"

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress without

discovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was thus

relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the good

graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated.

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy, at finding his

lost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to her former place

in his fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband Posthumus his

life, but consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law.

Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation to make his

confession. He presented Polidore and Cadwal to the king, telling him

they were his two lost sons, Guiderius and Arviragus.

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could think of punishments at

a season of such universal happiness: to find his daughter living, and

his lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had seen

so bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed!

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late

master, the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king her father

readily granted at her request; and by the mediation of the same

Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which

was kept inviolate many years.

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despair of bringing her projects

to pass, and touched with remorse of conscience, sickened and died,

having first lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a quarrel

which he had provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt this happy

conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is sufficient that

all were made happy, who were deserving; and even the treacherous

Iachimo, in consideration of his villainy having missed its final aim,

was dismissed without punishment.

KING LEAR

(_By Charles Lamb_)

Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters; Gonerill, wife to the duke

of Albany; Regan, wife to the duke of Cornwall; and Cordelia, a young

maid, for whose love the king of France and duke of Burgundy were

joint suitors, and were at this time making stay for that purpose in

the court of Lear.

The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of government, he

being more than fourscore years old, determined to take no further

part in state affairs, but to leave the management to younger

strengths, that he might have time to prepare for death, which must at

no long period ensue. With this intent he called his three daughters

to him, to know from their own lips which of them loved him best, that

he might part his kingdom among them in such proportions as their

affection for him should seem to deserve.

Gonerill, the eldest, declared that she loved her father more than

words could give out, that he was dearer to her than the light of her

own eyes, dearer than life and liberty, with a deal of such professing

stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no real love, only

a few fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in that case.

The king, delighted to hear from her own mouth this assurance of her

love, and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in a fit of

fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her husband one third of his

ample kingdom.

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded what she had to

say. Regan, who was made of the same hollow metal as her sister, was

not a whit behind in her professions, but rather declared that what

her sister had spoken came short of the love which she professed to

bear for his highness: insomuch that she found all other joys dead, in

comparison with the pleasure which she took in the love of her dear

king and father.

Lear blest himself in having such loving children, as he thought; and

could do no less, after the handsome assurances which Regan had made,

than bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her husband, equal in

size to that which he had already given away to Gonerill.

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called his

joy, he asked what she had to say; thinking no doubt that she would

glad his ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters had

uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so much stronger than

theirs, as she had always been his darling, and favoured by him above

either of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of her

sisters, whose hearts she knew were far from their lips, and seeing

that all their coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle the old

king out of his dominions, that they and their husbands might reign

in his life-time, made no other reply but this, that she loved his

majesty according to her duty, neither more nor less.

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his favourite

child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her speech, lest

it should mar her fortunes.

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, that he had

given her breeding, and loved her, that she returned those duties back

as was most fit, and did obey him, love him, and most honour him.

But that she could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her

sisters had done, or promise to love nothing else in the world. Why

had her sisters husbands, if (as they said) they had no love for any

thing but their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure the lord

to whom she gave her hand would want half her love, half of her care

and duty; she should never marry like her sisters, to love her father

all.

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father, even almost as

extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly told

him so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving terms,

and without these qualifications which did indeed sound a little

ungracious: but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters,

which she had seen draw such extravagant rewards, she thought the

handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. This put her

affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and shewed that

she loved, but not for gain; and that her professions, the less

ostentatious they were, had so much the more of truth and sincerity

than her sisters.

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so enraged the old

monarch--who in his best of times always shewed much of spleen and

rashness, and in whom the dotage incident to old age had so clouded

over his reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery, nor

a gay painted speech from words that came from the heart--that in a

fury of resentment he retracted the third part of his kingdom which

yet remained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it

away from her, sharing it equally between her two sisters and their

husbands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall: whom he now called to him,

and in presence of all his courtiers, bestowing a coronet between

them, invested them jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution

of government, only retaining to himself the name of king; all the

rest of royalty he resigned: with this reservation, that himself, with

a hundred knights for his attendants, was to be maintained by monthly

course in each of his daughter's palaces in turn.

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little guided by reason,

and so much by passion, filled all his courtiers with astonishment

and sorrow; but none of them had the courage to interpose between

this incensed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was

beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the passionate Lear

on pain of death commanded him to desist: but the good Kent was not so

to be repelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured

as a king, loved as a father, followed as a master: and had never

esteemed his life further than as a pawn to wage against his royal

master's enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's safety was the

motive: nor now that Lear was most his own enemy did this faithful

servant of the king forget his old principles, but manfully opposed

Lear, to do Lear good; and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad.

He had been a most faithful counsellor in times past to the king, and

he besought him now, that he would see with his eyes (as he had done

in many weighty matters), and go by his advice still; and in his best

consideration recall this hideous rashness: for he would answer with

his life his judgment, that Lear's youngest daughter did not love him

least, nor were those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token

of hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour was bound to

plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to him, whose life was

already at his service? that should not hinder duty from speaking.

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only stirred up the

king's wrath the more, and like a frantic patient who kills his

physician, and loves his mortal disease, he banished this true

servant, and allotted him but five days to make his preparations for

departure; but if on the sixth his hated person was found within the

realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And Kent bade

farewel to the king, and said, that since he chose to shew himself in

such fashion, it was but banishment to stay there: and before he went,

he recommended Cordelia to the protection of the gods, the maid who

had so rightly thought, and so discreetly spoken; and only wished that

her sisters' large speeches might be answered with deeds of love: and

then he went, as he said, to shape his old course to a new country.

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in to hear the

determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know whether

they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she was

under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but her own person

to recommend her: and the duke of Burgundy declined the match, and

would not take her to wife upon such conditions; but the king of

France, understanding what the nature of the fault had been which

had lost her the love of her father, that it was only a tardiness of

speech, and the not being able to frame her tongue to flattery like

her sisters, took this young maid by the hand, and saying that her

virtues were a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewel

of her sisters, and of her father, though he had been unkind, and she

should go with him, and be queen of him and of fair France, and reign

over fairer possessions than her sisters: and he called the duke of

Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke, because his love for this young

maid had in a moment run all away like water.

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters, and

besought them to love their father well, and make good their

professions: and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for

they knew their duty; but to strive to content her husband, who had

taken her (as they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And

Cordelia with a heavy heart departed, for she knew the cunning of her

sisters, and she wished her father in better hands than she was about

to leave him in.

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispositions of her

sister began to shew themselves in their true colours. Even before the

expiration of the first month which Lear was to spend by agreement

with his eldest daughter Gonerill, the old king began to find out the

difference between promises and performances. This wretch having got

from her father all that he had to bestow, even to the giving away of

the crown from off his head, began to grudge even those small remnants

of royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to please his

fancy with the idea of being still a king. She could not bear to see

him and his hundred knights. Every time she met her father, she put on

a frowning countenance; and when the old man wanted to speak with her,

she would feign sickness or any thing to be rid of the sight of him;

for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a useless burden, and

his attendants an unnecessary expence: not only she herself slackened

in her expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and (it is

to be feared) not without her private instructions, her very servants

affected to treat him with neglect, and would either refuse to obey

his orders, or still more contemptuously pretend not to hear them.

Lear could not but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his

daughter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as

people commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant consequences

which their own mistakes and obstinacy have brought upon them.

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by _ill_, than

falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conciliated by _good usage_.

This eminently appears in the instance of the good earl of Kent, who,

though banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were found in

Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long as there

was a chance of his being useful to the king his master. See to what

mean shifts and disguises poor loyalty is forced to submit sometimes;

yet it counts nothing base or unworthy so as it can but do service

where it owes an obligation! In the disguise of a serving-man, all his

greatness and pomp laid aside, this good earl proffered his services

to the king, who not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, but

pleased with a certain plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers

which the earl put on (so different from that smooth oily flattery

which he had so much reason to be sick of, having found the effects

not answerable in his daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, and

Lear took Kent into his service by the name of Caius, as he called

himself, never suspecting him to be his once great favourite, the high

and mighty earl of Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to shew his fidelity and love to his

royal master: for Gonerill's steward that same day behaving in a

disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language,

as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius

not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon majesty, made no more

ado but presently tript up his heels, and laid the unmannerly slave

in the kennel: for which friendly service Lear became more and more

attached to him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his degree, and as far as

so insignificant a personage could shew his love, the poor fool, or

jester, that had been of his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was

the custom of kings and great personages at that time to keep a fool

(as he was called) to make them sport after serious business:--this

poor fool clung to Lear after he had given away his crown, and by

his witty sayings would keep up his good humour; though he could not

refrain sometimes from jeering at his master for his imprudence, in

uncrowning himself, and giving all away to his daughters: at which

time, as he rhymingly expressed it, these daughters

For sudden joy did weep,

And he for sorrow sung,

That such a king should play bo-peep,

And go the fools among.

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of which he had plenty,

this pleasant honest fool poured out his heart even in the presence

of Gonerill herself, in many a bitter taunt and jest which cut to the

quick; such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds the

young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and then has its head

bit off for its pains: and saying, that an ass may know when the cart

draws the horse (meaning that Lear's daughters, that ought to go

behind, now ranked before their father); and that Lear was no longer

Lear, but the shadow of Lear: for which free speeches he was once or

twice threatened to be whipt.

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had begun to

perceive, were not all which this foolish-fond father was to suffer

from his unworthy daughter: she now plainly told him that his staying

in her palace was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up

an establishment of a hundred knights; that this establishment was

useless and expensive, and only served to fill her court with riot and

feasting; and she prayed him that he would lessen their number, and

keep none but old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age.

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor that it was his

daughter who spoke so unkindly. He could not believe that she who

had received a crown from him could seek to cut off his train, and

grudge him the respect due to his old age. But she persisting in her

undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so excited, that he called

her a detested kite, and said that she spoke an untruth: and so indeed

she did, for the hundred knights were all men of choice behaviour

and sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not

given to rioting or feasting as she said. And he bid his horses to

be prepared, for he would go to his other daughter, Regan, he and

his hundred knights: and he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a

marble-hearted devil, and shewed more hideous in a child than the

sea-monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Gonerill so as was

terrible to hear: praying that she might never have a child, or if she

had, that it might live to return that scorn and contempt upon her,

which she had shewn to him: that she might feel how sharper than a

serpent's tooth it was to have a thankless child. And Gonerill's

husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse himself for any share

which Lear might suppose he had in the unkindness, Lear would not hear

him out, but in a rage ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out

with his followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter. And

Lear thought to himself, how small the fault of Cordelia (if it was a

fault) now appeared, in comparison with her sister's, and he wept; and

then he was ashamed that such a creature as Gonerill should have so

much power over his manhood as to make him weep.

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in great pomp and state

at their palace: and Lear dispatched his servant Caius with letters

to his daughter, that she might be prepared for his reception, while

he and his train followed after. But it seems that Gonerill had been

beforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan, accusing her

father of waywardness and ill humours, and advising her not to receive

so great a train as he was bringing with him. This messenger arrived

at the same time with Caius, and Caius and he met: and who should it

be but Caius' old enemy the steward, whom he had formerly tript up

by the heels for his saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not liking the

fellow's look, and suspecting what he came for, began to revile him,

and challenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a

fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and

carrier of wicked messages deserved: which coming to the ears of Regan

and her husband, they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though

he was a messenger from the king her father, and in that character

demanded the highest respect: so that the first thing the king saw

when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant Caius sitting in

that disgraceful situation.

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to expect; but

a worse followed, when upon enquiry for his daughter and her husband,

he was told they were weary with travelling all night, and could not

see him: and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry

manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in

their company but the hated Gonerill, who had come to tell her own

story, and set her sister against the king her father!

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to see Regan take

her by the hand: and he asked Gonerill if she was not ashamed to look

upon his old white beard? And Regan advised him to go home again

with Gonerill, and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his

attendants, and to ask her forgiveness; for he was old and wanted

discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons that had more

discretion than himself. And Lear shewed how preposterous that would

sound, if he were to down on his knees, and beg of his own daughter

for food and raiment, and he argued against such an unnatural

dependence; declaring his resolution never to return with her, but to

stay where he was with Regan, he and his hundred knights: for he said

that she had not forgot the half of the kingdom which he had endowed

her with, and that her eyes were not fierce like Gonerill's, but mild

and kind. And he said that rather than return to Gonerill, with half

his train cut off, he would go over to France, and beg a wretched

pension of the king there, who had married his youngest daughter

without a portion.

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of Regan than he

had experienced from her sister Gonerill. As if willing to outdo her

sister in unfilial behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty

knights too many to wait upon him: that five-and-twenty were enough.

Then Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Gonerill, and said that he

would go back with her, for her fifty doubled five-and-twenty, and so

her love was twice as much as Regan's. But Gonerill excused herself,

and said, what need of so many as five-and-twenty? or even ten? or

five? when he might be waited upon by her servants, or her sister's

servants? So these two wicked daughters, as if they strove to exceed

each other in cruelty to their old father who had been so good to

them, by little and little would have abated him of all his train, all

respect (little enough for him that once commanded a kingdom) which

was left him to shew that he had once been a king! Not that a splendid

train is essential to happiness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard

change, from commanding millions to be without one attendant; and

it was the ingratitude in his daughters' denying it, more than what

he would suffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king to

the heart: insomuch that with this double ill usage, and vexation

for having so foolishly given away a kingdom, his wits began to be

unsettled, and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge

against those unnatural hags, and to make examples of them that should

be a terror to the earth!

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could never

execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning

with rain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolution not

to admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather

to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay under

the same roof with these ungrateful daughters: and they saying that

the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves are their just

punishment, suffered him to go in that condition, and shut their doors

upon him.

The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the old

man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than his

daughters' unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce a bush;

and there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark

night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds and the thunder:

and he bid the winds to blow the earth into the sea, or swell the

waves of the sea till they drowned the earth, that no token might

remain of any such ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now left

with no other companion than the poor fool, who still abided with him,

with his merry conceits striving to out-jest misfortune, saying, it

was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly the king had better go

in and ask his daughter's blessing:

But he that has a little tiny wit,

With heigh ho, the wind and the rain!

Must make content with his fortunes fit,

Though the rain it raineth every day:

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

Thus poorly accompanied this once great monarch was found by his ever

faithful servant the good earl of Kent, now transformed to Caius, who

ever followed close at his side, though the king did not know him to

be the earl; and he said, "Alas! sir, are you here? creatures that

love night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful storm has

driven the beasts to their hiding places. Man's nature cannot endure

the affliction or the fear." And Lear rebuked him and said, these

lesser evils were not felt, where a greater malady was fixed. When the

mind is at ease, the body has leisure to be delicate; but the tempest

in his mind did take all feeling else from his senses, but of that

which beat at his heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, and said

it was all one as if the mouth should tear the hand for lifting food

to it; for parents were hands and food and everything to children.

But the good Caius still persisting in his intreaties that the king

would not stay out in the open air, at last persuaded him to enter

a little wretched hovel which stood upon the heath, where the fool

first entering, suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen

a spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing more

than a poor Bedlam-beggar, who had crept into this deserted hovel for

shelter, and with his talk about devils frighted the fool, one of

those poor lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be so, the better

to extort charity from the compassionate country-people; who go about

the country, calling themselves poor Tom and poor Turlygood, saying,

"Who gives any thing to poor Tom?" sticking pins and nails and sprigs

of rosemary into their arms to make them bleed; and with such horrible

actions, partly by prayers, and partly with lunatic curses, they move

or terrify the ignorant country-folks into giving them alms. This

poor fellow was such a one; and the king seeing him in so wretched

a plight, with nothing but a blanket about his loins to cover his

nakedness, could not be persuaded but that the fellow was some father

who had given all away to his daughters, and brought himself to that

pass: for nothing he thought could bring a man to such wretchedness

but the having unkind daughters.

And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, the good

Caius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but that

his daughters' ill usage had really made him go mad. And now the

loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent shewed itself in more essential

services than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform. For with

the assistance of some of the king's attendants who remained loyal, he

had the person of his royal master removed at day-break to the castle

of Dover, where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent,

chiefly lay: and himself embarking for France, hastened to the court

of Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent the pitiful

condition of her royal father, and set out in such lively colours the

inhumanity of her sisters, that this good and loving child with many

tears besought the king her husband, that he would give her leave

to embark for England with a sufficient power to subdue these cruel

daughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father to

his throne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal army

landed at Dover.

Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which the good

earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his lunacy,

was found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the fields

near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad and singing aloud

to himself, with a crown upon his head which he had made of straw,

and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had picked up in the

corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, though

earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was prevailed upon to put off

the meeting, till, by sleep and the operation of herbs which they gave

him, he should be restored to greater composure. By the aid of these

skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her gold and jewels

for the recovery of the old king, Lear was soon in a condition to see

his daughter.

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this father and

daughter: to see the struggles between the joy of this poor old king

at beholding again his once darling child, and the shame at receiving

such filial kindness from her whom he had cast off for so small a

fault in his displeasure; both these passions struggling with the

remains of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain sometimes

made him that he scarce remembered where he was, or who it was that

so kindly kissed him and spoke to him: and then he would beg the

standers-by not to laugh at him, if he were mistaken in thinking this

lady to be his daughter Cordelia! And then to see him fall on his

knees to beg pardon of his child; and she, good lady, kneeling all the

while to ask a blessing of him, and telling him that it did not become

him to kneel, but it was her duty, for she was his child, his true and

very child Cordelia! And she kissed him (as she said) to kiss away

all her sisters' unkindness, and said that they might be ashamed of

themselves, to turn their old kind father with his white beard out

into the cold air, when her enemy's dog, though it had bit her (as she

prettily expressed it), should have staid by her fire such a night as

that, and warmed himself. And she told her father how she had come

from France with purpose to bring him assistance; and he said, that

she must forget and forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not

know what he did; but that to be sure she had great cause not to love

him, but her sisters had none. And Cordelia said, that she had no

cause, no more than they had.

So we will leave this old king in the protection of this dutiful and

loving child, where, by the help of sleep and medicine, she and her

physicians at length succeeded in winding up the untuned and jarring

senses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so violently

shaken. Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel

daughters.

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false to their old

father, could not be expected to prove more faithful to their own

husbands. They soon grew tired of paying even the appearance of duty

and affection, and in an open way shewed they had fixed their loves

upon another. It happened that the object of their guilty loves was

the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of the late earl of Gloucester,

who by his treacheries had succeeded in disinheriting his brother

Edgar the lawful heir from his earldom, and by his wicked practices

was now earl himself: a wicked man, and a fit object for the love of

such wicked creatures as Gonerill and Regan. It falling out about

this time that the duke of Cornwall, Regan's husband, died, Regan

immediately declared her intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester,

which rousing the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to Regan

this wicked earl had at sundry times professed love, Gonerill found

means to make away with her sister by poison: but being detected in

her practices, and imprisoned by her husband the duke of Albany, for

this deed, and for her guilty passion for the earl which had come to

his ears, she in a fit of disappointed love and rage shortly put an

end to her own life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last overtook these

wicked daughters.

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the justice

displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly taken

off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the same power

in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the lady

Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate

conclusion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are not

always successful in this world. The forces which Gonerill and Regan

had sent out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester were

victorious, and Cordelia by the practices of this wicked earl, who did

not like that any should stand between him and the throne, ended her

life in prison. Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her

young years, after shewing her to the world an illustrious example of

filial duty. Lear did not long survive this kind child.

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still attended his old

master's steps from the first of his daughters' ill usage to this sad

period of his decay, tried to make him understand that it was he who

had followed him under the name of Caius; but Lear's care-crazed brain

at that time could not comprehend how that could be, or how Kent and

Caius could be the same person: so Kent thought it needless to trouble

him with explanations at such a time; and Lear soon after expiring,

this faithful servant to the king, between age and grief for his old

master's vexations, soon followed him to the grave.

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl of Gloucester, whose

treasons were discovered, and himself slain in single combat with

his brother, the lawful earl; and how Gonerill's husband, the duke

of Albany, who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never

encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against her father,

ascended the throne of Britain after the death of Lear, is needless

here to narrate; Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, whose

adventures alone concern our story.

MACBETH

(_By Charles Lamb_)

When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland, there lived a great

thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near kinsman to the

king, and in great esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the

wars; an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel

army assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible numbers.

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, returning victorious

from this great battle, their way lay over a blasted heath, where they

were stopped by the strange appearance of three figures, like women,

except that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild attire

made them look not like any earthly creatures. Macbeth first addressed

them, when they, seemingly offended, laid each one her choppy finger

upon her skinny lips, in token of silence: and the first of them

saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. The general was

not a little startled to find himself known by such creatures; but

how much more, when the second of them followed up that salute by

giving him the title of thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no

pretensions! and again the third bid him "All hail! king that shall be

hereafter!" Such a prophetic greeting might well amaze him, who knew

that while the king's sons lived he could not hope to succeed to the

throne. Then turning to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of

riddling terms, to be _lesser than Macbeth and greater! not so happy,

but much happier!_ and prophesied that though he should never reign,

yet his sons after him should be kings in Scotland. They then turned

into air, and vanished: by which the generals knew them to be the

weird sisters, or witches.

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this adventure,

there arrived certain messengers from the king, who were empowered by

him to confer upon Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor. An event

so miraculously corresponding with the prediction of the witches

astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapt in amazement, unable to make

reply to the messengers: and in that point of time swelling hopes

arose in his mind, that the prediction of the third witch might in

like manner have its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign

king in Scotland.

Turning to Banquo, he said, "Do you not hope that your children shall

be kings, when what the witches promised to me has so wonderfully come

to pass?" "That hope," answered the general, "might enkindle you to

aim at the throne; but oftentimes these ministers of darkness tell

us truths in little things, to betray us into deeds of greatest

consequence."

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into the

mind of Macbeth, to allow him to attend to the warnings of the good

Banquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the

crown of Scotland.

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange prediction

of the weird sisters, and its partial accomplishment. She was a bad

ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself could arrive at

greatness, she cared not much by what means. She spurred on the

reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the thoughts of

blood, and did not cease to represent the murder of the king as a step

absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy.

It happened at this time that the king, who out of his royal

condescension would oftentimes visit his principal nobility upon

gracious terms, came to Macbeth's house, attended by his two sons,

Malcolm and Donalbain, and a numerous train of thanes and attendants,

the more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars.

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about

it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the

martlet, or swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and

buttresses of the building, wherever it found a place of advantage:

for where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to

be delicate. The king entered, well pleased with the place, and not

less so with the attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady

Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous purposes with smiles;

and could look like the innocent flower, while she was indeed the

serpent under it.

The king, being tired with his journey, went early to bed, and in his

state-room two grooms of his chamber (as was the custom) slept beside

him. He had been unusually pleased with his reception, and had made

presents, before he retired, to his principal officers; and among the

rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Macbeth, greeting her by the

name of his most kind hostess.

Now was the middle of the night, when over half the world nature seems

dead, and wicked dreams abuse men's minds asleep, and none but the

wolf and the murderer is abroad. This was the time when lady Macbeth

waked to plot the murder of the king. She would not have undertaken

a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she feared her husband's

nature, that it was too full of the milk of human kindness, to do

a contrived murder. She knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be

scrupulous, and not yet prepared for that height of crime which

commonly in the end accompanies inordinate ambition. She had won him

to consent to the murder, but she doubted his resolution: and she

feared that the natural tenderness of his disposition (more humane

than her own) would come between, and defeat the purpose. So with her

own hands armed with a dagger, she approached the king's bed; having

taken care to ply the grooms of his chamber so with wine, that they

slept intoxicated, and careless of their charge. There lay Duncan, in

a sound sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed

him earnestly, there was something in his face, as he slept, which

resembled her own father; and she had not the courage to proceed.

She returned to confer with her husband. His resolution had begun

to stagger. He considered that there were strong reasons against

the deed. In the first place, he was not only a subject, but a near

kinsman to the king; and he had been his host and entertainer that

day, whose duty by the laws of hospitality it was to shut the door

against his murderers, not bear the knife himself. Then he considered

how just and merciful a king this Duncan had been, how clear of

offence to his subjects, how loving to his nobility, and in particular

to him; that such kings are the peculiar care of Heaven, and their

subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. Besides, by the favours

of the king, Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all sorts of men,

and how would those honours be stained by the reputation of so foul a

murder!

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her husband,

inclining to the better part, and resolving to proceed no further. But

she being a woman not easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to

pour in at his ears words which infused a portion of her own spirit

into his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he should not shrink

from what he had undertaken; how easy the deed was; how soon it would

be over; and how the action of one short night would give to all their

nights and days to come sovereign sway and royalty! Then she threw

contempt on his change of purpose, and accused him of fickleness and

cowardice; and declared that she had given suck, and knew how tender

it was to love the babe that milked her, but she would, while it was

smiling in her face, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed its

brains out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform

that murder. Then she added, how practicable it was to lay the guilt

of the deed upon the drunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour of her

tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he once more

summoned up courage to the bloody business.

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to

the room where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw another

dagger in the air, with the handle towards him, and on the blade and

at the point of it drops of blood: but when he tried to grasp at it,

it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot

and oppressed brain and the business he had in hand.

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, whom he

dispatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just as he had done the

murder, one of the grooms, who slept in the chamber, laughed in his

sleep, and the other cried "Murder," which woke them both: but they

said a short prayer; one of them said, "God bless us!" and the other

answered "Amen;" and addressed themselves to sleep again. Macbeth, who

stood listening to them, tried to say "Amen," when the fellow said

"God bless us!" but, though he had most need of a blessing, the word

stuck in his throat, and he could not pronounce it.

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, "Sleep no more: Macbeth

doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life." Still it

cried, "Sleep no more," to all the house. "Glamis hath murdered sleep,

and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no

more."

With such horrible imaginations, Macbeth returned to his listening

wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and that the

deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a state, that

she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his

hands of the blood which stained them, while she took his dagger, with

purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem

their guilt.

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, which could

not be concealed; and though Macbeth and his lady made great show of

grief, and the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being produced

against them and their faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently

strong, yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose inducements

to such a deed were so much more forcible than such poor silly grooms

could be supposed to have; and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the

eldest, sought for refuge in the English court; and the youngest,

Donalbain, made his escape to Ireland.

The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus vacated

the throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the

prediction of the weird sisters was literally accomplished.

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget the

prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be king,

yet not his children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings

after him. The thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands

with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the posterity of

Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them, that they determined

to put to death both Banquo and his son, to make void the predictions

of the weird sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably

brought to pass.

For this purpose they made a great supper, to which they invited

all the chief thanes; and, among the rest, with marks of particular

respect, Banquo and his son Fleance were invited. The way by which

Banquo was to pass to the palace at night, was beset by murderers

appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo; but in the scuffle Fleance

escaped. From that Fleance descended a race of monarchs who afterwards

filled the Scottish throne, ending with James the sixth of Scotland

and the first of England, under whom the two crowns of England and

Scotland were united.

At supper the queen, whose manners were in the highest degree affable

and royal, played the hostess with a gracefulness and attention which

conciliated every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with his

thanes and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the country

was under his roof, if he had but his good friend Banquo present,

whom yet he hoped he should rather have to chide for neglect, than to

lament for any mischance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo,

whom he had caused to be murdered, entered the room, and placed

himself on the chair which Macbeth was about to occupy. Though Macbeth

was a bold man, and one that could have faced the devil without

trembling, at this horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear,

and he stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost.

His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived him

gazing (as they thought) upon an empty chair, took it for a fit of

distraction; and she reproached him, whispering that it was but the

same fancy which had made him see the dagger in the air, when he was

about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and gave

no heed to all they could say, while he addressed it with distracted

words, yet so significant, that his queen, fearing the dreadful secret

would be disclosed, in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the

infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled with.

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His queen and he had

their sleeps afflicted with terrible dreams, and the blood of Banquo

troubled them not more than the escape of Fleance, whom now they

looked upon as father to a line of kings, who should keep their

posterity out of the throne. With these miserable thoughts they found

no peace, and Macbeth determined once more to seek out the weird

sisters, and know from them the worst.

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew by

foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadful

charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them

futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the

eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the

wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the

maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the root

of the poisonous hemlock (this to have effect must be digged in the

dark), the gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the

yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child:

all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, or cauldron, which,

as fast as it grew too hot, was cooled with a baboon's blood: to these

they poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they

threw into the flame the grease that had sweaten from a murderer's

gibbet. By these charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer

their questions.

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have his doubts resolved

by them, or by their masters, the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the

dreadful ceremonies which he saw, boldly answered, "Where are they?

let me see them." And they called the spirits, which were three.

And the first arose in the likeness of an armed head, and he called

Macbeth by name, and bid him beware of the thane of Fife; for which

caution Macbeth thanked him: for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of

Macduff, the thane of Fife.

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody child, and he

called Macbeth by name, and bid him have no fear, but laugh to scorn

the power of man, for none of woman born should have power to hurt

him: and he advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. "Then live,

Macduff!" cried the king; "what need I fear of thee? but yet I will

make assurance doubly sure. Thou shall not live; that I may tell

pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep in spite of thunder."

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form of a child

crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called Macbeth by name, and

comforted him against conspiracies, saying, that he should never be

vanquished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane-Hill should come

against him. "Sweet bodements! good!" cried Macbeth; "who can unfix

the forest, and move it from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall live

the usual period of man's life, and not be cut off by a violent death.

But my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your art can tell

so much, if Banquo's issue shall ever reign in this kingdom?" Here

the cauldron sank into the ground, and a noise of music was heard,

and eight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last,

who bore a glass which shewed the figures of many more, and Banquo

all bloody smiled upon Macbeth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth

knew, that these were the posterity of Banquo, who should reign after

him in Scotland; and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with

dancing, making a shew of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. And

from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful.

The first thing he heard when he got out of the witches' cave, was,

that Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled to England, to join the army

which was forming against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the

late king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right

heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set upon the castle

of Macduff, and put his wife and children, whom the thane had left

behind, to the sword, and extended the slaughter to all who claimed

the least relationship to Macduff.

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief

nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and

Macduff, who were now approaching with a powerful army which they

had raised in England; and the rest secretly wished success to their

arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His

recruits went on slowly. Every body hated the tyrant, nobody loved

or honoured him, but all suspected him, and he began to envy the

condition of Duncan whom he had murdered, who slept soundly in his

grave, against whom treason had done its worst: steel nor poison,

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

While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole

partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a

momentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both

nightly, died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the

remorse of guilt, and public hate; by which event he was left alone,

without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he could

confide his wicked purposes.

He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but the near approach

of Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage,

and he determined to die (as he expressed it) "with armour on his

back." Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled him

with false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the spirits,

that none of woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never to be

vanquished till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he thought

could never be. So he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable

strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly waited the

approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him,

pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he had

seen: for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he

looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began to move!

"Liar and slave," cried Macbeth; "if thou speakest false, thou shalt

hang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy tale

be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me:" for Macbeth now

began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches

of the spirits. He was not to fear, till Birnam wood should come to

Dunsinane: and now a wood did move! "However," said he, "if this which

he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence,

nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the sun, and wish my life

at an end." With these desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the

besiegers, who had now come up to the castle.

The strange appearance, which had given the messenger an idea of a

wood moving, is easily solved. When the besieging army marched through

the wood of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed his

soldiers to hew down every one a bough and bear it before him, by

way of concealing the true numbers of his host. This marching of

the soldiers with boughs had at a distance the appearance which had

frightened the messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit brought to

pass, in a sense different from that in which Macbeth had understood

them, and one great hold of his confidence was gone.

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, though

feebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, but in

reality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Malcolm and

Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to

pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff was

fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the caution of the spirit

who had counselled him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have

turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight,

opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued; Macduff giving him

many foul reproaches for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth,

whose soul was charged enough with blood of that family already, would

still have declined the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it,

calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain.

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, how none of woman

born should hurt him; and smiling confidently he said to Macduff,

"Thou losest thy labour, Macduff. As easily thou mayest impress the

air with thy sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life,

which must not yield to one of woman born."

"Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let that lying spirit whom

thou hast served, tell thee, that Macduff was never born of woman,

never as the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely

taken from his mother."

"Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said the trembling

Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence give way; "and let never

man in future believe the lying equivocations of witches and juggling

spirits, who deceive us in words which have double senses, and while

they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes with a

different meaning. I will not fight with thee."

"Then, live!" said the scornful Macduff; "we will have a show of thee,

as men shew monsters, and a painted board, on which shall be written,

Here men may see the tyrant!"

"Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned with despair; "I will

not live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be

baited with the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to

Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me who wast never born of woman, yet

will I try the last." With these frantic words he threw himself upon

Macduff, who, after a severe struggle in the end overcame him, and

cutting off his head, made a present of it to the young and lawful

king, Malcolm; who took upon him the government which by the

machinations of the usurper he had so long been deprived of, and

ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek amid the acclamations of the

nobles and the people.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

(_By Mary Lamb_)

Bertram, count of Rossilion, had newly come to his title and estate,

by the death of his father. The king of France loved the father of

Bertram, and when he heard of his death, he sent for his son to come

immediately to his royal court in Paris; intending, for the friendship

he bore the late count, to grace young Bertram with his especial

favour and protection.

Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed countess, when Lafeu,

an old lord of the French court, came to conduct Bertram to the king.

The king of France was an absolute monarch, and the invitation to

court was in the form of a royal mandate, or positive command, which

no subject of what high dignity soever might disobey; therefore though

the countess, in parting with this dear son, seemed a second time

to bury her husband, whose loss she had so lately mourned, yet she

dared not to keep him a single day, but gave instant orders for his

departure. Lafeu, who came to fetch him, tried to comfort the countess

for the loss of her late lord, and her son's sudden absence; and he

said, in a courtier's flattering manner, that the king was so kind a

prince, she would find in his majesty a husband, and that he would be

a father to her son: meaning only that the good king would befriend

the fortunes of Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the king had

fallen into a sad malady, which was pronounced by his physicians to be

incurable. The lady expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of

the king's ill health, and said, she wished the father of Helena (a

young gentlewoman who was present in attendance upon her) were living,

for that she doubted not he could have cured his majesty of his

disease. And she told Lafeu something of the history of Helena, saying

she was the only daughter of the famous physician Gerard de Narbon,

and that he had recommended his daughter to her care when he was

dying, so that since his death she had taken Helena under her

protection; then the countess praised the virtuous disposition and

excellent qualities of Helena, saying she inherited these virtues from

her worthy father. While she was speaking, Helena wept in sad and

mournful silence, which made the countess gently reprove her for too

much grieving for her father's death.

Bertram now bade his mother farewel. The countess parted with this

dear son with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the care

of Lafeu, saying, "Good my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned

courtier."

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words of

mere civility, wishing her happiness; and he concluded his short

farewel to her with saying, "Be comfortable to my mother your

mistress, and make much of her."

Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and mournful

silence, the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena

loved her father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the

object of which she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very form

and features of her dead father, her imagination presenting no image

to her mind but Bertram's.

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always remembered that he

was the count of Rossilion, descended from the most ancient family

in France. She of humble birth. Her parents of no note at all. His

ancestors all noble. And therefore she looked up to the high-born

Bertram, as to her master and to her dear lord, and dared not form

any wish but to live his servant, and so living to die his vassal. So

great the distance seemed to her between his height of dignity and her

lowly fortunes, that she would say, "It were all one that I should

love a bright peculiar star and think to wed it, Bertram is so far

above me."

Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, and her heart with

sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort

to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his

dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she

seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too

capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that

loved face.

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other portion than some

prescriptions of rare and well proved virtue, which by deep study and

long experience in medicine, he had collected as sovereign and almost

infallible remedies. Among the rest there was one set down as an

approved medicine for the disease under which Lafeu said the king at

that time languished; and when Helena heard of the king's complaint,

she, who till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed an

ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris, and undertake

the cure of the king. But though Helena was the possessor of this

choice prescription, it was unlikely, as the king as well as his

physicians were of opinion that his disease was incurable, that they

would give credit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should offer

to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena had of succeeding, if

she might be permitted to make the trial, seemed more than even her

father's skill warranted, though he was the most famous physician of

his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good medicine was

sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven, to be the legacy that

should advance her fortune, even to the high dignity of being count

Rossilion's wife.

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess was informed by her

steward, that he had overheard Helena talking to herself, and that he

understood from some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram,

and had thought of following him to Paris. The countess dismissed

the steward with thanks, and desired him to tell Helena she wished

to speak with her. What she had just heard of Helena brought the

remembrance of days long past into the mind of the countess, those

days probably when her love for Bertram's father first began; and she

said to herself, "Even so it was with me when I was young. Love is a

thorn that belongs to the rose of youth; for in the season of youth,

if ever we are nature's children, these faults are ours, though then

we think not they are faults." While the countess was thus meditating

on the loving errors of her own youth, Helena entered, and she said

to her, "Helena, you know I am a mother to you." Helena replied, "You

are my honourable mistress." "You are my daughter," said the countess

again: "I say I am your mother. Why do you start and look pale at

my words?" With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing the

countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, "Pardon me, madam,

you are not my mother; the count Rossilion cannot be my brother, nor

I your daughter." "Yet, Helena," said the countess, "you might be my

daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that is what you mean to be, the

words _mother_ and _daughter_ so disturb you. Helena, do you love my

son?" "Good madam, pardon me," said the affrighted Helena. Again the

countess repeated her question, "Do you love my son?" "Do not you

love him, madam?" said Helena. The countess replied, "Give me not

this evasive answer, Helena. Come, come, disclose the state of your

affections, for your love has to the full appeared." Helena on her

knees now owned her love, and with shame and terror implored the

pardon of her noble mistress; and with words expressive of the sense

she had of the inequality between their fortunes, she protested

Bertram did not know she loved him, comparing her humble unaspiring

love to a poor Indian, who adores the sun, that looks upon his

worshipper but knows of him no more. The countess asked Helena if

she had not lately an intent to go to Paris? Helena owned the design

she had formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of the king's

illness. "This was your motive for wishing to go to Paris," said the

countess, "was it? Speak truly." Helena honestly answered, "My lord

your son made me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, and

the king, had from the conversation of my thoughts been absent then."

The countess heard the whole of this confession without saying a word

either of approval or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as

to the probability of the medicine being useful to the king. She found

that it was the most prized by Gerard de Narbon of all he possessed,

and that he had given it to his daughter on his death-bed; and

remembering the solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in

regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the life of the king

himself, seemed to depend on the execution of a project (which though

conceived by the fond suggestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the

countess knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Providence to

bring to pass the recovery of the king, and to lay the foundation of

the future fortunes of Gerard de Narbon's daughter), free leave she

gave to Helena to pursue her own way, and generously furnished her

with ample means and suitable attendants, and Helena set out for

Paris with the blessings of the countess, and her kindest wishes for

her success.

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of her friend the old

lord Lafeu, she obtained an audience of the king. She had still many

difficulties to encounter, for the king was not easily prevailed on to

try the medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. But she told

him she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter (with whose fame the king

was well acquainted), and she offered the precious medicine as the

darling treasure which contained the essence of all her father's long

experience and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit her life, if

it failed to restore his majesty to perfect health in the space of two

days. The king at length consented to try it, and in two days time

Helena was to lose her life if the king did not recover; but if she

succeeded, he promised to give her the choice of any man throughout

all France (the princes only excepted) whom she could like for an

husband; the choice of an husband being the fee Helena demanded, if

she cured the king of his disease.

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she conceived of the

efficacy of her father's medicine. Before two days were at an end, the

king was restored to perfect health, and he assembled all the young

noblemen of his court together, in order to confer the promised reward

of an husband upon his fair physician; and he desired Helena to look

round on this youthful parcel of noble bachelors, and choose her

husband. Helena was not slow to make her choice, for among these young

lords she saw the count Rossilion, and turning to Bertram, she said,

"This is the man. I dare not say, my lord, I take you, but I give

me and my service ever whilst I live into your guiding power." "Why

then," said the king, "young Bertram, take her; she is your wife."

Bertram did not hesitate to declare his dislike to this present of

the king's of the self-offered Helena, who, he said, was a poor

physician's daughter, bred at his father's charge, and now living a

dependent on his mother's bounty. Helena heard him speak these words

of rejection and of scorn, and she said to the king, "That you are

well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest go." But the king would not

suffer his royal command to be so slighted; for the power of bestowing

their nobles in marriage was one of the many privileges of the kings

of France; and that same day Bertram was married to Helena, a forced

and uneasy marriage to Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor

lady, who, though she gained the noble husband she had hazarded her

life to obtain, seemed to have won but a splendid blank, her husband's

love not being a gift in the power of the king of France to bestow.

Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired by Bertram to apply

to the king for him for leave of absence from court; and when she

brought him the king's permission for his departure, Bertram told her

that as he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much

unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the course he

should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved, when she found

it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to his

mother. When Helena heard this unkind command, she replied, "Sir, I

can nothing say to this, but that I am your most obedient servant, and

shall ever with true observance seek to eke out that desert, wherein

my homely stars have failed to equal my great fortunes." But this

humble speech of Helena's did not at all move the haughty Bertram to

pity his gentle wife, and he parted from her without even the common

civility of a kind farewel.

Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accomplished the

purport of her journey, she had preserved the life of the king, and

she had wedded her heart's dear lord, the count Rossilion; but she

returned back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and as soon

as she entered the house, she received a letter from Bertram which

almost broke her heart.

The good countess received her with a cordial welcome, as if she

had been her son's own choice, and a lady of a high degree, and she

spoke kind words, to comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram

in sending his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this gracious

reception failed to cheer the sad mind of Helena, and she said,

"Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone." She then read these words out

of Bertram's letter: _When you can get the ring from my finger which

never shall come off, then call me husband, but in such a Then I write

a Never_. "This is a dreadful sentence!" said Helena. The countess

begged her to have patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she

should be her child, and that she deserved a lord, that twenty such

rude boys as Bertram might tend upon, and hourly call her mistress.

But in vain by respectful condescension and kind flattery this

matchless mother tried to soothe the sorrows of her daughter-in-law.

Helena still kept her eyes fixt upon the letter, and cried out in an

agony of grief, _Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France_. The

countess asked her if she found those words in the letter? "Yes,

madam," was all poor Helena could answer.

The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be delivered

to the countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of

her sudden absence: in this letter she informed her, that she was so

much grieved at having driven Bertram from his native country and his

home, that to atone for her offence she had undertaken a pilgrimage to

the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded with requesting the

countess to inform her son that the wife he so hated had left his

house for ever.

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became an

officer in the duke of Florence's army, and after a successful war, in

which he distinguished himself by many brave actions, Bertram received

letters from his mother, containing the acceptable tidings that Helena

would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to return home, when

Helena herself, clad in her pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the city of

Florence.

Florence was a city through which the pilgrims used to pass on their

way to St. Jaques le Grand; and when Helena arrived at this city, she

heard that a hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to receive into

her house the female pilgrims that were going to visit the shrine

of that saint, giving them lodging and kind entertainment. To this

good lady therefore Helena went, and the widow gave her a courteous

welcome, and invited her to see whatever was curious in that famous

city, and told her that if she would like to see the duke's army,

she would take her where she might have a full view of it. "And you

will see a countryman of yours," said the widow; "his name is count

Rossilion, who has done worthy service in the duke's wars." Helena

wanted no second invitation, when she found Bertram was to make part

of the show. She accompanied her hostess; and a sad and mournful

pleasure it was to her to look once more upon her dear husband's face.

"Is he not a handsome man?" said the widow. "I like him well," replied

Helena, with great truth. All the way they walked, the talkative

widow's discourse was all of Bertram: she told Helena the story of

Bertram's marriage, and how he had deserted the poor lady his wife,

and entered into the duke's army to avoid living with her. To this

account of her own misfortunes Helena patiently listened, and when it

was ended, the history of Bertram was not yet done, for then the widow

began another tale, every word of which sunk deep into the mind of

Helena; for the story she now told was of Bertram's love for her

daughter.

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, it

seems he was not insensible to love, for since he had been stationed

with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair

young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who was Helena's

hostess; and every night, with music of all sorts, and songs composed

in praise of Diana's beauty, he would come under her window, and

solicit her love: and all his suit to her was that she would permit

him to visit her by stealth after the family were retired to rest; but

Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant this improper request,

nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married

man; for Diana had been brought up under the counsels of a prudent

mother, who, though she was now in reduced circumstances, was

well-born, and descended from the noble family of the Capulets.

All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the virtuous

principles of her discreet daughter, which she said were entirely

owing to the excellent education and good advice she had given her;

and she farther said, that Bertram had been particularly importunate

with Diana to admit him to the visit he so much desired that night,

because he was going to leave Florence early the next morning.

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love for the widow's

daughter, yet from this story the ardent mind of Helena conceived a

project (nothing discouraged at the ill success of her former one)

to recover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow, that she was

Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, and requested that her kind

hostess and her daughter would suffer this visit from Bertram to take

place, and allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; telling

them, her chief motive for desiring to have this secret meeting with

her husband, was to get a ring from him, which he had said if ever she

was in possession of, he would acknowledge her as his wife.

The widow and her daughter promised to assist her in this affair,

partly moved by pity for this unhappy forsaken wife, and partly won

over to her interest by the promises of reward which Helena made them,

giving them a purse of money in earnest of her future favour. In the

course of that day Helena caused information to be sent to Bertram,

that she was dead, hoping that when he thought himself free to make a

second choice by the news of her death, he would offer marriage to her

in her feigned character of Diana. And if she could obtain the ring

and this promise too, she doubted not she should make some future good

come of it.

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana's

chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering

compliments and love-discourse he addressed to Helena were precious

sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for Diana; and Bertram

was so well pleased with her, that he made her a solemn promise to

be her husband, and to love her for ever; which she hoped would be

prophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own

wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him.

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena was, else perhaps he

would not have been so regardless of her; and seeing her every day, he

had entirely overlooked her beauty, a face we are accustomed to see

constantly losing the effect which is caused by the first sight either

of beauty or of plainness; and of her understanding it was impossible

he should judge, because she felt such reverence, mixed with her love

for him, that she was always silent in his presence; but now that her

future fate, and the happy ending of all her love-projects, seemed to

depend on her leaving a favourable impression on the mind of Bertram

from this night's interview, she exerted all her wit to please him;

and the simple graces of her lively conversation and the endearing

sweetness of her manners so charmed Bertram, that he vowed she should

be his wife. Helena begged the ring from off his finger as a token of

his regard, and he gave it to her; and in return for this ring, which

it was of such importance to her to possess, she gave him another

ring, which was one the king had made her a present of. Before it was

light in the morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately set

out on his journey towards his mother's house.

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to Paris,

their farther assistance being necessary to the full accomplishment

of the plan she had formed. When they arrived there, they found the

king was gone upon a visit to the countess of Rossilion, and Helena

followed the king with all the speed she could make.

The king was still in perfect health, and his gratitude to her who had

been the means of his recovery was so lively in his mind, that the

moment he saw the countess of Rossilion, he began to talk of Helena,

calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly of her son;

but seeing the subject distressed the countess, who sincerely lamented

the death of Helena, he said, "My good lady, I have forgiven and

forgotten all." But the good-natured old Lafeu, who was present, and

could not bear that the memory of his favourite Helena should be so

lightly passed over, said, "This I must say, the young lord did great

offence to his majesty, his mother, and his lady; but to himself he

did the greatest wrong of all, for he has lost a wife whose beauty

astonished all eyes, whose words took all ears captive, whose deep

perfection made all hearts wish to serve her." The king said,

"Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear. Well--call him

hither;" meaning Bertram, who now presented himself before the king:

and, on his expressing deep sorrow for the injuries he had done to

Helena, the king, for his dead father's and his admirable mother's

sake, pardoned him, and restored him once more to his favour. But the

gracious countenance of the king was soon changed towards him, for he

perceived that Bertram wore the very ring upon his finger which he had

given to Helena; and he well remembered that Helena had called all

the saints in heaven to witness she would never part with that ring,

unless she sent it to the king himself upon some great disaster

befalling her; and Bertram, on the king's questioning him how he came

by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady throwing it to him out

of a window, and denied ever having seen Helena since the day of their

marriage. The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared he

had destroyed her; and he ordered his guards to seize Bertram, saying,

"I am wrapt in dismal thinking, for I fear the life of Helena was

foully snatched." At this moment Diana and her mother entered, and

presented a petition to the king, wherein they begged his majesty to

exert his royal power to compel Bertram to marry Diana, he having made

her a solemn promise of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger,

denied he had made any such promise, and then Diana produced the ring

(which Helena had put into her hands) to confirm the truth of her

words; and she said that she had given Bertram the ring he then wore,

in exchange for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. On hearing

this, the king ordered the guards to seize her also; and her account

of the ring differing from Bertram's, the king's suspicions were

confirmed; and he said, if they did not confess how they came by this

ring of Helena's, they should be both put to death. Diana requested

her mother might be permitted to fetch the jeweller of whom she bought

the ring, which being granted, the widow went out, and presently

returned leading in Helena herself.

The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld her son's danger,

and had even dreaded that the suspicion of his having destroyed his

wife might possibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved

with even a maternal affection, was still living, felt a delight she

was hardly able to support; and the king, scarce believing for joy

that it was Helena, said, "Is this indeed the wife of Bertram that I

see?" Helena, feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied,

"No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you see, the name

and not the thing." Bertram cried out, "Both, both! O pardon!" "O my

lord," said Helena, "when I personated this fair maid, I found you

wondrous kind; and look, here is your letter!" reading to him in a

joyful tone those words, which she had once repeated so sorrowfully,

_When from my finger you can get this ring_--"This is done, it was

to me you gave the ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?"

Bertram replied, "If you can make it plain that you were the lady I

talked with that night, I will love you dearly, ever, ever dearly."

This was no difficult task, for the widow and Diana came with Helena

purposely to prove this fact; and the king was so well pleased with

Diana, for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear lady he

so truly valued for the service she had done him, that he promised her

also a noble husband: Helena's history giving him a hint that it was a

suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies when they perform

notable services.

Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeed

sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the

beloved wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble

mistress, and herself the countess of Rossilion.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

(_By Mary Lamb_)

Katherine, the shrew, was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich

gentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and

fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua

by no other name than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely,

indeed impossible, that any gentleman would ever be found who would

venture to marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed

for deferring his consent to many excellent offers that were made to

her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this

excuse, that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they

should have free leave to address young Bianca.

It happened however that a gentleman, named Petruchio, came to Padua,

purposely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these

reports of Katherine's temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome,

resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and taming her into

a meek and manageable wife. And truly none was so fit to set about

this herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as high as

Katherine's, and he was a witty and most happy-tempered humourist, and

withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how

to feign a passionate and furious deportment, when his spirits were

so calm that he himself could have laughed merrily at his own angry

feigning, for his natural temper was careless and easy; the boisterous

airs he assumed when he became the husband of Katherine being but

in sport, or, more properly speaking, affected by his excellent

discernment, as the only means to overcome in her own way the

passionate ways of the furious Katherine.

A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine the shrew, and first of

all he applied to Baptista, her father, for leave to woo his _gentle

daughter_ Katherine, as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that

having heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he had

come from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, though he wished

her married, was forced to confess Katherine would ill answer this

character, it being soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she

was composed, for her music-master rushed into the room to complain

that the gentle Katherine, his pupil, had broken his head with her

lute, for presuming to find fault with her performance; which, when

Petruchio heard, he said, "It is a brave wench; I love her more than

ever, and long to have some chat with her;" and hurrying the old

gentleman for a positive answer, he said, "My business is in haste,

signior Baptista, I cannot come every day to woo. You knew my father.

He is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and goods. Then tell

me, if I get your daughter's love, what dowry you will give with her."

Baptista thought his manner was somewhat blunt for a lover; but being

glad to get Katherine married, he answered that he would give her

twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, and half his estate at his

death: so this odd match was quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to

apprise his shrewish daughter of her lover's addresses, and sent her

in to Petruchio to listen to his suit.

In the mean time Petruchio was settling with himself the mode of

courtship he should pursue: and he said, "I will woo her with some

spirit when she comes. If she rails at me, why then I will tell her

she sings as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns, I will say

she looks as clear as roses newly washed with dew. If she will not

speak a word, I will praise the eloquence of her language; and if she

bids me leave her, I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with

her a week." Now the stately Katherine entered, and Petruchio first

addressed her with "Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name, I hear."

Katherine, not liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, "They

call me Katherine who do speak to me." "You lie," replied the lover;

"for you are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate

the Shrew; but, Kate, you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and

therefore, Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every town, I am

come to woo you for my wife."

A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry terms

shewing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he

still praised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing

her father coming, he said, (intending to make as quick a wooing as

possible) "Sweet Katherine, let us set this idle chat aside, for your

father has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed

on, and whether you will or no, I will marry you."

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had

received him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next

Sunday. This Katherine denied, saying she would rather see him hanged

on Sunday, and reproached her father for wishing to wed her to such

a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not to

regard her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant

before him, but that when they were alone he had found her very fond

and loving; and he said, "Give me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice

to buy you fine apparel against our wedding-day. Provide the feast,

father, and bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to bring rings,

fine array, and rich clothes, that my Katherine may be fine; and kiss

me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday."

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were assembled, but they waited

long before Petruchio came, and Katherine wept for vexation to think

that Petruchio had only been making a jest of her. At last however he

appeared, but he brought none of the bridal finery he had promised

Katherine, nor was he dressed himself like a bridegroom, but in

strange disordered attire, as if he meant to make a sport of the

serious business he came about; and his servant and the very horses

on which they rode were in like manner in mean and fantastic fashion

habited.

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said

Katherine was to be married to him, and not to his clothes; and

finding it was in vain to argue with him, to the church they went,

he still behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest asked

Petruchio if Katherine should be his wife, he swore so loud that

she should, that all amazed the priest let fall his book, and as he

stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a

cuff, that down fell the priest and his book again. And all the while

they were being married he stampt and swore so, that the high-spirited

Katherine trembled and shook with fear. After the ceremony was over,

while they were yet in the church he called for wine, and drank a loud

health to the company, and threw a sop which was at the bottom of

the glass full in the sexton's face, giving no other reason for this

strange act, than that the sexton's beard grew thin and hungerly, and

seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never sure was there such a

mad marriage; but Petruchio did but put this wildness on, the better

to succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife.

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage-feast, but when they

returned from church, Petruchio, taking hold of Katherine, declared

his intention of carrying his wife home instantly; and no remonstrance

of his father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged Katherine, could

make him change his purpose; he claimed a husband's right to dispose

of his wife as he pleased, and away he hurried Katherine off: he

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

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and lank,

which he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant

no better mounted, they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and

ever when this horse of Katherine's stumbled, he would storm and swear

at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his burthen, as

if he had been the most passionate man alive.

At length, after a weary journey, during which Katherine had heard

nothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and the

horses, they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly to

her home, but he resolved she should have neither rest nor food that

night. The tables were spread, and supper soon served; but Petruchio,

pretending to find fault with every dish, threw the meat about the

floor, and ordered the servants to remove it away, and all this

he did, as he said, in love for his Katherine, that she might not

eat meat that was not well dressed. And when Katherine weary and

supperless retired to rest, he found the same fault with the bed,

throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so that she was

forced to sit down in a chair, where if she chanced to drop asleep,

she was presently awakened by the loud voice of her husband, storming

at the servants for the ill-making of his wife's bridal-bed.

The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, still speaking kind

words to Katherine, but when she attempted to eat, finding fault with

every thing that was set before her, throwing the breakfast on the

floor as he had done the supper; and Katherine, the haughty Katherine,

was fain to beg the servants would bring her secretly a morsel of

food, but they being instructed by Petruchio replied, they dared not

give her any thing unknown to their master. "Ah," said she, "did he

marry me to famish me? Beggars that come to my father's door have

food given them. But I, who never knew what it was to intreat for any

thing, am starved for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with

oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed, and that which vexes me more

than all, he does it under the name of perfect love, pretending that

if I sleep or eat it were present death to me." Here her soliloquy was

interrupted by the entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning she should

be quite starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, and he said

to her, "How fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent I

am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits

thanks. What not a word? Nay then you love not the meat, and all the

pains I have taken is to no purpose." He then ordered the servant to

take the dish away. Extreme hunger, which had abated the pride of

Katherine, made her say, though angered to the heart, "I pray you, let

it stand." But this was not all Petruchio intended to bring her to,

and he replied, "The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so

shall mine before you touch the meat." On this Katherine brought out

a reluctant "I thank you, sir." And now he suffered her to make a

slender meal, saying, "Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate;

eat apace! And now, my honey love, we will return to your father's

house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and caps

and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs and fans and double change of

finery;" and to make her believe he really intended to give her these

gay things, he called in a taylor and a haberdasher, who brought some

new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her plate to the

servant to take away, before she had half satisfied her hunger, he

said, "What? have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a cap, saying,

"Here is the cap your worship bespoke;" on which Petruchio began to

storm afresh, saying, the cap was moulded in a porringer, and that

it was no bigger than a cockle or a walnut shell, desiring the

haberdasher to take it away and make a bigger. Katherine said, "I will

have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as these." "When you are

gentle," replied Petruchio, "you shall have one too, and not till

then." The meat Katherine had eaten had a little revived her fallen

spirits, and she said, "Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak,

and speak I will. I am no child, no babe; your betters have endured

to hear me say my mind; and if you cannot, you had better stop you

ears." Petruchio would not hear these angry words, for he had happily

discovered a better way of managing his wife than keeping up a

jangling argument with her; therefore his answer was, "Why, you say

true, it is a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking it." "Love me,

or love me not," said Katherine, "I like the cap, and I will have this

cap or none." "You say you wish to see the gown," said Petruchio,

still affecting to misunderstand her. The taylor then came forward,

and shewed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio, whose

intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found as much

fault with that. "O mercy, Heaven!" said he, "what stuff is here!

What, do you call this a sleeve? it is like a demy-cannon, carved up

and down like an apple-tart." The taylor said, "You bid me make it

according to the fashion of the times;" and Katherine said she never

saw a better fashioned gown. This was enough for Petruchio, and

privately desiring these people might be paid for their goods, and

excuses made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he bestowed

upon them, he with fierce words and furious gestures drove the taylor

and the haberdasher out of the room: and then, turning to Katherine,

he said, "Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father's even in

these mean garments we now wear." And then he ordered his horses,

affirming they should reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that

it was but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very

middle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore Katherine ventured

to say, though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of

his manner, "I dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be

supper-time before we get there." But Petruchio meant that she should

be so completely subdued, that she should assent to every thing he

said, before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he

were lord even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said it

should be what time he pleased to have it, before he set forward;

"For," said he, "whatever I say or do, you still are crossing it. I

will not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it

is." Another day Katherine was forced to practise her newly-found

obedience, and not till he had brought her proud spirit to such a

perfect subjection, that she dared not remember there was such a word

as contradiction, would Petruchio allow her to go to her father's

house; and even while they were upon their journey thither, she was in

danger of being turned back again, only because she happened to hint

it was the sun, when he affirmed the moon shone brightly at noonday.

"Now, by my mother's son," said he, "and that is myself, it shall be

the moon, or stars, or what I list, before I journey to your father's

house." He then made as if he were going back again; but Katherine, no

longer Katherine the Shrew, but the obedient wife, said, "Let us go

forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and it shall be the sun, or

moon, or what you please, and if you please to call it a rush candle

henceforth, I vow it shall be so for me." This he was resolved to

prove, therefore he said again, "I say, it is the moon." "I know it is

the moon," replied Katherine. "You lie, it is the blessed sun," said

Petruchio. "Then it is the blessed sun," replied Katherine; "but sun

it is not, when you say it is not. What you will have it named even so

it is, and so it ever shall be for Katherine." Now then he suffered

her to proceed on her journey; but further to try if this yielding

humour would last, he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road

as if he had been a young woman, saying to him, "Good morrow, gentle

mistress;" and asked Katherine if she had ever beheld a fairer

gentlewoman, praising the red and white of the old man's cheeks, and

comparing his eyes to two bright stars; and again he addressed him,

saying, "Fair lovely maid, once more good day to you!" and said to

his wife, "Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake." The now

completely vanquished Katherine quickly adopted her husband's opinion,

and made her speech in like sort to the old gentleman, saying to him,

"Young budding virgin, you are fair, and fresh, and sweet: whither are

you going, and where is your dwelling? Happy are the parents of so

fair a child." "Why, how now, Kate," said Petruchio; "I hope you are

not mad. This is a man, old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not

a maiden, as you say he is." On this Katherine said, "Pardon me, old

gentleman; the sun has so dazzled my eyes, that every thing I look on

seemeth green. Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I hope you

will pardon me for my sad mistake."--"Do, good old grandsire," said

Petruchio, "and tell us which way you are travelling. We shall be glad

of your good company, if you are going our way." The old gentleman

replied, "Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, your strange encounter

has much amazed me. My name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a

son of mine who lives at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the old gentleman

to be the father of Lucentio, a young gentleman who was to be married

to Baptista's younger daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very

happy by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to make; and

they all journeyed on pleasantly together till they came to Baptista's

house, where there was a large company assembled to celebrate the

wedding of Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly consented to

the marriage of Bianca when he had got Katherine off his hands.

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding feast, and

there was present also another newly-married pair.

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other new-married man,

could not forbear sly jests, which seemed to hint at the shrewish

disposition of Petruchio's wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed

highly pleased with the mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen,

laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. Petruchio took

little notice of their jokes till the ladies were retired after

dinner, and then he perceived Baptista himself joined in the laugh

against him; for when Petruchio affirmed that his wife would prove

more obedient than theirs, the father of Katherine said, "Now, in good

sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the veriest shrew of all."

"Well," said Petruchio, "I say no, and therefore for assurance that I

speak the truth, let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife

is most obedient to come at first when she is sent for, shall win a

wager which we will propose." To this the other two husbands willingly

consented, for they were quite confident that their gentle wives would

prove more obedient than the headstrong Katherine; and they proposed

a wager of twenty crowns, but Petruchio merrily said he would lay as

much as that upon his hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his

wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to an hundred crowns,

and Lucentio first sent his servant to desire Bianca would come to

him. But the servant returned, and said, "Sir, my mistress sends you

word she is busy and cannot come." "How," said Petruchio, "does she

say she is busy and cannot come? Is that an answer for a wife?" Then

they laughed at him, and said, it would be well if Katherine did not

send him a worse answer. And now it was Hortensio's turn to send for

his wife; and he said to his servant, "Go, and intreat my wife to come

to me." "Oh ho! intreat her!" said Petruchio. "Nay, then, she needs

must come." "I am afraid, sir," said Hortensio, "your wife will not be

intreated." But presently this civil husband looked a little blank,

when the servant returned without his mistress; and he said to him,

"How now! Where is my wife?" "Sir," said the servant, "my mistress

says you have some goodly jest in hand, and therefore she will not

come. She bids you come to her." "Worse and worse!" said Petruchio;

and then he sent his servant, saying, "Sirrah, go to your mistress,

and tell her I command her to come to me." The company had scarcely

time to think she would not obey this summons, when Baptista, all in

amaze, exclaimed, "Now, by my hollidam, here comes Katherine!" and she

entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, "What is your will, sir, that you

send for me?"--"Where is your sister and Hortensio's wife?" said he.

Katherine replied, "They sit conferring by the parlour-fire." "Go,

fetch them hither!" said Petruchio. Away went Katherine without reply

to perform her husband's command. "Here is a wonder," said Lucentio,

"if you talk of a wonder." "And so it is," said Hortensio; "I marvel

what it bodes." "Marry, peace it bodes," said Petruchio, "and love,

and quiet life, and right supremacy; and to be short, every thing

that is sweet and happy." Katherine's father, overjoyed to see this

reformation in his daughter, said, "Now, fair befall thee, son

Petruchio! you have won the wager, and I will add another twenty

thousand crowns to her dowry, as if she were another daughter, for

she is changed as if she had never been." "Nay," said Petruchio, "I

will win the wager better yet, and shew more signs of her new-built

virtue and obedience." Katherine now entering with the two ladies,

he continued, "See where she comes, and brings your froward wives as

prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katherine, that cap of yours

does not become you; off with that bauble, and throw it under foot."

Katherine instantly took off her cap, and threw it down. "Lord!" said

Hortensio's wife, "may I never have a cause to sigh till I am brought

to such a silly pass!" And Bianca, she too said, "Fie, what foolish

duty call you this!" On this Bianca's husband said to her, "I wish

your duty were as foolish too! The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,

has cost me an hundred crowns since dinner-time." "The more fool you,"

said Bianca, "for laying on my duty." "Katherine," said Petruchio,

"I charge you tell these headstrong women what duty they owe their

lords and husbands." And to the wonder of all present, the reformed

shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise of the wife-like duty of

obedience, as she had practised it implicitly in a ready submission

to Petruchio's will. And Katherine once more became famous in Padua,

not as heretofore, as Katherine the Shrew, but as Katherine the most

obedient and duteous wife in Padua.

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

(_By Mary Lamb_)

The states of Syracuse and Ephesus being at variance, there was a

cruel law made at Ephesus, ordaining that if any merchant of Syracuse

was seen in the city of Ephesus, he was to be put to death, unless he

could pay a thousand marks for the ransom of his life.

Ægeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets of

Ephesus, and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine,

or to receive sentence of death.

Ægeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before he pronounced

the sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate the history of

his life, and to tell for what cause he had ventured to come to the

city of Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan merchant to

enter.

Ægeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sorrow had made him weary

of his life, but that a heavier task could not have been imposed upon

him than to relate the events of his unfortunate life. He then began

his own history, in the following words:--

"I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the profession of a

merchant. I married a lady with whom I lived very happily, but being

obliged to go to Epidamnium, I was detained there by my business

six months, and then, finding I should be obliged to stay some time

longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as she arrived, was brought

to bed of two sons, and what was very strange, they were both so

exactly alike, that it was impossible to distinguish the one from

the other. At the same time that my wife was brought to bed of these

twin-boys, a poor woman in the inn where my wife lodged was brought to

bed of two sons, and these twins were as much like each other as my

two sons were. The parents of these children being exceedingly poor, I

bought the two boys, and brought them up to attend upon my sons.

"My sons were very fine children, and my wife was not a little proud

of two such boys: and she daily wishing to return home, I unwillingly

agreed, and in an evil hour we got on shipboard; for we had not sailed

above a league from Epidamnium before a dreadful storm arose, which

continued with such violence, that the sailors, seeing no chance

of saving the ship, crowded into the boat to save their own lives,

leaving us alone in the ship, which we every moment expected would be

destroyed by the fury of the storm.

"The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous complaints of the

pretty babes, who not knowing what to fear, wept for fashion, because

they saw their mother weep, filled me with terror for them, though

I did not for myself fear death; and all my thoughts were bent to

contrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest son to the end

of a small spare mast, such as seafaring men provide against storms;

at the other end I bound the youngest of the twin-slaves, and at the

same time I directed my wife how to fasten the other children in like

manner to another mast. She thus having the care of the two eldest

children, and I of the two younger, we bound ourselves separately to

these masts with the children; and but for this contrivance we had

all been lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock and was dashed in

pieces, and we clinging to these slender masts were supported above

the water, where I, having the care of two children, was unable to

assist my wife, who with the other children were soon separated from

me; but while they were yet in my sight, they were taken up by a boat

of fishermen, from Corinth (as I supposed), and seeing them in safety,

I had no care but to struggle with the wild sea waves, to preserve my

dear son and the youngest slave. At length we in our turn were taken

up by a ship, and the sailors, knowing me, gave us kind welcome and

assistance, and landed us in safety at Syracuse; but from that sad

hour I have never known what became of my wife and eldest child.

"My youngest son, and now my only care, when he was eighteen years of

age, began to be inquisitive after his mother and his brother, and

often importuned me that he might take his attendant, the young slave,

who had also lost his brother, and go in search of them: at length

I unwillingly gave consent, for though I anxiously desired to hear

tidings of my wife and eldest son, yet in sending my younger one to

find them I hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven years since

my son left me; five years have I past in travelling through the world

in search of him: I have been in farthest Greece, and through the

bounds of Asia, and coasting homewards I landed here in Ephesus, being

unwilling to leave any place unsought that harbours men; but this day

must end the story of my life, and happy should I think myself in my

death, if I were assured my wife and sons were living."

Here the hapless Ægeon ended the account of his misfortunes; and the

duke, pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought upon himself

this great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it were not

against the laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit him to

alter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead of dooming him to

instant death, as the strict letter of the law required, he would give

him that day, to try if he could beg or borrow the money to pay the

fine.

This day of grace did seem no great favour to Ægeon, for not knowing

any man in Ephesus, there seemed to him but little chance that any

stranger would lend or give him a thousand marks to pay the fine; and

helpless and hopeless of any relief, he retired from the presence of

the duke in the custody of a jailor.

Ægeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very time he

was in danger of losing his life through the careful search he was

making after his youngest son, that son and his eldest son also were

both in the city of Ephesus.

Ægeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in face and person, were

both named alike, being both called Antipholis, and the two twin

slaves were also both named Dromio. Ægeon's youngest son, Antipholis

of Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus to seek, happened

to arrive at Ephesus with his slave Dromio that very same day that

Ægeon did; and he being also a merchant of Syracuse, he would have

been in the same danger that his father was, but by good fortune

he met a friend who told him the peril an old merchant of Syracuse

was in, and advised him to pass for a merchant of Epidamnium; this

Antipholis agreed to do, and he was sorry to hear one of his own

countrymen was in this danger, but he little thought this old merchant

was his own father.

The eldest son of Ægeon (who must be called Antipholis of Ephesus, to

distinguish him from his brother Antipholis of Syracuse) had lived at

Ephesus twenty years, and, being a rich man, was well able to have

paid the money for the ransom of his father's life; but Antipholis

knew nothing of his father, being so young when he was taken out of

the sea with his mother by the fishermen, that he only remembered he

had been so preserved, but he had no recollection of either his father

or his mother; the fishermen who took up this Antipholis and his

mother and the young slave Dromio having carried the two children away

from her (to the great grief of that unhappy lady), intending to sell

them.

Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them to duke Menaphon, a famous

warrior, who was uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys

to Ephesus, when he went to visit the duke his nephew.

The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young Antipholis, when he grew

up, made him an officer in his army, in which he distinguished himself

by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of his

patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, a

rich lady of Ephesus; with whom he was living (his slave Dromio still

attending him) at the time his father came there.

Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted with his friend, who advised

him to say he came from Epidamnium, gave his slave Dromio some money

to carry to the inn where he intended to dine, and in the mean time he

said he would walk about and view the city, and observe the manners of

the people.

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholis was dull and

melancholy, he used to divert himself with the odd humours and merry

jests of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed in

Dromio were greater than is usual between masters and their servants.

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood a while

thinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother and his

brother, of whom in no place where he landed could he hear the least

tidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself, "I am like a drop of

water in the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow-drop, loses

itself in the wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and a

brother, do lose myself."

While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, which had hitherto

been so useless, Dromio (as he thought) returned. Antipholis,

wondering that he came back so soon, asked him where he had left the

money. Now it was not his own Dromio, but the twin-brother that lived

with Antipholis of Ephesus, that he spoke to. The two Dromios and the

two Antipholises were still as much alike as Ægeon had said they were

in their infancy; therefore no wonder Antipholis thought it was his

own slave returned, and asked him why he came back so soon. Dromio

replied, "My mistress sent me to bid you come to dinner. The capon

burns, and the pig falls from the spit, and the meat will be all

cold if you do not come home." "These jests are out of season," said

Antipholis: "where did you leave the money?" Dromio still answering,

that his mistress had sent him to fetch Antipholis to dinner: "What

mistress?" said Antipholis. "Why, your worship's wife, sir," replied

Dromio. Antipholis having no wife, he was very angry with Dromio, and

said, "Because I familiarly sometimes chat with you, you presume to

jest with me in this free manner. I am not in a sportive humour now:

where is the money? we being strangers here, how dare you trust so

great a charge from your own custody?" Dromio hearing his master, as

he thought him, talk of their being strangers, supposing Antipholis

was jesting, replied merrily, "I pray you, sir, jest as you sit

at dinner: I had no charge but to fetch you home, to dine with my

mistress and her sister." Now Antipholis lost all patience, and beat

Dromio, who ran home, and told his mistress that his master had

refused to come to dinner, and said that he had no wife.

Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, was very angry, when she

heard that her husband said he had no wife; for she was of a jealous

temper, and she said her husband meant that he loved another lady

better than herself; and she began to fret, and say unkind words of

jealousy and reproach of her husband; and her sister Luciana, who

lived with her, tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless

suspicions.

Antipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and found Dromio with the

money in safety there, and seeing his own Dromio, he was going again

to chide him for his free jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not

doubting but it was her husband she saw, she began to reproach him for

looking strange upon her (as well he might, never having seen this

angry lady before); and then she told him how well he loved her before

they were married, and that now he loved some other lady instead

of her. "How comes it now, my husband," said she, "O how comes it

that I have lost your love?" "Plead you to me, fair dame?" said the

astonished Antipholis. It was in vain he told her he was not her

husband, and that he had been in Ephesus but two hours; she insisted

on his going home with her, and Antipholis at last, being unable to

get away, went with her to his brother's house, and dined with Adriana

and her sister, the one calling him husband and the other brother, he,

all amazed, thinking he must have been married to her in his sleep, or

that he was sleeping now. And Dromio, who followed them, was no less

surprised, for the cook-maid, who was his brother's wife, also claimed

him for her husband.

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, his

brother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his slave

Dromio; but the servants would not open the door, because their

mistress had ordered them not to admit any company; and when they

repeatedly knocked, and said they were Antipholis and Dromio, the

maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholis was at dinner with

their mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen; and though they almost

knocked the door down, they could not gain admittance, and at last

Antipholis went away very angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a

gentleman was dining with his wife.

When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so

perplexed at the lady's still persisting in calling him husband, and

at hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, that

he left the house, as soon as he could find any pretence to get away;

for though he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet the

jealous-tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all

better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen; therefore both

master and man were glad to get away from their new wives as fast as

they could.

The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left the house, he was met by

a goldsmith, who mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholis

of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him by his name; and when

Antipholis would have refused the chain, saying it did not belong to

him, the goldsmith replied he made it by his own orders; and went

away, leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholis, who ordered his

man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not choosing to stay in

a place any longer, where he met with such strange adventures that he

surely thought himself bewitched.

The goldsmith who had given the chain to the wrong Antipholis, was

arrested immediately after for a sum of money he owed; and Antipholis,

the married brother, to whom the goldsmith thought he had given the

chain, happened to come to the place where the officer was arresting

the goldsmith, who, when he saw Antipholis, asked him to pay for

the gold chain he had just delivered to him, the price amounting to

nearly the same sum as that for which he had been arrested. Antipholis

denying the having received the chain, and the goldsmith persisting

to declare that he had but a few minutes before given it to him, they

disputed this matter a long time, both thinking they were right, for

Antipholis knew the goldsmith never gave him the chain, and, so like

were the two brothers, the goldsmith was as certain he had delivered

the chain into his hands, till at last the officer took the goldsmith

away to prison for the debt he owed, and at the same time the

goldsmith made the officer arrest Antipholis for the price of the

chain; so that at the conclusion of their dispute, Antipholis and the

merchant were both taken away to prison together.

As Antipholis was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, his

brother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to go

to Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the money for which he was

arrested. Dromio wondering that his master should send him back to the

strange house where he dined, and from which he had just before been

in such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though he came to tell

his master the ship was ready to sail; for he saw Antipholis was in

no humour to be jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling within

himself that he must return to Adriana's house, "Where," said he,

"Dowsabel claims me for a husband: but I must go, for servants must

obey their masters' commands."

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he met

Antipholis of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surprising

adventures he met with; for his brother being well known in Ephesus,

there was hardly a man he met in the streets but saluted him as an

old acquaintance: some offered him money which they said was owing to

him, some invited him to come and see them, and some gave him thanks

for kindnesses they said he had done them, all mistaking him for his

brother. A taylor shewed him some silks he had bought for him, and

insisted upon taking measure of him for some clothes.

Antipholis began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers and

witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his

bewildered thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the officer

who was carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold which

Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's of the

arrest and of a prison, and of the money he had brought from Adriana,

perfectly confounded Antipholis, and he said, "This fellow Dromio is

certainly distracted, and we wander here in illusions;" and quite

terrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried out, "Some blessed

power deliver us from this strange place!"

And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, and she

too called him Antipholis, and told him he had dined with her that

day, and asked him for a gold chain which she said he had promised

to give her. Antipholis now lost all patience, and calling her a

sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised her a chain, or dined

with her, or had even seen her face before that moment. The lady

persisted in affirming he had dined with her, and had promised her

a chain, which Antipholis still denying, she farther said, that she

had given him a valuable ring, and if he would not give her the gold

chain, she insisted upon having her own ring again. On this Antipholis

became quite frantic, and again calling her sorceress and witch, and

denying all knowledge of her or her ring, ran away from her, leaving

her astonished at his words and his wild looks, for nothing to her

appeared more certain than that he had dined with her, and that she

had given him a ring, in consequence of his promising to make her

a present of a gold chain. But this lady had fallen into the same

mistake the others had done, for she had taken him for his brother;

the married Antipholis had done all the things she taxed this

Antipholis with.

When the married Antipholis was denied entrance into his own house

(those within supposing him to be already there), he had gone away

very angry, believing it to be one of his wife's jealous freaks, to

which she was very subject, and remembering that she had often falsely

accused him of visiting other ladies, he to be revenged on her for

shutting him out of his own house, determined to go and dine with this

lady, and she receiving him with great civility, and his wife having

so highly offended him, Antipholis promised to give her a gold chain,

which he had intended as a present for his wife; it was the same chain

which the goldsmith by mistake had given to his brother. The lady

liked so well the thoughts of having a fine gold chain, that she gave

the married Antipholis a ring; which when, as she supposed (taking his

brother for him), he denied, and said he did not know her, and left

her in such a wild passion, she began to think he was certainly out

of his senses; and presently she resolved to go and tell Adriana that

her husband was mad. And while she was telling it to Adriana, he came,

attended by the jailor (who allowed him to come home to get the money

to pay the debt), for the purse of money, which Adriana had sent by

Dromio, and he had delivered to the other Antipholis.

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's madness

must be true, when he reproached her for shutting him out of his own

house; and remembering how he had protested all dinner-time that he

was not her husband, and had never been in Ephesus till that day,

she had no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the jailor the

money, and having discharged him, she ordered her servants to bind her

husband with ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent

for a doctor to come and cure him of his madness: Antipholis all the

while hotly exclaiming against this false accusation, which the exact

likeness he bore to his brother had brought upon him. But his rage

only the more confirmed them in the belief that he was mad; and Dromio

persisting in the same story, they bound him also, and took him away

along with his master.

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a servant

came to tell her that Antipholis and Dromio must have broken loose

from their keepers, for that they were both walking at liberty in

the next street. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him home,

taking some people with her to secure her husband again; and her

sister went along with her. When they came to the gates of a convent

in their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholis and Dromio, as they

thought, being again deceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers.

Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this

likeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had given

him was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him for

denying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and Antipholis

was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain in the

morning, and that from that hour he had never seen the goldsmith

again.

And now Adriana came up to him, and claimed him as her lunatic

husband, who had escaped from his keepers; and the men she brought

with her were going to lay violent hands on Antipholis and Dromio; but

they ran into the convent, and Antipholis begged the abbess to give

him shelter in her house.

And now came out the lady abbess herself to enquire into the cause

of this disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to

judge of what she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the man

who had sought protection in her house; so she strictly questioned the

wife about the story she told of her husband's madness, and she said,

"What is the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's? Has he

lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some dear friend that

has disturbed his mind?" Adriana replied, that no such things as these

had been the cause. "Perhaps," said the abbess, "he has fixed his

affections on some other lady than you his wife; and that has driven

him to this state." Adriana said she had long thought the love of some

other lady was the cause of his frequent absences from home. Now it

was not his love for another, but the teazing jealousy of his wife's

temper, that often obliged Antipholis to leave his home; and (the

abbess suspecting this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) to

learn the truth, she said, "You should have reprehended him for this."

"Why, so I did," replied Adriana. "Aye," said the abbess, "but perhaps

not enough." Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she had said

enough to Antipholis on this subject, replied, "It was the constant

subject of our conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep for

speaking of it. At table I would not let him eat for speaking of it.

When I was alone with him, I talked of nothing else; and in company I

gave him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how vile and bad

it was in him to love any lady better than me."

The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession from the jealous

Adriana, now said, "And therefore comes it that your husband is mad.

The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison than

a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hindered by your railing;

no wonder that his head is light; and his meat was sauced with your

upbraidings; unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown

him into this fever. You say his sports were disturbed by your

brawls; being debarred from the enjoyment of society and recreation,

what could ensue but dull melancholy and comfortless despair? The

consequence is then, that your jealous fits have made your husband

mad."

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always reprehended

her husband mildly; and she said to her sister, "Why do you hear

these rebukes without answering them?" But the abbess had made her

so plainly perceive her fault, that she could only answer, "She has

betrayed me to my own reproof."

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on having

her husband delivered up to her; but the abbess would suffer no person

to enter her house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to the

care of the jealous wife, determining herself to use gentle means for

his recovery, and she retired into her house again, and ordered her

gates to be shut against them.

During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors had

happened from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, old

Ægeon's day of grace was passing away, it being now near sunset: and

at sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the money.

The place of his execution was near this convent, and here he arrived

just as the abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending in

person, that if any offered to pay the money, he might be present to

pardon him.

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the duke

for justice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver up her

lunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her real husband

and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came before the duke to

demand justice, complaining that his wife had confined him on a

false charge of lunacy; and telling in what manner he had broken his

bands, and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was strangely

surprised to see her husband, when she thought he had been within the

convent.

Ægeon seeing his son, concluded this was the son who had left him to

go in search of his mother and his brother; and he felt secure that

this dear son would readily pay the money demanded for his ransom.

He therefore spoke to Antipholis in words of fatherly affection,

with joyful hope that he should now be released. But to the utter

astonishment of Ægeon, his son denied all knowledge of him, as well he

might, for this Antipholis had never seen his father since they were

separated in the storm in his infancy; but while the poor old Ægeon

was in vain endeavouring to make his son acknowledge him, thinking

surely that either his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had so

strangely altered him that his son did not know him, or else that he

was ashamed to acknowledge his father in his misery; in the midst of

this perplexity, the lady abbess and the other Antipholis and Dromio

came out, and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two Dromios

standing before her.

And now these riddling errors, which had so perplexed them all, were

clearly made out. When the duke saw the two Antipholises and the two

Dromios both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright of these

seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story Ægeon had told him in

the morning; and he said, these men must be the two sons of Ægeon and

their twin slaves.

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the history of Ægeon;

and the tale he had in the morning told in sorrow, and under sentence

of death, before the setting sun went down was brought to a happy

conclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself known to be the

long-lost wife of Ægeon, and the fond mother of the two Antipholises.

When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholis and Dromio away from

her, she entered a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous conduct she

was at length made lady abbess of this convent, and in discharging

the rites of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had unknowingly

protected her own son.

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings between these long

separated parents and their children, made them for a while forget

that Ægeon was yet under sentence of death; but when they were become

a little calm, Antipholis of Ephesus offered the duke the ransom-money

for his father's life; but the duke freely pardoned Ægeon, and would

not take the money. And the duke went with the abbess and her newly

found husband and children into the convent, to hear this happy family

discourse at leisure of the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes.

And the two Dromios' humble joy must not be forgotten; they had

their congratulations and greetings too, and each Dromio pleasantly

complimented his brother on his good looks, being well pleased to see

his own person (as in a glass) shew so handsome in his brother.

Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law,

that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jealous of

her husband.

Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, the sister of his

brother's wife; and the good old Ægeon, with his wife and sons, lived

at Ephesus many years. Nor did the unravelling of these perplexities

so entirely remove every ground of mistake for the future, but that

sometimes, to remind them of adventures past, comical blunders would

happen, and the one Antipholis, and the one Dromio, be mistaken for

the other, making altogether a pleasant and diverting Comedy of

Errors.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

(_By Mary Lamb_)

In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke of such a mild and

gentle temper, that he suffered his subjects to neglect the laws with

impunity; and there was in particular one law, the existence of which

was almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in force during

his whole reign. This was a law dooming any man to the punishment of

death, who should live with a woman that was not his wife; and this

law through the lenity of the duke being utterly disregarded, the holy

institution of marriage became neglected, and complaints were every

day made to the duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vienna,

that their daughters had been seduced from their protection, and were

living as the companions of single men.

The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among his

subjects; but he thought that a sudden change in himself from the

indulgence he had hitherto shewn, to the strict severity requisite to

check this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved him)

consider him as a tyrant: therefore he determined to absent himself a

while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise of his

power, that the law against these dishonourable lovers might be put

in effect, without giving offence by an unusual severity in his own

person.

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for his

strict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person to

undertake this important charge; and when the duke imparted his design

to lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said, "If any man in

Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, it is lord

Angelo." And now the duke departed from Vienna under pretence of

making a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the lord deputy

in his absence; but the duke's absence was only a feigned one, for he

privately returned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the intent to

watch unseen the conduct of the saintly-seeming Angelo.

It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with his new

dignity, that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a young

lady from her parents; and for this offence, by command of the new

lord deputy, Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, and by

virtue of the old law which had been so long neglected, Angelo

sentenced Claudio to be beheaded. Great interest was made for the

pardon of young Claudio, and the good old lord Escalus himself

interceded for him. "Alas," said he, "this gentleman whom I would

save had an honourable father, for whose sake I pray you pardon the

young man's transgression." But Angelo replied, "We must not make a

scare-crow of the law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey, till

custom, finding it harmless, makes it their perch, and not their

terror. Sir, he must die."

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the prison, and Claudio

said to him, "I pray you, Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my

sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent of Saint

Clare; acquaint her with the danger of my state; implore her that she

make friends with the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo. I

have great hopes in that; for she can discourse with prosperous art,

and well she can persuade; besides, there is a speechless dialect in

youthful sorrow, such as moves men."

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered upon

her noviciate in the convent, and it was her intent after passing

through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was

enquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they

heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious house,

said, "Peace be in this place!" "Who is it that speaks?" said Isabel.

"It is a man's voice," replied the nun: "Gentle Isabel, go to him, and

learn his business; you may, I may not. When you have taken the veil,

you must not speak with men but in the presence of the prioress; then

if you speak, you must not shew your face, or if you shew your face,

you must not speak." "And have you nuns no farther privileges?" said

Isabel. "Are not these large enough?" replied the nun. "Yes, truly,"

said Isabel: "I speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more

strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare."

Again they heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, "He calls

again. I pray you answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and

in answer to his salutation, said, "Peace and prosperity! Who is it

that calls?" Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said, "Hail,

virgin, if such you be, as the roses in your cheeks proclaim you are

no less! can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this

place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother Claudio?" "Why her

unhappy brother?" said Isabel, "let me ask: for I am that Isabel, and

his sister." "Fair and gentle lady," he replied, "your brother kindly

greets you by me; he is in prison." "Woe is me! for what?" said

Isabel. Lucio then told her, Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a

young maiden. "Ah," said she, "I fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet

and Isabel were not related, but they called each other cousin in

remembrance of their school-days friendship; and as Isabel knew that

Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been led by her affection for

him into this transgression. "She it is," replied Lucio. "Why then let

my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. Lucio replied, that Claudio

would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had sentenced him

to die for his offence; "Unless," said he, "you have the grace by your

fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my business between you and

your poor brother." "Alas," said Isabel, "what poor ability is there

in me to do him good? I doubt I have no power to move Angelo." "Our

doubts are traitors," said Lucio, "and make us lose the good we might

often win, by fearing to attempt it. Go to lord Angelo! When maidens

sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like gods." "I will see what I can

do," said Isabel: "I will but stay to give the prioress notice of the

affair, and then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother: soon

at night I will send him word of my success."

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on her knees before

Angelo, saying, "I am a woeful suitor to your honour, if it will

please your honour to hear me." "Well, what is your suit?" said

Angelo. She then made her petition in the most moving terms for her

brother's life. But Angelo said, "Maiden, there is no remedy: your

brother is sentenced, and he must die." "O just, but severe law," said

Isabel: "I had a brother then--Heaven keep your honour!" and she was

about to depart. But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said, "Give it

not over so; return to him again, intreat him, kneel down before him,

hang upon his gown. You are too cold; if you should need a pin, you

could not with a more tame tongue desire it." Then again Isabel on

her knees implored for mercy. "He is sentenced," said Angelo: "it is

too late." "Too late!" said Isabel: "Why, no; I that do speak a word

may call it back again. Believe this, my lord, no ceremony that to

great ones belongs, not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, the

marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becomes them with one half

so good a grace as mercy does." "Pray you begone," said Angelo. But

still Isabel intreated; and she said, "If my brother had been as you,

and you as he, you might have slipt like him, but he like you would

not have been so stern. I would to Heaven I had your power, and you

were Isabel. Should it then be thus? No, I would tell you what it

were to be a judge, and what a prisoner." "Be content, fair maid!"

said Angelo: "it is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my

kinsman, my brother, or my son, it should be thus with him. He must

die to-morrow." "To-morrow?" said Isabel; "Oh that is sudden: spare

him, spare him; he is not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens we

kill the fowl in season; shall we serve Heaven with less respect than

we minister to our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you, none

have died for my brother's offence, though many have committed it. So

you would be the first that gives this sentence, and he the first that

suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord; knock there, and ask your

heart what it does know that is like my brother's fault; if it confess

a natural guiltiness, as such as his is, let it not sound a thought

against my brother's life!" Her last words more moved Angelo than all

she had before said, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty

passion in his heart, and he began to form thoughts of dishonourable

love, such as Claudio's crime had been; and the conflict in his mind

made him to turn away from Isabel: but she called him back, saying,

"Gentle my lord, turn back; hark, how I will bribe you. Good my lord,

turn back!" "How, bribe me!" said Angelo, astonished that she should

think of offering him a bribe. "Aye," said Isabel, "with such gifts

that Heaven itself shall share with you; not with golden treasures, or

those glittering stones, whose price is either rich or poor as fancy

values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to Heaven before

sunrise--prayers from preserved souls, from fasting maids whose minds

are dedicated to nothing temporal." "Well, come to me to-morrow," said

Angelo. And for this short respite of her brother's life, and for this

permission that she might be heard again, she left him with the joyful

hope that she should at last prevail over his stern nature: and as she

went away, she said, "Heaven keep your honour safe! Heaven save your

honour!" Which when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, "Amen, I

would be saved from thee and from thy virtues:" and then, affrighted

at his own evil thoughts, he said, "What is this! What is this? Do I

love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her

eyes? What is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to catch a

saint, with saints does bait the hook. Never could an immodest woman

once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman subdues me quite. Even

till now, when men were fond, I smiled, and wondered at them."

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered more that night,

than the prisoner he had so severely sentenced; for in the prison

Claudio was visited by the good duke, who in his friar's habit

taught the young man the way to Heaven, preaching to him the words

of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of irresolute

guilt: now wishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence and

honour, and now suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet but

intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts prevailed; and he who

had so lately started at the offer of a bribe resolved to tempt this

maiden with so high a bribe, as she might not be able to resist, even

with the precious gift of her dear brother's life.

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be admitted

alone to his presence; and being there, he said to her, if she would

yield to him her virgin honour, and transgress even as Juliet had done

with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life: "for," said he,

"I love you, Isabel." "My brother," said Isabel, "did so love Juliet,

and yet you tell me he shall die for it." "But," said Angelo, "Claudio

shall not die, if you will consent to visit me by stealth at night,

even as Juliet left her father's house at night to come to Claudio."

Isabel in amazement at his words, that he should tempt her to the same

fault for which he passed sentence of death upon her brother, said,

"I would do as much for my poor brother as for myself; that is, were

I under sentence of death, the impression of keen whips I would wear

as rubies, and go to my death as to a bed that longing I had been sick

for, ere I would yield myself up to this shame." And then she told

him, she hoped he only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he

said, "Believe me on my honour, my words express my purpose." Isabel,

angered to the heart to hear him use the word Honour to express such

dishonourable purposes, said, "Ha! little honour, to be much believed;

and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for

it! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world

aloud what man thou art!" "Who will believe you, Isabel?" said Angelo:

"my unsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched against

yours, will outweigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding

to my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what you can,

my false will overweigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow."

"To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me?"

said Isabel, as she went towards the dreary prison where her brother

was confined. When she arrived there, her brother was in pious

conversation with the duke, who in his friar's habit had also visited

Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to a proper sense

of their fault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse

confessed, that she was more to blame than Claudio, in that she

willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations.

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said,

"Peace be here, Grace, and good company!" "Who is there?" said the

disguised duke: "come in; the wish deserves a welcome." "My business

is a word or two with Claudio," said Isabel. Then the duke left

them together, and desired the provost, who had the charge of the

prisoners, to place him where he might overhear their conversation.

"Now, sister, what is the comfort?" said Claudio. Isabel told him

he must prepare for death on the morrow. "Is there no remedy?" said

Claudio. "Yes, brother," replied Isabel, "there is; but such a one,

as if you consented to it would strip your honour from you, and leave

you naked." "Let me know the point," said Claudio. "O, I do fear you,

Claudio!" replied his sister; "and I quake, lest you should wish to

live, and more respect the trifling term of six or seven winters added

to your life, than your perpetual honour! Do you dare to die? The

sense of death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we

tread upon, feels a pang as great as when a giant dies." "Why do you

give me this shame?" said Claudio. "Think you I can fetch a resolution

from flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a

bride, and hug it in my arms." "There spoke my brother," said Isabel;

"there my father's grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must die;

yet, would you think it, Claudio! this outward-sainted deputy, if I

would yield to him my virgin honour, would grant your life. O, were

it but my life, I would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly

as a pin!" "Thanks, dear Isabel!" said Claudio. "Be ready to die

to-morrow," said Isabel. "Death is a fearful thing," said Claudio.

"And shamed life a hateful," replied his sister. But the thoughts of

death now overcame the constancy of Claudio's temper, and terrors,

such as the guilty only at their deaths do know, assailing him, he

cried out, "Sweet sister, let me live! The sin you do to save a

brother's life, nature dispenses with the deed so far, that it becomes

a virtue." "O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!" said Isabel:

"would you preserve your life by your sister's shame? O fie, fie, fie!

I thought, my brother, you had in you such a mind of honour, that had

you twenty heads to render up on twenty blocks, you would have yielded

them up all, before your sister should stoop to such dishonour." "Nay,

hear me, Isabel!" said Claudio. But what he would have said in defence

of his weakness, in desiring to live by the dishonour of his virtuous

sister, was interrupted by the entrance of the duke; who said,

"Claudio, I have overheard what has past between you and your sister.

Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; what he said, has only

been to make trial of her virtue. She having the truth of honour in

her, has given him that gracious denial which he is most glad to

receive. There is no hope that he will pardon you; therefore pass your

hours in prayer, and make ready for death." Then Claudio repented of

his weakness, and said, "Let me ask my sister's pardon! I am so out of

love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it." And Claudio retired,

overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault.

The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended her virtuous

resolution, saying, "The hand that made you fair, has made you good."

"O," said Isabel, "how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo!

if ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will discover his

government." Isabel knew not that she was even now making the

discovery she threatened. The duke replied, "That shall not be

much amiss; yet as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel your

accusation; therefore lend an attentive ear to my advisings. I believe

that you may most righteously do a poor wronged lady a merited

benefit, redeem your brother from the angry law, do no stain to

your own most gracious person, and much please the absent duke, if

peradventure he shall ever return to have notice of this business."

Isabel said, She had a spirit to do anything he desired, provided it

was nothing wrong. "Virtue is bold, and never fearful," said the duke:

and then he asked her, if she had ever heard of Mariana, the sister

of Frederick, the great soldier who was drowned at sea. "I have heard

of the lady," said Isabel, "and good words went with her name." "This

lady," said the duke, "is the wife of Angelo; but her marriage dowry

was on board the vessel in which her brother perished, and mark how

heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman! for, beside the loss of

a most noble and renowned brother, who in his love towards her was

ever most kind and natural, in the wreck of her fortune she lost the

affections of her husband, the well-seeming Angelo; who pretending to

discover some dishonour in this honourable lady (though the true cause

was the loss of her dowry) left her in her tears, and dried not one

of them with his comfort. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason

should have quenched her love, has, like an impediment in the current,

made it more unruly, and Mariana loves her cruel husband with the

full continuance of her first affection." The duke then more plainly

unfolded his plan. It was, that Isabel should go to lord Angelo, and

seemingly consent to come to him as he desired, at midnight; that by

this means she would obtain the promised pardon; and that Mariana

should go in her stead to the appointment, and pass herself upon

Angelo in the dark for Isabel. "Nor, gentle daughter," said the

feigned friar, "fear you to do this thing; Angelo is her husband,

and to bring them thus together is no sin." Isabel being pleased

with this project, departed to do as he directed her; and he went to

apprize Mariana of their intention. He had before this time visited

this unhappy lady in his assumed character, giving her religious

instruction and friendly consolation, at which times he had learned

her sad story from her own lips; and now she, looking upon him as a

holy man, readily consented to be directed by him in this undertaking.

When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo, to the house of

Mariana, where the duke had appointed her to meet him, he said, "Well

met, and in good time; what is the news from this good deputy?" Isabel

related the manner in which she had settled the affair. "Angelo," said

she, "has a garden surrounded with a brick wall, on the western side

of which is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate." And then she

shewed to the duke and Mariana two keys that Angelo had given her;

and she said, "This bigger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a

little door which leads from the vineyard to the garden. There I have

made my promise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and have

got from him his word of assurance for my brother's life. I have taken

a due and wary note of the place; and with whispering and most guilty

diligence he shewed me the way twice over." "Are there no other tokens

agreed upon between you, that Mariana must observe?" said the duke.

"No, none," said Isabel, "only to go when it is dark. I have told him

my time can be but short; for I have made him think a servant comes

along with me, and that this servant is persuaded I come about my

brother." The duke commended her discreet management, and she turning

to Mariana, said, "Little have you to say to Angelo, when you depart

from him, but soft and low _Remember now my brother!_"

Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed place by Isabel, who

rejoiced that she had, as she supposed, by this device preserved both

her brother's life and her own honour. But that her brother's life was

safe the duke was not so well satisfied, and therefore at midnight he

again repaired to the prison, and it was well for Claudio that he did

so, else would Claudio have that night been beheaded; for soon after

the duke entered the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy

commanding that Claudio should be beheaded, and his head sent to him

by five o'clock in the morning. But the duke persuaded the provost to

put off the execution of Claudio, and to deceive Angelo by sending him

the head of a man who died that morning in the prison. And to prevail

upon the provost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provost

suspected not to be any thing more or greater than he seemed, shewed

the provost a letter written with the duke's hand, and sealed with his

seal, which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must have

some secret order from the absent duke, and therefore he consented to

spare Claudio; and he cut off the dead man's head, and carried it to

Angelo.

Then the duke, in his own name, wrote to Angelo a letter, saying that

certain accidents had put a stop to his journey, and that he should be

in Vienna by the following morning, requiring Angelo to meet him at

the entrance of the city, there to deliver up his authority; and the

duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any of his subjects

craved redress for injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in

the street on his first entrance into the city.

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and the duke, who

there awaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell

her that Claudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel enquired if

Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother, he said, "Angelo has

released Claudio from this world. His head is off, and sent to the

deputy." The much-grieved sister cried out, "O unhappy Claudio,

wretched Isabel, injurious world, most wicked Angelo!" The seeming

friar bid her take comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he

acquainted her with the near prospect of the duke's return, and told

her in what manner she should proceed in preferring her complaint

against Angelo; and he bade her not to fear if the cause should seem

to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed,

he next went to Mariana, and gave her counsel in what manner she also

should act.

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his own royal

robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful subjects assembled to

greet his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by

Angelo, who delivered up his authority in the proper form. And there

came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and said,

"Justice, most royal duke! I am the sister of one Claudio, who for the

seducing a young maid was condemned to lose his head. I made my suit

to lord Angelo for my brother's pardon. It were needless to tell your

grace how I prayed and kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied;

for this was of much length. The vile conclusion I now begin with

grief and shame to utter. Angelo would not but by my yielding to his

dishonourable love release my brother; and after much debate within

myself, my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and I did yield to

him. But the next morning betimes Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent

a warrant for my poor brother's head!" The duke affected to disbelieve

her story; and Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, who had

suffered by the due course of the law, had disordered her senses. And

now another suitor approached, which was Mariana; and Mariana said,

"Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven, and truth from

breath, as there is sense in truth, and truth in virtue, I am this

man's wife, and, my good lord, the words of Isabel are false, for the

night she says she was with Angelo, I passed that night with him in

the garden-house. As this is true, let me in safety rise, or else for

ever be fixed here a marble monument." Then did Isabel appeal for the

truth of what she had said to friar Lodowick, that being the name the

duke had assumed in his disguise. Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed

his instructions in what they said, the duke intending that the

innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved in that public manner

before the whole city of Vienna; but Angelo little thought that it was

from such a cause that they thus differed in their story, and he hoped

from their contradictory evidence to be able to clear himself from

the accusation of Isabel; and he said, assuming a look of offended

innocence, "I did but smile till now; but, good my lord, my patience

here is touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women are but

the instruments of some greater one, who sets them on. Let me have

way, my lord, to find this practice out." "Aye, with all my heart,"

said the duke, "and punish them to the height of your pleasure. You,

lord Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend him your pains to discover

this abuse; the friar is sent for that set them on, and when he comes,

do with your injuries as may seem best in any chastisement. I for a

while will leave you, but stir not you, lord Angelo, till you have

well determined upon this slander." The duke then went away, leaving

Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge and umpire in his own cause.

But the duke was absent only while he threw off his royal robes and

put on his friar's habit; and in that disguise again he presented

himself before Angelo and Escalus: and the good old Escalus, who

thought Angelo had been falsely accused, said to the supposed friar,

"Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander lord Angelo?" He

replied, "Where is the duke? It is he should hear me speak." Escalus

said, "The duke is in us, and we will hear you. Speak justly." "Boldly

at least," retorted the friar; and then he blamed the duke for leaving

the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she had accused, and spoke so

freely of many corrupt practices he had observed, while, as he said,

he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus threatened him with

the torture for speaking words against the state, and for censuring

the conduct of the duke, and ordered him to be taken away to prison.

Then, to the amazement of all present, and to the utter confusion of

Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his disguise, and they saw it was

the duke himself.

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her, "Come hither, Isabel.

Your friar is now your prince, but with my habit I have not changed my

heart. I am still devoted to your service." "O give me pardon," said

Isabel, "that I, your vassal, have employed and troubled your unknown

sovereignty." He answered that he had most need of forgiveness from

her, for not having prevented the death of her brother--for not yet

would he tell her that Claudio was living; meaning first to make

a farther trial of her goodness. Angelo now knew the duke had

been a secret witness of his bad deeds, and he said, "O my dread

lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, to think I can be

undiscernible, when I perceive your grace, like power divine, has

looked upon my actions. Then, good prince, no longer prolong my shame,

but let my trial be my own confession. Immediate sentence and death

is all the grace I beg." The duke replied, "Angelo, thy faults are

manifest. We do condemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped

to death; and with like haste away with him; and for his possessions,

Mariana, we do enstate and widow you withal, to buy you a better

husband." "O my dear lord," said Mariana, "I crave no other, nor no

better man;" and then on her knees, even as Isabel had begged the

life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful husband beg the

life of Angelo; and she said, "Gentle my liege, O good my lord! Sweet

Isabel, take my part! Lend me your knees, and all my life to come

I will lend you, all my life, to do you service!" The duke said,

"Against all sense you importune her. Should Isabel kneel down to beg

for mercy, her brother's ghost would break his paved bed, and take her

hence in horror." Still Mariana said, "Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but

kneel by me, hold up your hand, say nothing! I will speak all. They

say, best men are moulded out of faults, and for the most part become

much the better for being a little bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel,

will you not lend a knee?" The duke then said, "He dies for Claudio."

But much pleased was the good duke, when his own Isabel, from whom he

expected all gracious and honourable acts, kneeled down before him,

and said, "Most bounteous sir, look, if it please you, on this man

condemned, as if my brother lived. I partly think a due sincerity

governed his deeds, till he did look on me. Since it is so, let him

not die! My brother had but justice, in that he did the thing for

which he died."

The duke, as the best reply he could make to this noble petitioner for

her enemy's life, sending for Claudio from his prison-house, where he

lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this lamented brother

living; and he said to Isabel, "Give me your hand, Isabel; for your

lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, and he shall be my

brother too." By this time lord Angelo perceived he was safe; and the

duke observing his eye to brighten up a little, said, "Well, Angelo,

look that you love your wife; her worth has obtained your pardon: joy

to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo! I have confessed her, and know her

virtue." Angelo remembered, when drest in a little brief authority,

how hard his heart had been, and felt how sweet is mercy.

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and offered himself again

to the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble conduct had won

her prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to

marry; and the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a

humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her, made her with

grateful joy accept the honour he offered her; and when she became

duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the virtuous Isabel worked

such a complete reformation among the young ladies of that city, that

from that time none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, the

repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke

long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of

princes.

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

(_By Mary Lamb_)

Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady of

Messaline, were twins, and (which was accounted a great wonder) from

their birth they so much resembled each other, that, but for the

difference in their dress, they could not be known apart. They were

both born in one hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of

perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria as they

were making a sea-voyage together. The ship, on board of which they

were, split on a rock in a violent storm, and a very small number

of the ship's company escaped with their lives. The captain of the

vessel, with a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a

small boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore, where

she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own deliverance, began

to lament her brother's loss; but the captain comforted her with the

assurance, that he had seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten

himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as he could see any thing

of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above the waves.

Viola was much consoled by the hope this account gave her, and now

considered how she was to dispose of herself in a strange country,

so far from home; and she asked the captain if he knew any thing of

Illyria. "Aye, very well, madam," replied the captain, "for I was born

not three hours' travel from this place." "Who governs here?" said

Viola. The captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke

noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard her

father speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. "And he is so

now," said the captain; "or was so very lately, for but a month ago

I went from here, and then it was the general talk (as you know what

great ones do the people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love

of fair Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who died

twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection of her brother,

who shortly after died also; and for the love of this dear brother,

they say, she has abjured the sight and company of men." Viola, who

was herself in such a sad affliction for her brother's loss, wished

she could live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's

death. She asked the captain if he could introduce her to Olivia,

saying she would willingly serve this lady. But he replied, this would

be a hard thing to accomplish, because the lady Olivia would admit no

person into her house since her brother's death, not even the duke

himself. Then Viola formed another project in her mind, which was, in

a man's habit to serve the duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange

fancy in a young lady to put on male attire, and pass for a boy;

but the forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was young and of

uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse.

She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he

shewed a friendly concern for her welfare, intrusted him with her

design, and he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money,

and directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her

clothes to be made of the same colour and in the same fashion her

brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was dressed in her manly

garb, she looked so exactly like her brother, that some strange errors

happened by means of their being mistaken for each other; for, as will

afterwards appear, Sebastian was also saved.

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had transformed this

pretty lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her

presented to Orsino under the feigned name of Cesario. The duke was

wonderfully pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this

handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that being the

office Viola wished to obtain: and she so well fulfilled the duties

of her new station, and shewed such a ready observance and faithful

attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most favoured

attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love

for the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit

he had made to one, who, rejecting his long services, and despising

his person, refused to admit him to her presence; and for the love

of this lady who had so unkindly treated him, the noble Orsino,

forsaking the sports of the field, and all manly exercises in which

he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening to

the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate

love-songs; and neglecting the company of the wise and learned lords

with whom he used to associate, he was now all day long conversing

with young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave courtiers

thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the great duke

Orsino.

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidants of

handsome young dukes; which Viola too soon found to her sorrow,

for all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she presently

perceived she suffered for the love of him: and much it moved her

wonder, that Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless lord

and master, whom she thought no one should behold without the deepest

admiration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino that it was pity

he should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities; and

she said, "If a lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia

(and perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not love her in

return, would you not tell her that you could not love, and must not

she be content with this answer?" But Orsino would not admit of this

reasoning, for he denied that it was possible for any woman to love as

he did. He said, no woman's heart was big enough to hold so much love,

and therefore it was unfair to compare the love of any lady for him,

to his love for Olivia. Now though Viola had the utmost deference for

the duke's opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite

true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in it as

Orsino's had; and she said, "Ah, but I know, my lord."--"What do you

know, Cesario?" said Orsino. "Too well I know," replied Viola, "what

love women may owe to men. They are as true of heart as we are. My

father had a daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a woman,

should love your lordship." "And what is her history?" said Orsino.

"A blank, my lord," replied Viola: "she never told her love, but let

concealment, like a worm in the bud, prey on her damask cheek. She

pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat

like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief." The duke enquired if

this lady died of her love, but to this question Viola returned an

evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the story, to speak words

expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for

Orsino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent to

Olivia, and he said, "So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted

to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer: Until

seven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face; but

like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her

tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother." On hearing this,

the duke exclaimed, "O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay

this debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the rich

golden shaft has touched her heart!" And then he said to Viola, "You

know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore,

good youth, go to Olivia's house. Be not denied access; stand at her

doors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you have

audience." "And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then?" said Viola.

"O then," replied Orsino, "unfold to her the passion of my love. Make

a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well become you to

act my woes, for she will attend more to you than to one of graver

aspect."

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this

courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she

wished to marry: but having undertaken the affair, she performed it

with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who

insisted upon being admitted to her presence. "I told him," said the

servant, "that you were sick: he said he knew you were, and therefore

he came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep; he seemed

to have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he

must speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems

fortified against all denial, and will speak with you, whether you

will or no." Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger

might be, desired he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her

face, she said she would once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting

but that he came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola entering,

put on the most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine

courtier's language of great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady,

"Most radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if

you are the lady of the house; for I should be sorry to cast away my

speech upon another; for besides that it is excellently well penned,

I have taken great pains to learn it." "Whence come you, sir?" said

Olivia. "I can say little more than I have studied," replied Viola;

"and that question is out of my part." "Are you a comedian?" said

Olivia. "No," replied Viola; "and yet I am not that which I play;"

meaning, that she being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And

again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said

she was; and then Viola, having more curiosity to see her rival's

features than haste to deliver her master's message, said, "Good

madam, let me see your face." With this bold request Olivia was not

averse to comply; for this haughty beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had

loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the

supposed page, the humble Cesario.

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, "Have you any

commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face?" And

then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years,

she drew aside her veil, saying, "But I will draw the curtain and shew

the picture. Is it not well done?" Viola replied, "It is beauty truly

mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature's own cunning

hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead

these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy." "O sir,"

replied Olivia, "I will not be so cruel. The world may have an

inventory of my beauty. As, _item_, two lips, indifferent red; _item_,

two grey eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin, and so forth.

Were you sent here to praise me?" Viola replied, "I see you what you

are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves

you. O such a love could but be recompensed, though you were crowned

the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with adoration and with

tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire." "Your lord,"

said Olivia, "knows well my mind. I cannot love him; yet I doubt not

he is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh

and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and

valiant; yet I cannot love him, he might have taken his answer long

ago." "If I did love you as my master does," said Viola, "I would make

me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name. I would

write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the

night; your name should sound among the hills, and I would make Echo,

the babbling gossip of the air, cry out _Olivia_. O you should not

rest between the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me."

"You might do much," said Olivia: "what is your parentage?" Viola

replied, "Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman."

Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, "Go to your master,

and tell him, I cannot love him. Let him send no more, unless

perchance you come again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola

departed, bidding the lady farewel by the name of Fair Cruelty. When

she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, _Above my fortunes, yet my

state is well. I am a gentleman_. And she said aloud, "I will be sworn

he is; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly

shew he is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was the duke; and

perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed

herself for her sudden love: but the gentle blame which people lay

upon their own faults has no deep root: and presently the noble lady

Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of

this seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which is the chief

ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to court the love of

young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under

the pretence that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino.

She hoped, by thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she

should give him some intimation of her design; and truly it did make

Viola suspect; for knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she

began to recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were expressive of

admiration, and she presently guessed her master's mistress had fallen

in love with her. "Alas," said she, "the poor lady might as well love

a dream. Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe

as fruitless sighs for me, as I do for Orsino."

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the ill

success of the negociation, repeating the command of Olivia, that

the duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in

hoping that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her

to shew some pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to her again

the next day. In the mean time, to pass away the tedious interval,

he commanded a song which he loved to be sung; and he said, "My good

Cesario, when I heard that song last night, methought it did relieve

my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters

and the knitters when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that

weave their thread with bone, chaunt this song. It is silly, yet I

love it, for it tells of the innocence of love in the old times."

SONG

Come away, come away, Death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath,

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it,

My part of death no one so true did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown:

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.

A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where

Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there.

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such

true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore

testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her

sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, "My life upon it,

Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face

that it loves; has it not, boy?" "A little, with your leave," replied

Viola. "And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?" said Orsino.

"Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola; which made

the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older

than himself, and of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant

Orsino, and not a woman like him.

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty

in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies

delight to converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant

Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page

was shewn into Olivia's apartment with great respect; and when Viola

told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf,

this lady said, "I desired you never to speak of him again; but if

you would undertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than

music from the spheres." This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia

soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her

love; and when she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in

Viola's face, she said, "O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the

contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by

maidhood, honour, and by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your

pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal my passion." But in

vain the lady wooed; Viola hastened from her presence, threatening

never more to come to plead Orsino's love; and all the reply she made

to Olivia's fond solicitation was, a declaration of a resolution

_Never to love any woman_.

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her

valour. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how

that lady had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight

a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a manlike

outside, had a true woman's heart, and feared to look on her own

sword!

When she saw her formidable rival advancing towards her with his sword

drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman; but

she was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a

discovery, by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and

as if he had been long known to her, and were her dearest friend, said

to her opponent, "If this young gentleman has done offence, I will

take the fault on me; and if you offend him, I will for his sake defy

you." Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to

enquire the reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with

an enemy where his bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of

justice coming up in that instant, apprehended the stranger in the

duke's name to answer for an offence he had committed some years

before; and he said to Viola, "This comes with seeking you:" and then

he asked her for a purse, saying, "Now my necessity makes me ask for

my purse, and it grieves me much more for what I cannot do for you,

than for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort."

His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him not,

nor had ever received a purse from him; but for the kindness he had

just shewn her, she offered him a small sum of money, being nearly

the whole she possessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things,

charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He said, "This youth,

whom you see here, I snatched from the jaws of death, and for his

sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this danger." But

the officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints of their

prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, "What is that to us?" And

as he was carried away, he called Viola by the name of Sebastian,

reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as long

as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian,

though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an

explanation, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise

from her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to cherish

hopes that it was her brother whose life this man said he had

preserved. And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was

Anthonio, was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship,

when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast

to which he had fastened himself in the storm. Anthonio conceived

such a friendship for Sebastian, that he resolved to accompany him

whithersoever he went; and when the youth expressed a curiosity to

visit Orsino's court, Anthonio, rather than part from him, came to

Illyria, though he knew, if his person should be known there, his life

would be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously

wounded the duke Orsino's nephew. This was the offence for which he

was now made a prisoner.

Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before

Anthonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him

to use it freely if he saw any thing he wished to purchase, telling

him he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town:

but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, Anthonio had

ventured out to look for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in

face so exactly resembling her brother, Anthonio drew his sword (as he

thought) in defence of the youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as

he supposed) disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he

accused him of ingratitude.

Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight,

slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone, when her

adversary thought he saw her return; but it was her brother Sebastian

who happened to arrive at this place, and he said, "Now, sir, have I

met with you again? There's for you;" and struck him a blow. Sebastian

was no coward; he returned the blow with interest, and drew his sword.

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house,

and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into

her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with.

Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as

at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into

the house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought

him) become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features

were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be

seen in his face, which she had complained of when she told her love

to Cesario.

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the lady lavished on

him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it

had come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not

in her right senses; but perceiving that she was mistress of a fine

house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her

family discreetly, and that in all but her sudden love for him she

appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well approved of the

courtship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing

he might change his mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the

house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian assented to this

proposal; and when the marriage-ceremony was over, he left his lady

for a short time, intending to go and tell his friend Anthonio the

good fortune that he had met with. In the mean time Orsino came to

visit Olivia; and at the moment he arrived before Olivia's house, the

officers of justice brought their prisoner, Anthonio, before the duke.

Viola was with Orsino, her master; and when Anthonio saw Viola, whom

he still imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he

had rescued this youth from the perils of the sea; and after fully

relating all the kindness he had really shewn to Sebastian, he ended

his complaint by saying, that for three months, both day and night,

this ungrateful youth had been with him. But now the lady Olivia

coming forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend to

Anthonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the countess: now Heaven

walks on earth! but for thee, fellow, thy words are madness. Three

months has this youth attended on me:" and then he ordered Anthonio

to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly countess soon gave the duke

cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as Anthonio had done,

for all the words he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness

to Cesario: and when he found his page had obtained this high place

in Olivia's favour, he threatened him with all the terrors of his just

revenge; and as he was going to depart, he called Viola to follow

him, saying, "Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for mischief."

Though it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to

instant death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, and she said

she would most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But

Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she cried, "Where goes my

Cesario?" Viola replied, "After him I love more than my life." Olivia

however prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario

was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that not two

hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia to this young

man. In vain Viola protested she was not married to Olivia; the

evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino believe that his page

had robbed him of the treasure he prized above his life. But thinking

that it was past recall, he was bidding farewel to his faithless

mistress, and the _young dissembler_, her husband, as he called Viola,

warning her never to come in his sight again, when (as it seemed to

them) a miracle appeared! for another Cesario entered, and addressed

Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband

of Olivia; and when their wonder had a little ceased at seeing two

persons with the same face, the same voice, and the same habit, the

brother and sister began to question each other; for Viola could

scarce be persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebastian knew

not how to account for the sister he supposed drowned being found in

the habit of a young man. But Viola presently acknowledged that she

was indeed Viola and his sister, under that disguise.

When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between

this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady

Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with

a woman; and Olivia shewed no dislike to her exchange, when she found

she had wedded the brother instead of the sister.

The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by this marriage of

Olivia, and with his hopes, all his fruitless love seemed to vanish

away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite,

young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with

great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always

thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in

a woman's attire; and then he remembered how often she had said _she

loved him_, which at the time seemed only the dutiful expression of a

faithful page, but now he guessed that something more was meant, for

many of her pretty sayings, which were like riddles to him, came now

into his mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things than he

resolved to make Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could

not help calling her _Cesario_ and _boy_), "Boy, you have said to me a

thousand times that you should never love a woman like to me, and for

the faithful service you have done for me so much beneath your soft

and tender breeding, and since you have called me master so long, you

shall now be your master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess."

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had

so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house,

and offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her

to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the

remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother

and sister were both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck,

which had separated them, being the means of bringing to pass their

high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the duke of

Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the

lady Olivia.

TIMON OF ATHENS

(_By Charles Lamb_)

Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely fortune,

affected a humour of liberality which knew no limits. His almost

infinite wealth could not flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster

upon all sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of his

bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank themselves among

his dependants and followers. His table was resorted to by all the

luxurious feasters, and his house was open to all comers and goers at

Athens. His large wealth combined with his free and prodigal nature

to subdue all hearts to his love; men of all minds and dispositions

tendered their services to lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer,

whose face reflects as in a mirror the present humour of his patron,

to the rough and unbending cynic, who affecting a contempt of men's

persons, and an indifference to worldly things, yet could not

stand out against the gracious manners and munificent soul of lord

Timon, but would come (against his nature) to partake of his royal

entertainments, and return most rich in his own estimation if he had

received a nod or a salutation from Timon.

If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory

introduction to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it to

lord Timon, and the poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse

from the patron, and daily access to his house and table. If a painter

had a picture to dispose of, he had only to take it to lord Timon, and

pretend to consult his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more was

wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller

had a stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their

costliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon's house was a ready mart

always open, where they might get off their wares or their jewellery

at any price, and the good natured lord would thank them into the

bargain, as if they had done him a piece of courtesy in letting him

have the refusal of such precious commodities. So that by this means

his house was thronged with superfluous purchases, of no use but to

swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp; and his person was still more

inconveniently beset with a crowd of these idle visitors, lying poets,

painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and

expectants, who continually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome

flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation

as to a God, making sacred the very stirrup by which he mounted his

horse, and seeming as though they drank the free air but through his

permission and bounty.

Some of these daily dependents were young men of birth, who (their

means not answering to their extravagance) had been put in prison by

creditors, and redeemed thence by lord Timon; these young prodigals

thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if by common sympathy he

were necessarily endeared to all such spendthrifts and loose livers,

who not being able to follow him in his wealth, found it easier to

copy him in prodigality and copious spending of what was not their

own. One of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, for whose debts unjustly

contracted Timon but lately had paid down the sum of five talents.

But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were

more conspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It

was fortunate for these men, if Timon took a fancy to a dog, or a

horse, or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The thing

so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be sent the next morning

with the compliments of the giver for lord Timon's acceptance, and

apologies for the unworthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, or

whatever it might be, did not fail to produce, from Timon's bounty,

who would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses,

certainly presents of far richer worth, as these pretended donors knew

well enough, and that their false presents were but the putting out of

so much money at large and speedy interest. In this way lord Lucius

had lately sent to Timon a present of four milk-white horses trapped

in silver, which this cunning lord had observed Timon upon some

occasion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus, had bestowed upon him

in the same pretended way of free gift a brace of greyhounds, whose

make and fleetness Timon had been heard to admire; these presents the

easy-hearted lord accepted without suspicion of the dishonest views of

the presenters: and the givers of course were rewarded with some rich

return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty times the value of their

false and mercenary donation.

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct way, and

with gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was

too blind to see, would affect to admire and praise something that

Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase,

which was sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift

of the thing commended, for no service in the world done for it but

the easy expence of a little cheap and obvious flattery. In this way

Timon but the other day had given to one of these mean lords the bay

courser which he himself rode upon, because his lordship had been

pleased to say that it was a handsome beast and went well; and Timon

knew that no man ever justly praised what he did not wish to possess.

For lord Timon weighed his friends' affection with his own, and so

fond was he of bestowing, that he could have dealt kingdoms to these

supposed friends, and never have been weary.

Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these wicked flatterers;

he could do noble and praise-worthy actions; and when a servant of

his once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope

to obtain her by reason that in wealth and rank the maid was so far

above him, lord Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three Athenian

talents, to make his fortune equal with the dowry which the father of

the young maid demanded of him who should be her husband. But for the

most part, knaves and parasites had the command of his fortune, false

friends whom he did not know to be such, but, because they flocked

around his person, he thought they must needs love him; and because

they smiled, and flattered him, he thought surely that his conduct was

approved by all the wise and good. And when he was feasting in the

midst of all these flatterers and mock friends, when they were eating

him up, and draining his fortunes dry with large draughts of richest

wines drunk to his health and prosperity, he could not perceive the

difference of a friend from a flatterer, but to his deluded eyes (made

proud with the sight) it seemed a precious comfort to have so many,

like brothers commanding one another's fortunes (though it was his own

fortune which paid all the cost), and with joy they would run over

at the spectacle of such, as it appeared to him, truly festive and

fraternal meeting.

But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured out

his bounty, as if Plutus, the god of gold, had been but his steward;

while thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of expence

that he would neither enquire how he could maintain it, nor cease his

wild flow of riot; his riches, which were not infinite, must needs

melt away before a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should

tell him so? his flatterers? they had an interest in shutting his

eyes. In vain did his honest steward Flavius try to represent to him

his condition, laying his accounts before him, begging of him, praying

of him, with an importunity that on any other occasion would have been

unmannerly in a servant, beseeching him with tears, to look into the

state of his affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the

discourse to something else; for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance

as riches turned to poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its

situation, nothing so incredulous to its own true state, and hard to

give credit to a reverse. Often had this good steward, this honest

creature, when all the rooms of Timon's great house have been choked

up with riotous feeders at his master's cost, when the floors have

wept with drunken spilling of wine, and every apartment has blazed

with lights and resounded with music and feasting, often had he

retired by himself to some solitary spot, and wept faster than the

wine ran from the wasteful casks within, to see the mad bounty of his

lord, and to think, when the means were gone which bought him praises

from all sorts of people, how quickly the breath would be gone of

which the praise was made; praises won in feasting would be lost

in fasting, and at one cloud of winter-showers these flies would

disappear.

But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no longer to

the representations of this faithful steward. Money must be had; and

when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose,

Flavius informed him, what he had in vain endeavoured at several times

before to make him listen to, that most of his land was already sold

or forfeited, and that all he possessed at present was not enough

to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with wonder at this

presentation, Timon hastily replied, "My lands extended from Athens to

Lacedemon." "O my good lord," said Flavius, "the world is but a world,

and has bounds; were it all yours to give in a breath, how quickly

were it gone!" Timon consoled himself that no villainous bounty had

yet come from him, that if he had given his wealth away unwisely it

had not been bestowed to feed his vices, but to cherish his friends;

and he bade the kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take comfort

in the assurance that his master could never lack means, while he had

so many noble friends; and this infatuated lord persuaded himself

that he had nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every man's

fortune (that had ever tasted his bounty) in this extremity, as freely

as his own. Then with a cheerful look, as if confident of the trial,

he severally dispatched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords Lucullus

and Sempronius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts in past times

without measure or moderation; and to Ventidius, whom he had lately

released out of prison by paying his debts, and who by the death of

his father was now come into the possession of an ample fortune, and

well enabled to requite Timon's courtesy; to request of Ventidius the

return of those five talents which he had paid for him, and of each

of those noble lords the loan of fifty talents: nothing doubting that

their gratitude would supply his wants (if he needed it) to the amount

of five hundred times fifty talents.

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been dreaming

over-night of a silver bason and cup, and when Timon's servant was

announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely a

making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent him such a present:

but when he understood the truth of the matter, and that Timon wanted

money, the quality of his faint and watery friendship shewed itself,

for with many protestations he vowed to the servant that he had long

foreseen the ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time had he come

to dinner, to tell him of it, and had come again to supper, to try to

persuade him to spend less, but he would take no counsel nor warning

by his coming: and true it was that he had been a constant attender

(as he said) at Timon's feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his

bounty, but that he ever came with that intent, or gave good counsel

or reproof to Timon, was a base unworthy lie, which he suitably

followed up with meanly offering the servant a bribe, to go home to

his master and tell him that he had not found Lucullus at home.

As little success had the messenger who was sent to lord Lucius. This

lying lord, who was full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost to

bursting with Timon's costly presents, when he found the wind changed,

and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stopt, at first could

hardly believe it; but on its being confirmed, he affected great

regret that he should not have it in his power to serve lord Timon,

for unfortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made a great

purchase the day before, which had quite disfurnished him of the means

at present; the more beast he, he called himself, to put it out of his

power to serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of his greatest

afflictions that his ability should fail him to pleasure such an

honourable gentleman.

Who can call any man friend that dips in the same dish with him? just

of this metal is every flatterer. In the recollection of every body

Timon had been a father to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with

his purse; Timon's money had gone to pay the wages of his servants, to

pay the hire of the labourers who had sweat to build the fine houses

which Lucius's pride had made necessary to him: yet, oh! the monster

which man makes himself when he proves ungrateful! this Lucius now

denied to Timon a sum, which, in respect of what Timon had bestowed on

him, was less than charitable men afford to beggars.

Sempronius and every one of these mercenary lords to whom Timon

applied in their turn, returned the same evasive answer or direct

denial; even Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused

to assist him with those five talents which Timon had not lent but

generously given him in his distress.

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty, as he had been courted

and resorted to in his riches. Now the same tongues which had been

loudest in his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and

open-handed, were not ashamed to censure that very bounty as folly,

that liberality as profuseness, though it had shewn itself folly in

nothing so truly as in the selection of such unworthy creatures as

themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's princely mansion forsaken,

and become a shunned and hated place, a place for men to pass by,

not a place as formerly where every passenger must stop and taste of

his wine and good cheer; now instead of being thronged with feasting

and tumultuous guests, it was beset with impatient and clamorous

creditors, usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in their

demands, pleading bonds, interest, mortgages, iron-hearted men that

would take no denial nor putting off, that Timon's house was now

his jail, where he could not pass, nor go in nor out for them; one

demanding his due of fifty talents, another bringing in a bill of five

thousand crowns, which if he would tell out his blood by drops, and

pay them so, he had not enough in his body to discharge, drop by drop.

In this desperate and irremediable state (as it seemed) of his

affairs, the eyes of all men were suddenly surprised at a new and

incredible lustre which this setting sun put forth. Once more lord

Timon proclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests,

lords, ladies, all that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lords

Lucius and Lucullus came, Ventidius, Sempronius, and the rest. Who

more sorry now than these fawning wretches, when they found (as they

thought) that lord Timon's poverty was all pretence, and had been

only put on to make trial of their loves, to think that they should

not have seen through the artifice at the time, and have had the

cheap credit of obliging his lordship? yet who more glad to find the

fountain of that noble bounty, which they had thought dried up, still

fresh and running? They came dissembling, protesting, expressing

deepest sorrow and shame, that when his lordship sent to them, they

should have been so unfortunate as to want the present means to oblige

so honourable a friend. But Timon begged them not to give such trifles

a thought, for he had altogether forgotten it. And these base fawning

lords, though they had denied him money in his adversity, yet

could not refuse their presence at this new blaze of his returning

prosperity. For the swallow follows not summer more willingly than men

of these dispositions follow the good fortunes of the great, nor more

willingly leaves winter than these shrink from the first appearance

of a reverse; such summer-birds are men. But now with music and state

the banquet of smoking dishes was served up; and when the guests had

a little done admiring whence the bankrupt Timon could find means to

furnish so costly a feast, some doubting whether the scene which they

saw was real, as scarce trusting their own eyes; at a signal given,

the dishes were uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared: instead of

those varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected, that

Timon's epicurean table in past times had so liberally presented, now

appeared under the covers of these dishes a preparation more suitable

to Timon's poverty, nothing but a little smoke and luke-warm water,

fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, whose professions were

indeed smoke, and their hearts luke-warm and slippery as the water,

with which Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them,

"Uncover, dogs, and lap;" and before they could recover their

surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they might have enough,

and throwing dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling out,

lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid

confusion, Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they were,

"Smooth, smiling parasites, destroyers under the mask of courtesy,

affable wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, feast-friends,

time-flies." They, crowding out to avoid him, left the house more

willingly than they had entered it; some losing their gowns and caps,

and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the

presence of such a mad lord, and the ridicule of his mock banquet.

This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he took

farewell of Athens and the society of men; for, after that, he betook

himself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated city and upon

all mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city might sink, and

the houses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which infest

humanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon its

inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound all Athenians, both

young and old, high and low; so wishing, he went to the woods, where

he said he should find the unkindest beast much kinder than those of

his own species. He stripped himself naked, that he might retain no

fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived solitary in the

manner of a beast, eating the wild roots, and drinking water, flying

from the face of his kind, and choosing rather to herd with wild

beasts, as more harmless and friendly than man.

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord Timon the delight of

mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the manhater! Where were his

flatterers now? Where were his attendants and retinue? Would the bleak

air, that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his shirt on

warm? Would those stiff trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn young

and airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade them? Would

the cool brook, when it was iced with winter, administer to him his

warm broths and caudles when sick of an over-night's surfeit? Or would

the creatures that lived in those wild woods, come and lick his hand,

and flatter him?

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, his poor sustenance, his

spade struck against something heavy, which proved to be gold, a great

heap which some miser had probably buried in a time of alarm, thinking

to have come again and taken it from its prison, but died before

the opportunity had arrived, without making any man privy to the

concealment; so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, in the bowels of

the earth, its mother, as if it had never come from thence, till the

accidental striking of Timon's spade against it once more brought it

to light.

Here was a mass of treasure which if Timon had retained his old mind,

was enough to have purchased him friends and flatterers again; but

Timon was sick of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonous

to his eyes; and he would have restored it to the earth, but that,

thinking of the infinite calamities which by means of gold happen to

mankind, how the lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice,

briberies, violence and murder, among men, he had a pleasure in

imagining (such a rooted hatred did he bear to his species) that out

of this heap which in digging he had discovered, might arise some

mischief to plague mankind. And some soldiers passing through the

woods near to his cave at that instant, which proved to be a part of

the troops of the Athenian captain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust

taken against the senators of Athens (the Athenians were ever noted to

be a thankless and ungrateful people, giving disgust to their generals

and best friends), was marching at the head of the same triumphant

army which he had formerly headed in their defence, to war against

them; Timon, who liked their business well, bestowed upon their

captain the gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no other service from

him, than that he should with his conquering army lay Athens level

with the ground, and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants; not sparing

the old men for their white beards, for (he said) they were usurers,

nor the young children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those

(he said) would live, if they grew up, to be traitors; but to steel

his eyes and ears against any sights or sounds that might awaken

compassion; and not to let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers,

hinder him from making one universal massacre of the city, but to

confound them all in his conquest; and when he had conquered, he

prayed that the gods would confound him also, the conqueror: so

thoroughly did Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind.

While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life more brutal than

human, he was suddenly surprised one day with the appearance of a

man standing in an admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was

Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous affection to his

master had led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling, and to offer

his services! and the first sight of his master, the once noble Timon,

in that abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the manner

of a beast among beasts, looking like his own sad ruins and a monument

of decay, so affected this good servant, that he stood speechless,

wrapt up in horror, and confounded. And when he found utterance at

last to his words, they were so choaked with tears, that Timon had

much ado to know him again, or to make out who it was that had come

(so contrary to the experience he had had of mankind) to offer him

service in extremity. And being in the form and shape of a man, he

suspected him for a traitor, and his tears for false; but the good

servant by so many tokens confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and

made it clear that nothing but love and zealous duty to his once dear

master had brought him there, that Timon was forced to confess that

the world contained one honest man; yet, being in the shape and form

of a man, he could not look upon his man's face without abhorrence,

or hear words uttered from his man's lips without loathing; and this

singly honest man was forced to depart, because he was a man, and

because, with a heart more gentle and compassionate than is usual to

man, he bore man's detested form and outward feature.

But greater visitants than a poor steward were about to interrupt the

savage quiet of Timon's solitude. For now the day was come when the

ungrateful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice which they

had done to the noble Timon. For Alcibiades, like an incensed wild

boar, was raging at the walls of their city, and with his hot siege

threatened to lay fair Athens in the dust. And now the memory of lord

Timon's former prowess and military conduct came fresh into their

forgetful minds, for Timon had been their general in past times, and

was a valiant and expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was

deemed able to cope with a besieging army, such as then threatened

them, or to drive back the furious approaches of Alcibiades.

A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emergency to wait upon

Timon. To him they come in their extremity, to whom, when he was in

extremity, they had shewn but small regard; as if they presumed upon

his gratitude whom they had disobliged, and had derived a claim to his

courtesy from their own most discourteous and unpiteous treatment.

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with tears, to return and

save that city, from which their ingratitude had so lately driven

him; now they offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for

past injuries, and public honours and the public love; their persons,

lives, and fortunes, to be at his disposal, if he will but come back

and save them. But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longer

lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour, their defence

in war, their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed his countrymen,

Timon cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men and

her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them; and that there

was not a knife in the unruly camp which he did not prize above the

reverendest throat in Athens.

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping disappointed

senators; only at parting, he bade them commend him to his countrymen,

and tell them, that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and to

prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, there was yet a

way left, which he would teach them, for he had yet so much affection

left for his dear countrymen as to be willing to do them a kindness

before his death. These words a little revived the senators, who hoped

that his kindness for their city was returning. Then Timon told them

that he had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should shortly

have occasion to cut down, and he invited all his friends in Athens,

high or low, of what degree soever, who wished to shun affliction, to

come and take a taste of his tree before he cut it down; meaning, that

they might come and hang themselves on it, and escape affliction that

way.

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble bounties, which Timon

shewed to mankind, and this the last sight of him which his countrymen

had: for not many days after, a poor soldier, passing by the

sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the woods which Timon

frequented, found a tomb on the verge of the sea, with an inscription

upon it, purporting that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater, who

"While he lived, did hate all living men, and dying, wished a plague

might consume all caitiffs left!"

Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste

of life and the loathing he had for mankind brought Timon to his

conclusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his

epitaph, and the consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, a

hater of mankind: and some there were who fancied a conceit in the

very choice which he had made of the sea-beach for his place of

burial, where the vast sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as

in contempt of the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and

deceitful mankind.

ROMEO AND JULIET

(_By Charles Lamb_)

The two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets and the

Mountagues. There had been an old quarrel between these families,

which was grown to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity between

them, that it extended to the remotest kindred, to the followers and

retainers of both sides, insomuch that a servant of the house of

Mountague could not meet a servant of the house of Capulet, nor a

Capulet encounter with a Mountague by chance, but fierce words and

sometimes bloodshed ensued; and frequent were the brawls from such

accidental meetings, which disturbed the happy quiet of Verona's

streets.

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies and

many noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of Verona

were present, and all comers were made welcome if they were not of the

house of Mountague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of

Romeo, son to the old lord Mountague, was present; and though it was

dangerous for a Mountague to be seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio,

a friend of Romeo, persuaded the young lord to go to this assembly in

the disguise of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and seeing her

compare her with some choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would

make him think his swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's

words; nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline, he was persuaded to go.

For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost his

sleep for love, and fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline,

who disdained him, and never requited his love with the least show of

courtesy or affection; and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of this

love by shewing him diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of

Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio went

masked. Old Capulet bid them welcome, and told them that ladies who

had their toes unplagued with corns would dance with them. And the old

man was light-hearted and merry, and said that he had worn a mask when

he was young, and could have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's

ear. And they fell to dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with the

exceeding beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to him to

teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to shew by night like

a rich jewel worn by a blackamoor: beauty too rich for use, too dear

for earth! like a snowy dove trooping with crows (he said), so richly

did her beauty and perfections shine above the ladies her companions.

While he uttered these praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew

of lord Capulet, who knew him by his voice to be Romeo. And this

Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, could not endure that

a Mountague should come under cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as

he said) at their solemnities. And he stormed and raged exceedingly,

and would have struck young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old lord

Capulet, would not suffer him to do any injury at that time, both out

of respect to his guests, and because Romeo had borne himself like a

gentleman, and all tongues in Verona bragged of him to be a virtuous

and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced to be patient against his

will, restrained himself, but swore that this vile Mountague should at

another time dearly pay for his intrusion.

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the lady stood;

and under favour of his masking habit, which might seem to excuse in

part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by

the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he prophaned by touching it,

he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atonement. "Good

pilgrim," answered the lady, "your devotion shews by far too mannerly

and too courtly: saints have hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss

not." "Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?" said Romeo. "Aye,"

said the lady, "lips which they must use in prayer." "O then, my dear

saint," said Romeo, "hear my prayer and grant it, lest I despair." In

such like allusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the

lady was called away to her mother. And Romeo enquiring who her mother

was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much

struck with, was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet,

the great enemy of the Mountagues; and that he had unknowingly engaged

his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it could not dissuade

him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, when she found that the

gentleman that she had been talking with was Romeo and a Mountague,

for she had been suddenly smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate

passion for Romeo, which he had conceived for her; and a prodigious

birth of love it seemed to her, that she must love her enemy, and that

her affections should settle there, where family considerations should

induce her chiefly to hate.

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed; but they soon

missed him, for unable to stay away from the house where he had left

his heart, he leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back of

Juliet's house. Here he had not been long, ruminating on his new love,

when Juliet appeared above at a window, through which her exceeding

beauty seemed to break like the light of the sun in the east; and the

moon, which shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared to Romeo

as if sick and pale with grief at the superior lustre of this new

sun. And she leaning her hand upon her cheek, he passionately wished

himself a glove upon that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all

this while thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed,

"Ah me!" Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and unheard

by her, "O speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being over

my head, like a winged messenger from heaven whom mortals fall back to

gaze upon." She, unconscious of being overheard, and full of the new

passion which that night's adventure had given birth to, called upon

her lover by name (whom she supposed absent): "O Romeo, Romeo!" said

she, "wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name,

for my sake; or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love, and I no

longer will be a Capulet." Romeo, having this encouragement, would

fain have spoken, but he was desirous of hearing more; and the lady

continued her passionate discourse with herself (as she thought),

still chiding Romeo for being Romeo and a Mountague, and wishing him

some other name, or that he would put away that hated name, and for

that name, which was no part of himself, he should take all herself.

At this loving word Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the

dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him personally, and not

merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love, or by whatever other name

she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing

to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear a man's voice in the garden, did not

at first know who it was, that by favour of the night and darkness

had thus stumbled upon the discovery of her secret; but when he

spoke again, though her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words of

that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a lover's hearing, that she

immediately knew him to be young Romeo, and she expostulated with him

on the danger to which he had exposed himself by climbing the orchard

walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find him there, it would be

death to him, being a Mountague. "Alack," said Romeo, "there is more

peril in your eye, than in twenty of their swords. Do you but look

kind upon me, lady, and I am proof against their enmity. Better my

life should be ended by their hate, than that hated life should be

prolonged, to live without your love." "How came you into this place,"

said Juliet, "and by whose direction?" "Love directed me," answered

Romeo: "I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart from me, as that

vast shore which is washed with the farthest sea, I should adventure

for such merchandize." A crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet

unseen by Romeo by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the

discovery which she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her

love to Romeo. She would fain have recalled her words, but that was

impossible: fain would she have stood upon form, and have kept her

lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is, to frown and

be perverse, and give their suitors harsh denials at first; to stand

off, and affect a coyness or indifference, where they most love, that

their lovers may not think them too lightly or too easily won: for the

difficulty of attainment increases the value of the object. But there

was no room in her case for denials, or puttings off, or any of the

customary arts of delay and protracted courtship. Romeo had heard

from her own tongue, when she did not dream that he was near her, a

confession of her love. So with an honest frankness, which the novelty

of her situation excused, she confirmed the truth of what he had

before heard, and addressing him by the name of _fair Mountague_

(love can sweeten a sour name), she begged him not to impute her easy

yielding to levity or an unworthy mind, but that he must lay the fault

of it (if it were a fault) upon the accident of the night which had

so strangely discovered her thoughts. And she added, that though her

behaviour to him might not be sufficiently prudent, measured by the

custom of her sex, yet that she would prove more true than many whose

prudence was dissembling, and their modesty artificial cunning.

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness, that nothing was

farther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dishonour to such

an honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging him not to swear;

for although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of that night's

contract; it was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But he being

urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with him that night, she

said that she already had given him hers before he requested it;

meaning, when he overheard her confession; but she would retract what

she then bestowed, for the pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty

was as infinite as the sea, and her love as deep. From this loving

conference she was called away by her nurse, who slept with her, and

thought it time for her to be in bed, for it was near to day-break;

but hastily returning, she said three or four words more to Romeo,

the purport of which was, that if his love was indeed honourable, and

his purpose marriage, she would send a messenger to him to-morrow, to

appoint a time for their marriage, when she would lay all her fortunes

at his feet, and follow him as her lord through the world. While they

were settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by her

nurse, and went in and returned, and went and returned again, for she

seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her, as a young girl of her

bird, which she will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it

back with a silken thread; and Romeo was as loth to part as she: for

the sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each other's tongues at

night. But at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest

for that night. The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo, who

was too full of thoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting

to allow him to sleep, instead of going home, bent his course to a

monastery hard by, to find friar Lawrence. The good friar was already

up at his devotions, but seeing young Romeo abroad so early, he

conjectured rightly that he had not been a-bed that night, but that

some distemper of youthful affection had kept him waking. He was right

in imputing the cause of Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he made a

wrong guess at the object, for he thought that his love for Rosaline

had kept him waking. But when Romeo revealed his new passion for

Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar to marry them that

day, the holy man lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort of wonder at

the sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he had been privy to all

Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many complaints of her disdain; and

he said, that young men's love lay not truly in their hearts, but in

their eyes. But Romeo replying that he himself had often chidden him

for doting on Rosaline, who could not love him again, whereas Juliet

both loved and was beloved by him, the friar assented in some measure

to his reasons; and thinking that a matrimonial alliance between young

Juliet and Romeo might happily be a means of making up the long breach

between the Capulets and the Mountagues; which no one more lamented

than this good friar, who was a friend to both the families, and had

often interposed his mediation to make up the quarrel without effect;

partly moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for young Romeo, to

whom he could deny nothing, the old man consented to join their hands

in marriage.

Now was Romeo blest indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent from a

messenger which she had dispatched according to promise, did not fail

to be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands were

joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying the heavens to smile

upon that act, and in the union of this young Mountague and young

Capulet to bury the old strife and long dissensions of their families.

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she staid

impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to

come and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night before;

and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the night before

some great festival seems to an impatient child, that has got new

finery which it may not put on till the morning.

That same day about noon, Romeo's friends, Benvolio and Mercutio,

walking through the streets of Verona, were met by a party of the

Capulets with the impetuous Tybalt at their head. This was the same

angry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo at old lord Capulet's

feast. He seeing Mercutio, accused him bluntly of associating with

Romeo, a Mountague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and youthful blood

in him as Tybalt, replied to this accusation with some sharpness; and

in spite of all Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel

was beginning, when Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce

Tybalt turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful

appellation of villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybalt

above all men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved

by her; besides, this young Mountague had never thoroughly entered

into the family quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, and the name

of a Capulet, which was his dear lady's name, was now rather a charm

to allay resentment, than a watch-word to excite fury. So he tried

to reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly by the name of _good

Capulet_, as if he, though a Mountague, had some secret pleasure in

uttering that name: but Tybalt, who hated all Mountagues as he hated

hell, would hear no reason, but drew his weapon; and Mercutio, who

knew not of Romeo's secret motive for desiring peace with Tybalt, but

looked upon his present forbearance as a sort of calm dishonourable

submission, with many disdainful words provoked Tybalt to the

prosecution of his first quarrel with him; and Tybalt and Mercutio

fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving his death's wound while Romeo

and Benvolio were vainly endeavouring to part the combatants. Mercutio

being dead, Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned the scornful

appellation of villain which Tybalt had given him; and they fought

till Tybalt was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the

midst of Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly brought a crowd

of citizens to the spot, and among them the old lords Capulet and

Mountague, with their wives; and soon after arrived the prince

himself, who being related to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and

having had the peace of his government often disturbed by these

brawls of Mountagues and Capulets, came determined to put the law in

strictest force against those who should be found to be offenders.

Benvolio, who had been eye-witness to the fray, was commanded by the

prince to relate the origin of it, which he did, keeping as near the

truth as he could without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the

part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief

for the loss of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in her

revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict justice upon his murderer,

and to pay no attention to Benvolio's representation, who being

Romeo's friend, and a Mountague, spoke partially. Thus she pleaded

against her new son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was her

son-in-law and Juliet's husband. On the other hand was to be seen Lady

Mountague pleading for her child's life, and arguing with some justice

that Romeo had done nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life

of Tybalt, which was already forfeited to the law by his having slain

Mercutio. The prince, unmoved by the passionate exclamations of these

women, on a careful examination of the facts, pronounced his sentence,

and by that sentence Romeo was banished from Verona.

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a few hours a bride,

and now by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced! When the

tidings reached her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo,

who had slain her dear cousin: she called him a beautiful tyrant,

a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a wolf's nature, a

serpent-heart hid with a flowering face, and other like contradictory

names, which denoted the struggles in her mind between her love and

her resentment: but in the end love got the mastery, and the tears

which she shed for grief that Romeo had slain her cousin, turned to

drops of joy that her husband lived whom Tybalt would have slain.

Then came fresh tears, and they were altogether of grief for Romeo's

banishment. That word was more terrible to her than the death of many

Tybalts.

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar Lawrence's cell,

where he was first made acquainted with the prince's sentence, which

seemed to him far more terrible than death. To him it appeared there

was no world out of Verona's walls, no living out of the sight of

Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and all beyond was

purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would have applied the

consolation of philosophy to his griefs; but this frantic young man

would hear of none, but like a madman he tore his hair, and threw

himself all along upon the ground, as he said, to take the measure of

his grave. From this unseemly state he was roused by a message from

his dear lady, which a little revived him, and then the friar took the

advantage to expostulate with him on the unmanly weakness which he had

shown. He had slain Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay his

dear lady who lived but in his life? The noble form of man, he said,

was but a shape of wax, when it wanted the courage which should keep

it firm. The law had been lenient to him, that instead of death which

he had incurred, had pronounced by the prince's mouth only banishment.

He had slain Tybalt, but Tybalt would have slain him: there was a sort

of happiness in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) had

become his dear wife, therein he was most happy. All these blessings,

as the friar made them out to be, did Romeo put from him like a sullen

misbehaved wench. And the friar bade him beware, for such as despaired

(he said) died miserable. Then when Romeo was a little calmed, he

counselled him that he should go that night and secretly take his

leave of Juliet, and thence proceed straitways to Mantua, at which

place he should sojourn, till the friar found a fit occasion to

publish his marriage, which might be a joyful means of reconciling

their families; and then he did not doubt but the prince would be

moved to pardon him, and he would return with twenty times more joy

than he went forth with grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise

counsels of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lady,

proposing to stay with her that night, and by day-break pursue his

journey alone to Mantua; to which place the good friar promised to

send him letters from time to time, acquainting him with the state of

affairs at home.

That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret admission

to her chamber, from the orchard in which he had heard her confession

of love the night before. That had been a night of unmixed joy and

rapture; but the pleasures of this night, and the delight which these

lovers took in each other's society, were sadly allayed with the

prospect of parting, and the fatal adventures of the past day. The

unwelcome day-break seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard the

morning-song of the lark, she would have persuaded herself that it was

the nightingale, which sings by night; but it was too truly the lark

which sung, and a discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her; and

the streaks of day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was

time for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave of his dear wife

with a heavy heart, promising to write to her from Mantua every hour

in the day, and when he had descended from her chamber-window, as he

stood below her on the ground, in that sad foreboding state of mind in

which she was he appeared to her eyes as one dead in the bottom of a

tomb. Romeo's mind misgave him in like manner; but now he was forced

hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be found within the

walls of Verona after day-break.

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star-crossed

lovers. Romeo had not been gone many days, before the old lord Capulet

proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, not

dreaming that she was married already, was count Paris, a gallant,

young, and noble gentleman, no unworthy suitor to the young Juliet,

if she had never seen Romeo.

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her father's offer.

She pleaded her youth unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of

Tybalt which had left her spirits too weak to meet a husband with

any face of joy, and how indecorous it would shew for the family of

the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial-feast, when his funeral

solemnities were hardly over: she pleaded every reason against the

match, but the true one, namely, that she was married already. But

lord Capulet was deaf to all her excuses, and in a peremptory manner

ordered her to get ready, for by the following Thursday she should

be married to Paris: and having found her a husband rich, young, and

noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona might joyfully accept, he

could not bear that out of an affected coyness, as he construed her

denial, she should oppose obstacles to her own good fortune.

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always her

counsellor in distress, and he asking her if she had resolution to

undertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would go into

the grave alive, rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband living,

he directed her to go home, and appear merry, and give her consent to

marry Paris, according to her father's desire, and on the next night,

which was the night before the marriage, to drink of the contents of

a phial which he then gave her, the effect of which would be, that

for two-and-forty hours after drinking it she should appear cold and

lifeless; that when the bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning,

he would find her to appearance dead; that then she would be borne, as

the manner in that country was, uncovered, on a bier, to be buried in

the family vault; that if she could put off womanish fear, and consent

to this terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid

(such was its certain operation) she would be sure to awake, as from

a dream; and before she should awake, he would let her husband know

their drift, and he should come in the night, and bear her thence

to Mantua. Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave young Juliet

strength to undertake this horrible adventure; and she took the phial

of the friar, promising to observe his directions.

Going from the monastery, she met the young count Paris, and, modestly

dissembling, promised to become his bride. This was joyful news to the

lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth into the old man:

and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly by her refusal of the

count, was his darling again, now she promised to be obedient. All

things in the house were in a bustle against the approaching nuptials.

No cost was spared to prepare such festival rejoicings, as Verona had

never before witnessed.

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had many

misgivings, lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be imputed

to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he

was always known for a holy man: then lest she should awake before the

time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the terror of the place,

a vault full of dead Capulets' bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody,

lay festering in his shroud, would not be enough to drive her

distracted: again she thought of all the stories she had heard of

spirits haunting the places where their bodies are bestowed. But then

her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, returned, and she

desperately swallowed the draught, and became insensible.

When young Paris came early in the morning with music, to awaken his

bride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the dreary

spectacle of a lifeless corse. What death to his hopes! What confusion

then reigned through the whole house! Poor Paris lamenting his bride,

whom most detestable death had beguiled him of, had divorced from him

even before their hands were joined. But still more piteous it was to

hear the mournings of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having but

this one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace in, cruel death

had snatched her from their sight, just as these careful parents were

on the point of seeing her advanced (as they thought) by a promising

and advantageous match. Now all things that were ordained for the

festival, were turned from their properties to do the office of a

black funeral. The wedding cheer served for a sad burial feast, the

bridal hymns were changed to sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments

to melancholy bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in

the bride's path, now served but to strew her corse. Now instead of

a priest to marry her, a priest was needed to bury her; and she was

borne to church indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the

living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead.

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, now brought the

dismal story of his Juliet's death to Romeo at Mantua, before the

messenger could arrive, who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprize

him that these were mock funerals only and but the shadow and

representation of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb but

for a short while, expecting when Romeo would come to release her from

that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful and

light-hearted. He had dreamed in the night that he was dead (a strange

dream, that gave a dead man leave to think), and that his lady came

and found him dead, and breathed such life with kisses in his lips,

that he revived, and was an emperor! And now that a messenger came

from Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm some good news which

his dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to this flattering

vision appeared, and that it was his lady who was dead in truth, whom

he could not revive by any kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready,

for he determined that night to visit Verona, and to see his lady

in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts of

desperate men, he called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop in

Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beggarly appearance of

the man, who seemed famished, and the wretched show in his shop of

empty boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme

wretchedness, he had said at the time (perhaps having some misgivings

that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a conclusion so

desperate), "If a man were to need poison, which by the law of Mantua

it is death to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would sell it him."

These words of his now came into his mind, and he sought out the

apothecary, who, after some pretended scruples, Romeo offering him

gold which his poverty could not resist, sold him a poison, which, if

he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength of twenty men, would

quickly dispatch him.

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

lady in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to swallow

the poison, and be buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight,

and found the church-yard, in the midst of which was situated the

ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, and a spade,

and wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break open the monument,

when he was interrupted by a voice, which by the name of _vile

Mountague_ bade him desist from his unlawful business. It was the

young count Paris, who had come to the tomb of Juliet at that

unseasonable time of night, to strew flowers and to weep over the

grave of her that should have been his bride. He knew not what an

interest Romeo had in the dead, but knowing him to be a Mountague,

and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to all the Capulets, he judged that

he was come by night to do some villanous shame to the dead bodies;

therefore in an angry tone he bade him desist; and as a criminal,

condemned by the laws of Verona to die if he were found within the

walls of the city, he would have apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to

leave him, and warned him by the fate of Tybalt who lay buried there,

not to provoke his anger, or draw down another sin upon his head, by

forcing him to kill him. But the count in scorn refused his warning,

and laid hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting, they fought,

and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to see who it

was that he had slain, that it was Paris, who (he learned in his way

from Mantua) should have married Juliet, he took the dead youth by the

hand, as one whom misfortune had made a companion, and said that he

would bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet's grave, which

he now opened: and there lay his lady, as one whom death had no power

upon to change a feature or complexion in her matchless beauty, or as

if Death were amorous, and the lean abhorred monster kept her there

for his delight; for she lay yet fresh and blooming, as she had fallen

to sleep when she swallowed that benumbing potion: and near her lay

Tybalt in his bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing, begged pardon of his

lifeless corse, and for Juliet's sake called him _cousin_, and said

that he was about to do him a favour by putting his enemy to death.

Here Romeo took his last leave of his lady's lips, kissing them; and

here he shook the burden of his cross stars from his weary body,

swallowing that poison which the apothecary had sold him, whose

operation was fatal and real, not like that dissembling potion which

Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which was now nearly expiring, and

she about to awake to complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or

that he had come too soon.

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised that she

should awake; and he, having learned that his letters which he had

sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messenger, had never

reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a pick-axe and lantern, to

deliver the lady from her confinement; but he was surprised to find a

light already burning in the Capulets' monument, and to see swords and

blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the monument.

Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these fatal

accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing

the friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and the

occasion of her being there, and asked for Romeo: but the friar,

hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of death, and of

unnatural sleep, for a greater power than they could contradict had

thwarted their intents; and being frighted by the noise of people

coming, he fled; but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love's

hands, she guessed that poison had been the cause of his end, and she

would have swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed

his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon them: then

hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly unsheathed a

dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her true Romeo's

side.

The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page belonging to

count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his master and Romeo,

had given the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who went

up and down the streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, A Paris, a

Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumour had imperfectly reached them, till the

uproar brought lord Mountague and lord Capulet out of their beds,

with the prince, to enquire into the causes of the disturbance. The

friar had been apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the

church-yard, trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious manner.

A great multitude being assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar

was commanded by the prince to deliver what he knew of these strange

and disastrous accidents.

And there, in the presence of the old lords Mountague and Capulet, he

faithfully related the story of their children's fatal love, the part

he took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that union to end

the long quarrels between their families; how Romeo, there dead, was

husband to Juliet, and Juliet, there dead, was Romeo's faithful wife:

how before he could find a fit opportunity to divulge their marriage,

another match was projected for Juliet, who to avoid the crime of a

second marriage swallowed the sleeping draught (as he advised), and

all thought her dead: how meantime he wrote to Romeo, to come and take

her thence when the force of the potion should cease, and by what

unfortunate miscarriage of the messenger the letters never reached

Romeo: further than this the friar could not follow the story, nor

knew more than that coming himself to deliver Juliet from that place

of death, he found the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of

the transactions was supplied by the narration of the page who had

seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with Romeo

from Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given letters to be

delivered to his father in the event of his death which made good the

friar's words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring the

forgiveness of his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of

the poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monument, to die,

and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to clear

the friar from any hand he could be supposed to have had in these

complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended consequences of

his own well meant, yet too artificial and subtle contrivances.

And the prince, turning to these old lords, Mountague and Capulet,

rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and shewed

them what a scourge heaven had laid upon such offences, that it had

found means even through the love of their children to punish their

unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies, agreed to

bury their long strife in their children's graves; and lord Capulet

requested lord Mountague to give him his hand, calling him by the name

of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the union of their families by

the marriage of the young Capulet and Mountague; and saying that lord

Mountague's hand (in token of reconcilement) was all he demanded for

his daughter's jointure: but lord Mountague said he would give him

more, for he would raise her statue of pure gold, that while Verona

kept its name, no figure should be so esteemed for its richness and

workmanship as that of the true and faithful Juliet. And lord Capulet

in return said that he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did

these poor old lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo each other

in mutual courtesies: while so deadly had been their rage and enmity

in past times, that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their

children (poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions) could

remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the noble families.

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK

(_By Charles Lamb_)

Gertrude, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow by the sudden death of

King Hamlet, in less than two months after his death married his

brother Claudius, which was noted by all people at the time for a

strange act of indiscretion, or unfeelingness, or worse: for this

Claudius did no ways resemble her late husband in the qualities of his

person or his mind, but was as contemptible in outward appearance, as

he was base and unworthy in disposition; and suspicions did not fail

to arise in the minds of some, that he had privately made away with

his brother, the late king, with the view of marrying his widow, and

ascending the throne of Denmark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the

son of the buried king, and lawful successor to the throne.

But upon no one did this unadvised action of the queen make such

impression as upon this young prince, who loved and venerated the

memory of his dead father almost to idolatry, and being of a nice

sense of honour, and a most exquisite practiser of propriety himself,

did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct of his mother Gertrude:

insomuch that, between grief for his father's death and shame for

his mother's marriage, this young prince was overclouded with a deep

melancholy, and lost all his mirth and all his good looks; all his

customary pleasure in books forsook him, his princely exercises and

sports, proper to his youth, were no longer acceptable; he grew weary

of the world, which seemed to him an unweeded garden, where all

the wholesome flowers were choaked up, and nothing but weeds could

thrive. Not that the prospect of exclusion from the throne, his lawful

inheritance, weighed so much upon his spirits, though that to a young

and high-minded prince was a bitter wound and a sore indignity; but

what so galled him, and took away all his cheerful spirits, was, that

his mother had shewn herself so forgetful to his father's memory: and

such a father! who had been to her so loving and so gentle a husband!

and then she always appeared as loving and obedient a wife to him, and

would hang upon him as if her affection grew to him: and now within

two months, or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than two months, she

had married again, married his uncle, her dead husband's brother, in

itself a highly improper and unlawful marriage, from the nearness of

relationship, but made much more so by the indecent haste with which

it was concluded, and the unkingly character of the man whom she had

chosen to be the partner of her throne and bed. This it was which,

more than the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits, and brought a

cloud over the mind of this honourable young prince.

In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the king could do to

contrive to divert him; he still appeared in court in a suit of deep

black, as mourning for the king his father's death, which mode of

dress he had never laid aside, not even in compliment to his mother

upon the day she was married, nor could he be brought to join in

any of the festivities or rejoicings of that (as appeared to him)

disgraceful day.

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner of his

father's death. It was given out by Claudius, that a serpent had stung

him: but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself was

the serpent; in plain English, that he had murdered him for his crown,

and that the serpent who stung his father did now sit on the throne.

How far he was right in this conjecture, and what he ought to think of

his mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and whether by her

consent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, were the doubts

which continually harassed and distracted him.

A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet, that an apparition,

exactly resembling the dead king his father, had been seen by the

soldiers upon watch, on the platform before the palace at midnight,

for two or three nights successively. The figure came constantly clad

in the same suit of armour, from head to foot, which the dead king was

known to have worn: and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom-friend Horatio

was one) agreed in their testimony as to the time and manner of its

appearance: that it came just as the clock struck twelve; that it

looked pale, with a face more of sorrow than of anger; that its beard

was grisly, and the colour a _sable silvered_, as they had seen it in

his life-time: that it made no answer when they spoke to it, yet once

they thought it lifted up its head, and addressed itself to motion, as

if it were about to speak; but in that moment the morning cock crew,

and it shrunk in haste away, and vanished out of their sight.

The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was too

consistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it

was his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take his

watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance of

seeing it: for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance did

not come for nothing, but that the ghost had something to impart, and

though it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him. And he

waited with impatience for the coming of night.

When night came he took his stand with Horatio, and Marcellus one of

the guard, upon the platform, where this apparition was accustomed

to walk: and it being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and

nipping, Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell into some talk

about the coldness of the night, which was suddenly broken off by

Horatio announcing that the ghost was coming.

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was struck with a sudden

surprize and fear. He at first called upon the angels and heavenly

ministers to defend them, for he knew not whether it were a good

spirit or bad; whether it came for good or for evil: but he gradually

assumed more courage; and his father (as it seemed to him) looked upon

him so piteously, and, as it were desiring to have conversation with

him, and did in all respects appear so like himself as he was when he

lived, that Hamlet could not help addressing him: he called him by

his name, Hamlet, King, Father! and conjured him that he would tell

the reason why he had left his grave, where they had seen him quietly

bestowed, to come again and visit the earth and the moonlight: and

besought him that he would let them know if there was any thing which

they could do to give peace to his spirit. And the ghost beckoned to

Hamlet, that he should go with him to some more removed place, where

they might be alone: and Horatio and Marcellus would have dissuaded

the young prince from following it, for they feared lest it should be

some evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neighbouring sea, or to

the top of some dreadful cliff, and there put on some horrible shape

which might deprive the prince of his reason. But their counsels and

intreaties could not alter Hamlet's determination, who cared too

little about life to fear the losing of it; and as to his soul, he

said, what could the spirit do to that, being a thing immortal as

itself? and he felt as hardy as a lion, and bursting from them who did

all they could to hold him, he followed whithersoever the spirit led

him.

And when they were alone together, the spirit broke silence, and told

him that he was the ghost of Hamlet, his father, who had been cruelly

murdered, and he told the manner of it; that it was done by his own

brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had already but too much

suspected, for the hope of succeeding to his bed and crown. That as he

was sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the afternoon, his

treasonous brother stole upon him in his sleep, and poured the juice

of poisonous henbane into his ears, which has such an antipathy to

the life of man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through all the

veins of the body, baking up the blood, and spreading a crust-like

leprosy all over the skin: thus sleeping, by a brother's hand he

was cut off at once from his crown, his queen, and his life: and he

adjured Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father love, that he would

revenge his foul murder. And the ghost lamented to his son, that his

mother should so fall off from virtue, as to prove false to the wedded

love of her first husband, and to marry his murderer: but he cautioned

Hamlet, howsoever he proceeded in his revenge against his wicked

uncle, by no means to act any violence against the person of his

mother, but to leave her to heaven, and to the stings and thorns of

conscience. And Hamlet promised to observe the ghost's direction in

all things, and the ghost vanished.

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn resolution, that

all he had in his memory, all that he had ever learned by books or

observation, should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing live in

his brain but the memory of what the ghost had told him, and enjoined

him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the conversation

which had passed to none but his dear friend Horatio; and he enjoined

both to him and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to what they had

seen that night.

The terror which the sight of the ghost had left upon the senses of

Hamlet, he being weak and dispirited before, almost unhinged his

mind, and drove him beside his reason. And he, fearing that it would

continue to have this effect, which might subject him to observation,

and set his uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he was

meditating any thing against him, or that Hamlet really knew more of

his father's death than he professed, took up a strange resolution

from that time to counterfeit as if he were really and truly mad;

thinking that he would be less an object of suspicion when his uncle

should believe him incapable of any serious project, and that his real

perturbation of mind would be best covered and pass concealed under a

disguise of pretended lunacy.

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and strangeness

in his apparel, his speech, and behaviour, and did so excellently

counterfeit the madman, that the king and queen were both deceived,

and not thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause

to produce such a distemper, for they knew not of the appearance of

the ghost, they concluded that his malady was love, and they thought

they had found out the object.

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which has been related, he

had dearly loved a fair maid called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius,

the king's chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had sent her

letters and rings, and made many tenders of his affection to her, and

importuned her with love in honourable fashion: and she had given

belief to his vows and importunities. But the melancholy which he fell

into latterly had made him neglect her, and from the time he conceived

the project of counterfeiting madness, he affected to treat her with

unkindness, and a sort of rudeness; but she, good lady, rather than

reproach him with being false to her, persuaded herself that it was

nothing but the disease in his mind, and no settled unkindness, which

had made him less observant of her than formerly; and she compared the

faculties of his once noble mind and excellent understanding, impaired

as they were with the deep melancholy that oppressed him, to sweet

bells which in themselves are capable of most exquisite music, but

when jangled out of tune, or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and

unpleasing sound.

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in hand, the revenging of

his father's death upon his murderer, did not suit with the playful

state of courtship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion as

love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but that soft thoughts

of his Ophelia would come between, and in one of these moments,

when he thought that his treatment of this gentle lady had been

unreasonably harsh, he wrote her a letter full of wild starts of

passion, and in extravagant terms, such as agreed with his supposed

madness, but mixed with some gentle touches of affection, which could

not but shew to this honoured lady that a deep love for her yet lay at

the bottom of his heart. He bade her to doubt the stars were fire, and

to doubt that the sun did move, to doubt truth to be a liar, but never

to doubt that he loved; with more of such extravagant phrases. This

letter Ophelia dutifully shewed to her father, and the old man thought

himself bound to communicate it to the king and queen, who from that

time supposed that the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And

the queen wished that the good beauties of Ophelia might be the happy

cause of his wildness, for so she hoped that her virtues might happily

restore him to his accustomed way again, to both their honours.

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could be

so cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his

imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him

no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a

sin, and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass the

death of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards,

was no easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen,

Hamlet's mother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint

upon his purpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the very

circumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband filled him with

some remorse, and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere

act of putting a fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and

terrible to a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His

very melancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so long been in,

produced an irresoluteness and wavering of purpose, which kept him

from proceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not help having

some scruples upon his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen

was indeed his father, or whether it might not be the devil, who he

had heard has power to take any form he pleases, and who might have

assumed his father's shape only to take advantage of his weakness and

his melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as

murder. And he determined that he would have more certain grounds to

go upon than a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion.

While he was in this irresolute mind, there came to the court

certain players, in whom Hamlet formerly used to take delight, and

particularly to hear one of them speak a tragical speech, describing

the death of old Priam, king of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba, his

queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends, the players, and remembering

how that speech had formerly given him pleasure, requested the player

to repeat it; which he did in so lively a manner, setting forth the

cruel murder of the feeble old king, with the destruction of his

people and city by fire, and the mad grief of the old queen, running

barefoot up and down the palace, with a poor clout upon that head

where a crown had been, and with nothing but a blanket upon her loins,

snatched up in haste, where she had worn a royal robe: that not only

it drew tears from all that stood by, who thought they saw the real

scene, so livelily was it represented, but even the player himself

delivered it with a broken voice and real tears. This put Hamlet upon

thinking, if that player could so work himself up to passion by a mere

fictitious speech, to weep for one that he had never seen, for Hecuba,

that had been dead so many hundred years, how dull was he, who having

a real motive and cue for passion, a real king and a dear father

murdered, was yet so little moved, that his revenge all this while had

seemed to have slept in dull and muddy forgetfulness! And while he

meditated on actors and acting, and the powerful effects which a good

play, represented to the life, has upon the spectator, he remembered

the instance of some murderer, who seeing a murder on the stage,

was by the mere force of the scene and resemblance of circumstances

so affected, that on the spot he confessed the crime which he had

committed. And he determined that these players should play something

like the murder of his father before his uncle, and he would watch

narrowly what effect it might have upon him, and from his looks he

would be able to gather with more certainty if he were the murderer

or not. To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, to the

representation of which he invited the king and queen.

The story of the play was of a murder done in Vienna upon a duke. The

duke's name was Gonzago, his wife Baptista. The play shewed how one

Lucianus, a near relation to the duke, poisoned him in his garden for

his estate, and how the murderer in a short time after got the love of

Gonzago's wife.

At the representation of this play the king, who did not know the trap

which was laid for him, was present, with his queen and the whole

court: Hamlet sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. The

play began with a conversation between Gonzago and his wife, in which

the lady made many protestations of love, and of never marrying a

second husband, if she should outlive Gonzago; wishing she might be

accursed if she ever took a second husband, and adding that no woman

ever did so but those wicked women who kill their first husbands.

Hamlet observed the king, his uncle, change colour at this expression,

and that it was as bad as wormwood both to him and to the queen. But

when Lucianus, according to the story, came to poison Gonzago sleeping

in the garden, the strong resemblance which it bore to his own wicked

act upon the late king, his brother, whom he had poisoned in his

garden, so struck upon the conscience of this usurper, that he was

unable to sit out the rest of the play, but on a sudden calling for

lights to his chamber, and affecting or partly feeling a sudden

sickness, he abruptly left the theatre. The king being departed the

play was given over. Now Hamlet had seen enough to be satisfied that

the words of the ghost were true, and no illusion; and in a fit of

gaiety, like that which comes over a man who suddenly has some great

doubt or scruple resolved, he swore to Horatio that he would take the

ghost's word for a thousand pounds. But before he could make up his

resolution as to what measures of revenge he should take, now he was

certainly informed that his uncle was his father's murderer, he was

sent for by the queen, his mother, to a private conference in her

closet.

It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that she

might signify to her son how much his late behaviour had displeased

them both; and the king, wishing to know all that passed at that

conference, and thinking that the too partial report of a mother might

let slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might much import the

king to know, Polonius, the old counsellor of state, was ordered to

plant himself behind the hangings in the queen's closet, where he

might unseen hear all that passed. This artifice was particularly

adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was a man grown old in

crooked maxims and policies of state, and delighted to get at the

knowledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way.

Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to tax him in the roundest

way with his actions and behaviour, and she told him that he had given

great offence to _his father_, meaning the king, his uncle, whom,

because he had married her, she called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely

indignant that she should give so dear and honoured a name as father

seemed to him, to a wretch who was indeed no better than the murderer

of his true father, with some sharpness replied, "Mother, _you_ have

much offended _my father_." The queen said that was but an idle

answer. "As good as the question deserved," said Hamlet. The queen

asked him if he had forgotten who it was he was speaking to? "Alas!"

replied Hamlet, "I wish I could forget. You are the queen, your

husband's brother's wife; and you are my mother: I wish you were not

what you are." "Nay, then," said the queen, "if you shew me so little

respect, I will set those to you that can speak," and was going to

send the king or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her go, now

he had her alone, till he had tried if his words could not bring her

to some sense of her wicked life; and, taking her by the wrist, he

held her fast, and made her sit down. She, affrighted at his earnest

manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he should do her a mischief,

cried out: and a voice was heard from behind the hangings, "Help, help

the queen;" which Hamlet hearing, and verily thinking that it was the

king himself there concealed, he drew his sword, and stabbed at the

place where the voice came from, as he would have stabbed a rat that

ran there, till the voice ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead.

But when he dragged forth the body, it was not the king, but Polonius,

the old officious counsellor, that had planted himself as a spy behind

the hangings. "Oh me!" exclaimed the queen, "what a rash and bloody

deed have you done!" "A bloody deed, mother," replied Hamlet, "but not

so bad as yours, who killed a king, and married his brother." Hamlet

had gone too far to leave off here. He was now in the humour to speak

plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. And though the faults of

parents are to be tenderly treated by their children, yet in the case

of great crimes the son may have leave to speak even to his own mother

with some harshness, so as that harshness is meant for her good, and

to turn her from her wicked ways, and not done for the purpose of

upbraiding. And now this virtuous prince did in moving terms represent

to the queen the heinousness of her offence, in being so forgetful of

the dead king, his father, as in so short a space of time to marry

with his brother and reputed murderer: such an act as, after the vows

which she had sworn to her first husband, was enough to make all vows

of women suspected, and all virtue to be accounted hypocrisy, wedding

contracts to be less than gamesters' oaths, and religion to be a

mockery and a mere form of words. He said she had done such a deed,

that the heavens blushed at it, and the earth was sick of her because

of it. And he shewed her two pictures, the one of the late king, her

first husband, and the other of the present king, her second husband,

and he bade her mark the difference: what a grace was on the brow

of his father, how like a god he looked! the curls of Apollo, the

forehead of Jupiter, the eye of Mars, and a posture like to Mercury

newly alighted on some heaven-kissing hill! this man, he said, _had

been_ her husband. And then he shewed her whom she had got in his

stead: how like a blight or a mildew he looked, for so he had blasted

his wholesome brother. And the queen was sore ashamed that he should

so turn her eyes inward upon her soul, which she now saw so black and

deformed. And he asked her how she could continue to live with this

man, and be a wife to him, who had murdered her first husband, and

got the crown by as false means as a thief--And just as he spoke, the

ghost of his father, such as he was in his lifetime, and such as he

had lately seen it, entered the room, and Hamlet, in great terror,

asked what it would have; and the ghost said that it came to remind

him of the revenge he had promised, which Hamlet seemed to have

forgot: and the ghost bade him speak to his mother, for the grief and

terror she was in would else kill her. It then vanished, and was seen

by none but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing to where it stood,

or by any description, make his mother perceive it; who was terribly

frighted all this while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to her,

with nothing: and she imputed it to the disorder of his mind. But

Hamlet begged her not to flatter her wicked soul in such a manner as

to think that it was his madness, and not her own offences, which had

brought his father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade her feel

his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a madman's. And he begged

of her with tears, to confess herself to heaven for what was past,

and for the future to avoid the company of the king, and be no more

as a wife to him: and when she should shew herself a mother to him,

by respecting his father's memory, he would ask a blessing of her as

a son. And she promising to observe his directions, the conference

ended.

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in his

unfortunate rashness he had killed: and when he came to see that it

was Polonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved,

he drew apart the dead body, and, his spirits being now a little

quieter, he wept for what he had done.

The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king a pretence for sending

Hamlet out of the kingdom. He would willingly have put him to death,

fearing him as dangerous; but he dreaded the people, who loved Hamlet;

and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted upon the prince, her

son. So this subtle king, under pretence of providing for Hamlet's

safety, that he might not be called to account for Polonius' death,

caused him to be conveyed on board a ship bound for England, under the

care of two courtiers, by whom he dispatched letters to the English

court, which at that time was in subjection and paid tribute to

Denmark, requiring for special reasons there pretended, that Hamlet

should be put to death as soon as he landed on English ground. Hamlet,

suspecting some treachery, in the night-time secretly got at the

letters, and skilfully erasing his own name, he in the stead of it

put in the names of those two courtiers, who had the charge of him,

to be put to death: then sealing up the letters, he put them into

their place again. Soon after the ship was attacked by pirates, and a

sea-fight commenced; in the course of which Hamlet, desirous to shew

his valour, with sword in hand singly boarded the enemy's vessel;

while his own ship, in a cowardly manner, bore away, and leaving him

to his fate, the two courtiers made the best of their way to England,

charged with those letters the sense of which Hamlet had altered to

their own deserved destruction.

The pirates, who had the prince in their power, shewed themselves

gentle enemies; and knowing whom they had got prisoner, in the hope

that the prince might do them a good turn at court in recompence

for any favour they might shew him, they set Hamlet on shore at the

nearest port in Denmark. From that place Hamlet wrote to the king,

acquainting him with the strange chance which had brought him back to

his own country, and saying that on the next day he should present

himself before his majesty. When he got home, a sad spectacle offered

itself the first thing to his eyes.

This was the funeral of the young and beautiful Ophelia, his once dear

mistress. The wits of this young lady had begun to turn ever since

her poor father's death. That he should die a violent death, and by

the hands of the prince whom she loved, so affected this tender young

maid, that in a little time she grew perfectly distracted, and would

go about giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and saying

that they were for her father's burial, singing songs about love and

about death, and sometimes such as had no meaning at all, as if she

had no memory of what had happened to her. There was a willow which

grew slanting over a brook, and reflected its leaves in the stream. To

this brook she came one day when she was unwatched, with garlands she

had been making, mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and weeds

together, and clambering up to hang her garland upon the boughs of the

willow, a bow broke and precipitated this fair young maid, garland,

and all that she had gathered, into the water, where her clothes bore

her up for a while, during which she chaunted scraps of old tunes,

like one insensible to her own distress, or as if she were a creature

natural to that element: but long it was not before her garments,

heavy with the wet, pulled her in from her melodious singing to a

muddy and miserable death. It was the funeral of this fair maid which

her brother Laertes was celebrating, the king and queen and whole

court being present, when Hamlet arrived. He knew not what all this

shew imported, but stood on one side, not inclining to interrupt the

ceremony. He saw the flowers strewed upon her grave, as the custom was

in maiden burials, which the queen herself threw in; and as she threw

them, she said, "Sweets to the sweet! I thought to have decked thy

bride-bed, sweet maid, not to have strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst

have been my Hamlet's wife." And he heard her brother wish that

violets might spring from her grave: and he saw him leap into the

grave all frantic with grief, and bid the attendants pile mountains

of earth upon him, that he might be buried with her. And Hamlet's love

for this fair maid came back to him, and he could not bear that a

brother should shew so much transport of grief, for he thought that he

loved Ophelia better than forty thousand brothers. Then discovering

himself, he leaped into the grave where Laertes was, all as frantic or

more frantic than he, and Laertes knowing him to be Hamlet, who had

been the cause of his father's and his sister's death, grappled him by

the throat as an enemy, till the attendants parted them: and Hamlet,

after the funeral, excused his hasty act in throwing himself into

the grave as if to brave Laertes; but he said he could not bear that

any one should seem to outgo him in grief for the death of the fair

Ophelia. And for the time these two noble youths seemed reconciled.

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the death of his

father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's wicked uncle, contrived

destruction for Hamlet. He set on Laertes, under cover of peace and

reconciliation, to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at

fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed to try the match.

At this match all the court was present, and Laertes, by direction of

the king, prepared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match great wagers

were laid by the courtiers, as both Hamlet and Laertes were known to

excel at this sword-play; and Hamlet taking up the foils chose one,

not at all suspecting the treachery of Laertes, or being careful to

examine Laertes' weapon, who, instead of a foil or blunted sword,

which the laws of fencing require, made use of one with a point, and

poisoned. At first Laertes did but play with Hamlet, and suffered him

to gain some advantages, which the dissembling king magnified and

extolled beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet's success, and wagering

rich bets upon the issue: but after a few passes, Laertes growing

warm made a deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned weapon, and

gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet incensed, but not knowing the whole of

the treachery, in the scuffle exchanged his own innocent weapon for

Laertes' deadly one, and with a thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid

Laertes home, who was thus justly caught in his own treachery. In

this instant the queen shrieked out that she was poisoned. She had

inadvertently drunk out of a bowl which the king had prepared for

Hamlet, in case that being warm in fencing he should call for drink:

into this the treacherous king had infused a deadly poison, to make

sure of Hamlet, if Laertes had failed. He had forgotten to warn

the queen of the bowl, which she drank of, and immediately died,

exclaiming with her last breath that she was poisoned. Hamlet,

suspecting some treachery, ordered the doors to be shut, while he

sought it out. Laertes told him to seek no further, for he was the

traitor; and feeling his life go away with the wound which Hamlet had

given him, he made confession of the treachery he had used, and how he

had fallen a victim to it: and he told Hamlet of the envenomed point,

and said that Hamlet had not half an hour to live, for no medicine

could cure him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet he died, with his

last words accusing the king of being the contriver of the mischief.

When Hamlet saw his end draw near, there being yet some venom left

upon the sword, he suddenly turned upon his false uncle, and thrust

the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the promise which he had made

to his father's spirit, whose injunction was now accomplished, and

his foul murder revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling his

breath fail and life departing, turned to his dear friend Horatio, who

had been spectator of this fatal tragedy; and with his dying breath

requested him that he would live to tell his story to the world (for

Horatio had made a motion as if he would slay himself to accompany

the prince in death), and Horatio promised that he would make a true

report, as one that was privy to all the circumstances. And, thus

satisfied, the noble heart of Hamlet cracked: and Horatio and the

bystanders with many tears commended the spirit of their sweet prince

to the guardianship of angels. For Hamlet was a loving and a gentle

prince, and greatly beloved for his many noble and prince-like

qualities; and if he had lived, would no doubt have proved a most

royal and complete king to Denmark.

OTHELLO

(_By Charles Lamb_)

Brabantio, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair daughter, the gentle

Desdemona. She was sought to by divers suitors, both on account of

her many virtuous qualities and for her rich expectations. But among

the suitors of her own clime and complexion she saw none whom she

could affect: for this noble lady, who regarded the mind more than

the features of men, with a singularity rather to be admired than

imitated, had chosen for the object of her affections a Moor, a black,

whom her father loved, and often invited to his house.

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned for the unsuitableness

of the person whom she selected for her lover. Bating that Othello was

black, the noble Moor wanted nothing which might recommend him to the

affections of the greatest lady. He was a soldier, and a brave one;

and by his conduct in bloody wars against the Turks, had risen to the

rank of general in the Venetian service, and was esteemed and trusted

by the state.

He had been a traveller, and Desdemona (as is the manner of ladies)

loved to hear him tell the story of his adventures, which he would

run through from his earliest recollection; the battles, sieges, and

encounters, which he had past through; the perils he had been exposed

to by land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he has entered

a breach, or marched up to the mouth of a cannon; and how he had

been taken prisoner by the insolent enemy, and sold to slavery: how

he demeaned himself in that state, and how he escaped: all these

accounts, added to the narration of the strange things he had seen in

foreign countries, the vast wildernesses and romantic caverns, the

quarries, the rocks and mountains, whose heads are in the clouds; of

the savage nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and a race of

people in Africa whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders: these

travellers' stories would so enchain the attention of Desdemona, that

if she were called off at any time by household affairs, she would

dispatch with all haste that business, and return, and with a greedy

ear devour Othello's discourse. And once he took advantage of a pliant

hour, and drew from her a prayer, that he would tell her the whole

story of his life at large, of which she had heard so much, but only

by parts: to which he consented, and beguiled her of many a tear, when

he spoke of some distressful stroke which his youth suffered.

His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of sighs: she

swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing strange, and pitiful,

wondrous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she

wished that heaven had made her such a man: and then she thanked him,

and told him, if he had a friend who loved her, he had only to teach

him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint,

delivered not with more frankness than modesty, accompanied with a

certain bewitching prettiness, and blushes, which Othello could not

but understand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden

opportunity gained the consent of the generous lady Desdemona

privately to marry him.

Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such, that it could be

hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his

daughter free; but he did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetian

ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of senatorial rank or

expectations: but in this he was deceived; Desdemona loved the Moor,

though he was black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiant

parts and qualities: so was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion

to the man she had selected for a husband, that his very colour, which

to all but this discerning lady would have proved an insurmountable

objection, was by her esteemed above all the white skins and clear

complexions of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors.

Their marriage, which, though privately carried, could not long

be kept a secret, came to the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who

appeared in a solemn council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor

Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced the

affections of the fair Desdemona to marry him, without the consent of

her father, and against the obligations of hospitality.

At this juncture of time it happened that the state of Venice had

immediate need of the services of Othello, news having arrived that

the Turks with mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was

bending its course to the island of Cyprus, with intent to regain that

strong post from the Venetians, who then held it: in this emergency

the state turned its eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate

to conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks. So that Othello,

now summoned before the senate, stood in their presence at once as a

candidate for a great state-employment, and as a culprit, charged with

offences which by the laws of Venice were made capital.

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio commanded a most

patient hearing from that grave assembly; but the incensed father

conducted his accusation with so much intemperance, producing

likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was called

upon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of the course

of his love; which he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting

the whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above, and

delivered his speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of

truth), that the duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help

confessing, that a tale so told would have won his daughter too: and

the spells and conjurations, which Othello had used in his courtship,

plainly appeared to have been no more than the honest arts of men in

love; and the only witchcraft which he had used the faculty of telling

a soft tale to win a lady's ear.

This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the lady

Desdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a duty to her

father for life and education, challenged leave of him to profess a

yet higher duty to her lord and husband, even so much as her mother

had shewn in preferring him (Brabantio) above _her_ father.

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called the Moor to him

with many expressions of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, bestowed

upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been free to withhold her, (he

told him) he would with all his heart have kept from him; adding, that

he was glad at soul that he had no other child, for this behaviour of

Desdemona would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs on them

for her desertion.

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom custom had rendered

the hardships of a military life as natural as food and rest are to

other men, readily undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus:

and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord (though with danger)

before the indulgence of those idle delights in which new-married

people usually waste their time, cheerfully consented to his going.

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus, than news

arrived, that a desperate tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet,

and thus the island was secure from any immediate apprehension of an

attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer, was now beginning;

and the enemies, which malice stirred up against his innocent lady,

proved in their nature more deadly than strangers or infidels.

Among all the general's friends no one possessed the confidence of

Othello more entirely than Cassio. Michael Cassio was a young soldier,

a Florentine, gay, amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite

qualities with women; he was handsome, and eloquent, and exactly such

a person as might alarm the jealousy of a man advanced in years (as

Othello in some measure was), who had married a young and beautiful

wife; but Othello was as free from jealousy as he was noble, and as

incapable of suspecting, as of doing, a base action. He had employed

this Cassio in his love-affair with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a

sort of go-between in his suit: for Othello, fearing that himself had

not those soft parts of conversation which please ladies, and finding